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This will be part a review of this film, part a retrospective on this series, and all with my credo very much in mind that I don't presume to analyse any film at any real depth before I see it a second time.

You know, I don't like deep water. Maybe I got that from seeing Jaws when I was young or something, I dunno. So the deep-sea portions of this film were quite unnerving to me, in a good way. I'm also not a fan of heights, so that standout concluding setpiece with the plane (you know which one) had me on the edge of my seat.

But it sure did take sorting through a lot of plot junk to get from one to the other! This was partially inherited from the creaky plotting of Dead Reckoning and partially from the attempt to make a concluding entry here. In fairness, there was a tie into M:I 3 that actually served to make Ethan personally responsible for the Entity's existence, but most of the time - like with Fallout's attempt to knit itself into Rogue Nation - this sort of thing just mucked things up.

What's amazing to me is that in the attempt to keep tabs on the previous films, one thing from the preceding film was forgotten alltogether: any lingering sense of vendetta between Ethan and Gabriel over the death of Ilsa Faust was non-existent in this film as she's barely even mentioned, and even Gabriel himself is a non-entity for most of this film.

Great setpieces and an interesting concept, ultimately, but more than a little bit lost in the deep water.

Mock me if you will, but I'm too much of a naturalist for this blatant celebration of artifice, self-knowing though it is. There's really not much else to be said: not my kind of movie.

I'm paraphrasing, but somebody once asked "How is the shower scene in Psycho?" - "Oh, its very good. But the five minutes before it, where nothing happens...now those are phenomenal."

That's a kind of paradigm for much of this film, both in the tense (Nolan was always good with "tense") buildup in the immediate preamble to the Trinity experiment, but also in the general conception of the film: Nolan had traded-in the busy plotting of his other films - or the IMAX bravura of Dunkirk for a prodding, innigkeit psychological examination of Professor Oppenheimer. Gotta ire that.

I will say, the "analog" bravura that surrounds this as it does all of Nolan's work doesn't have a hold of my psyche. But this is a damn fine biopic nevertheless.

Much more elegiac than Leone's previous Westerns. In both cases, his feel for the apulsatile editing (filled-in by another faultless Morricone score) and swoon-worthy cinematic effects is evident, but I like its application to this story better than the more decadent The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (or in his later gangster epic, Once Upon a Time in America).

Good stuff, if you can overlook the usual dubbing issues.

I've reviewed this film before as a ungaily but powerfully-concieved remake. Ungaily, for its slow pace - totally not in keeping with the idiom of the original, and faulted by the director himself on reflection - and its indecision as to whether to focus on Ann's scenes with Kong or the galivanting of the men looking for her.

Powerful, for the grit of its realization of Skull island and its deeply-felt tragic idiom. Peter Jackson surely makes the saddest blockbusters of his age: at least, in the classic tragic millieu as opposed to the bleaker "realism" of a Villenueve. I used to object to the abrupt ending, but seen in more operatic it is quite succesfull.

What I didn't appreciate as much before today is...well...just how much darn stuff is stuffed in this movie! The exciting opening sets us firmly in the Great Depression period - a fitting backdrop for the escapism of the original. In this, and in turning Jack into yet another filmmaker, it is a work of art about art and, specifically, Jackson's meditation on what it is that captivated him about the original, as well as something of a self-portrayal perhaps: as much, possibly, of Jackson's partner, Dame Fran Walsh, as of himself. Oh, and they quote Heart of Darkness.

No doubt all this stuff on the movie's mind adds to the ungaily quality, although personally its less the New York sequences that slow the proceedings for me so much as the early scenes on the boat. But it's hard not to warm to its unbridled ambition: an unusual concession for me, as I often deride films about filmmaking as Hollywood fellating itself.

But ultimately, the real value of the film must surely lay in its tragic trappings. Anyone who ever owned a pet will surely be deeply moved by the fate of the titular character.

It would be pointless to rate this movie on the strength of this rewatch: it was a good experience in the theatre - I'd say 4/5 - but effectively loses its sap on anything smaller than a theatre screen.

And sure, I guess we here very much champion the theatrical experience but I feel like it would be wrong to do so by means of producing films that really ONLY belong on that giant screen.

I'm reminded of something Vittorio Storaro who certainly knows something about framing for the big screen, said: "A film, however succesfull on the big screen, will have a much longer life on the small screen." This film just doesn't REALLY have this second lease of life, in a way that other big-screen spectacles do.

Having said that, I do ire Nolan for trying new things: this man was notorious for writing very talky, play-like scripts, but here he tried his hand at something completely different. He's known for spectacular actioners, and then he swerves right into a biopic. And now he wants to tackle the Odyssey. There's something to be said for that, as against using auteur theory to fetishize the way certain filmmakers make the same film over and over again.

A little late to the party but damn if this is not a strange motion-picture! Being late to the party, I've had the chance to read a lot of reviews - the overall tenor mixed at best - before seeing this.

One common refrain was the pacing problems: I was more concerned about those more cinematic demerits than in any faithfulness or lack thereof to the scant material. Having seen it, I can sort of see the issue, even though it's one far from fatal: Without being too specific, the big would-be tragic ending tableaux (anyone who read this story in appendix A will know what it is) happens thirty minutes BEFORE the end of the film. It should have been pushed up a good ten minutes nearer the very end.

Other complaints feel less substantiated. The comparisons to The Two Towers, especially so. This film is EXACTLY the sort of things fans clamour for when they ask for something different and far-removed from the main action of a film series like this or Star Wars. So yes, both films have a siege of the Hornburg, but one is an all-out storming of the castle: this is a long winter-time siege trying to starve out the besieged.

There is, of course, another difference: this being animated; specifically, anime. I'm not connoisseur of this medium and while it is clear this was done to make a cheap quickie while retaining the rights, ultimately I was able to acclimatize myself to the animation style and just become absorbed in the story.

One last critique I've heard is thin characterisation. Now THIS critique cannot be waved out of hand: Less so with Hera, who is characterful and in Gaia Wise's hands presents a sympathetic figure. It's true she doesn't particularly grow: she's ever the dogged defender of her people from opening credits to end credits; but then, was not Samwise Gamge ever the dogged servant and companion of Frodo?

Particularly well-characterised is Hera's relationship to her two brothers, Haleth and especially the gentle poet of Hama, as well as to her maid, Olwyn (beautifully performed by Lorraine Ashbourne) and cousin Frealaf.

Oddly, it is Helm himself who comes across a little bit underdeveloped. The great Brian Cox - uncle Argyle himself - compared him to a younger King Lear. He might have been nearer to the truth had he said a pastiche of Lear: there's just not enough moments of level-headedness, tenderness to his daughter or affection for his sons and nephew in the early parts of the film. Helm, except nearer the end, is always consigned to being the pig-headed old leader.

The antagonist is also not as developed as he should: his childhood friendship with Hera rather than add a personal dimension to a conflict about blood and vengenance threatens to reduce the conflict to that a soap opera, although it never materialises quite like that. Nevertheless, what Wulf lacks in depth he makes up for in ferociousness: there's at least one moment in this film that made one's skin crawl.

I'm still debating with myself if I had seen a tragedy with a sense of catharsis at the end, or whether I just saw a series of violent altercations more in the vein of The Northman. Still, there's much to appreciate here. Will have to find the time to watch it again to review it in a less rambling manner.

I'm sure in some film circles, Gladiator is belittled for its brawn and the simplicity of its characters, but I love it very dearly. I was moved to see its title - with the added "II" - on the billboards in 2024.

There's a scene in this film, where our interpid hero "Hanno" (Paul Mescal), to be inducted as a Gladiator, is having his audition, as it were, before his grim slave master Macrinus. We all know this scene: its the one where Maximus refuses to fight Hagen before Proximo. In the 2000 film, Proximo stops Hagen: he is his slave, after all. But in the 2024 film, Macrinus stops Hanno, who given his defiant attitude, has no reason to be so submissive.

I'm not trying to put too fine a point on this moment, except to point out that it is a moment that could have only been written by someone who did not understand Gladiator. Just like this film could only be embarked upon by someone who had failed to grasp what a complete, perfect cadence Gladiator ended with.

...

This was the review I was going to write about 45 minutes into Gladiator II, but it isn't the one I'm going to write. Because while I was mulling these lines in my rather self-congratulatory mind, the climax of the film rolled around and I realized, I wasn't watching a film that didn't understand its predecessor.

Far from it!

I was watching a film that had contempt for its predecessor. What, after all, did Gladiator end with? It ends with a tremendous sense of loss, but also with a great sense of hope for the future. In a scene with Jubba we see the Colosseum in disrepair - the games have clearly been ceased - and a literally rosier day shine on Rome. But these writers...oh, these writers decided that was far too naive an ending, and they dragged the games back; dragged tired, vitamin-D deprived despots back; dragged poor Lucila to the Colosseum to be widowed (again!) and killed, dragged Gracchus to be butchered. The rosier sunrise had been replaced by the same kind of Elizabethan grand guignol that TS Elliot once dragged Titus Andronicus for as "one of the stupidest and most uninspired plays ever written."

Oh, Elliot, but you didn't see Gladiator II.

Profane and vile.

This is a curious film for me. Definitely one I have vague childhood memories of. Having said that, whenever I viewed it as an adult, I found it...a tad too quixotic for my personal tastes. Spielberg is often accused of making melodramatic cinema, and while this is more of a romp, this side of Spielberg does come across in some undue giddiness on the part of some of the actors early on in the picture.

Having said that, there are two things to ire hugely about this film. Strangley, neither of them are the visual effects...not AS SUCH, at least. One, rather, is the way Spielberg puts those effects on display. By which I don't mean the rather luddite argument for the use of animatronics in the film, but rather Spielberg's insistence to keep the camera on the deck looking up at his creatures. We're not up on a crane iring the T-rex crashing through the trees...we're in the car and the piece is that much more exhilirating for it.

Second, the handling of the character of John Hammond is quite surprising for this kind of film. Even with the construct of the kids in the film being his grandchildren, it would still be easy to make this guy a kind of an corporate arse in the grand James Cameron tradition. Here, the same giddiness that reads premature in, say, the way Saddler and Grant react to the very invitation to the park is precisely what keeps Hammond from that kind of caricature.

This latter point is of the essence, too, because in the way Hammond builds his park we have something of a metaphor to precisely the kind of Lucas-Spielberg filmmaking that Jurassic Park is, with the way Hammond is accused of carelessly "packaging and selling" his new discovery, and still more in the way he tests the piece on his "target demographic" in the guise of his own grandchildren. It's thus all the more imperative that the discussion had between the characters about the project's raison d'etre is as intelligent as it is, rather than just "Hammond bad."

Just what is it that gives Gladiator the right to be so great? That after a grueling day, one can watch it and, for two and a half hours not only be engrossed and enveloped by it, but feel like one had TAKEN PART in it?

Certainly, its not the screenplay that's to thank for that. In that sense, its a thoroughly undistinguished piece of work: naive, broadly-characterised and poorly structured. The film has an atypicaly noble view of the average "politician" in the guise of Gracchus (Sir Derek Jacobi), but sadly on the other end of the pendulum has this simplistic construct of "The mob" to explain away the sad excuse for Machiavelian politiking that the film engages in.

So what is it, then? I'm not usually a fan of turning to the artist to explain the work of art, but there's a recent interview of Russel Crowe that I find very moving: "It's an incredible ensemble cast with beautiful performances from end to end, not only Joaquin, but Connie Nielsen, Richard Harris, Derek Jacobi, Tomas Arana, Djimon Hounsou." To that I would add that the script, mediocre though it often is, is decent enough to NOT GET IN THE WAY of Sir Ridley Scott's well-night immpecable cinematic eye and outstanding mise-en-scene. The purity of a man's quest for vengenance is ultimately not circumscribed by the cheesy attempt at a love affair or other such quibbles: they fall by the wayside alltogether.

And, adds Crowe, "We made that film in 1999 and I'll bet you money, somewhere in the world tonight, that film is playing on primetime television. It has the longest legs and people they're not just connect to it, but they love it with a ion."

They don't just love it, Mr. Crowe. They TAKE PART in it.

Beautiful stuff. Uplifting and moving.

Hmm...

Has the grandeur and absorbing atmosphere of the first film, but its perhaps a little less welcome in a film where so many plot threads come to a head? I was concerned for that going into this film - that the mystique in which Villenueve so effectivelly wrapped Part One would be lost in this film, where Paul rallies the Fremen against the Harkonnen, and while Denis managed to retain it, he did so at the expense of most of the newcomers to the cast not really coming into the story until some 90 minutes into the film!

I suppose part of the issue is that, in part one, the character I found myself relating to most was Jessica, in the role of the concerned mother. Its much more relatable the more cosmic predicament of Paul. Here, however, not fifteen minutes and Jessica is relegated to an oracle role. I suppose Chani takes the part, as the concerned female companion.

So, DO Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? I don't know. I mean, do people who take pretty pictures - of which director Sir Ridley Scott would be top candidate - dream pretty dreams? I don't know either, but what I do know, having seen Blade Runner, is that Ridley's nightmares are devestatingly beautiful.

The Greatest accomplishment of any artist ever, in any form of human endeavour whatsoever

- Ignaz Paderewski

What is the purpose of cinema? Well, I guess that's an impossible question. But what is the purpose of cinema as drama? Likewise impossible, perhaps, but such difficult times are these are ones in which to think about such things.

Its funny, Robert the Bruce (Angus McFayden) kinda reminds me of the younger George Lucas. And this is very pertinent because, were we to ask Mr. Lucas about the purpose of cinema - at least after we cleared the detritus of cinema pur - we would get a simple answer: to craft an experience such that "the grimness of everyday life would not follow the audience into the theater. In other words, for two hours, they could forget."

But does that really help? Sure, one is distracted for two hours and then...right back where they came from. I personally think that a far greater aim of drama is to expose the harshness of life and meet it head on...and then transcend it. Its no less naive a proposition, mind you: that because we suffer, trudge with the characters, we "earned" our happy ending, but its ultimately far, far more uplifting for having put us through the wringer, than not. And, really, that's the lithmus test of a film: did it HELP you?

And it is for that reason that Braveheart is the film I turn to in times such as these. Because it helps. More than any other film it helps. Its simple grandeur bursts out of the seams in every frame. For sure, many a Lean or a Scott or a Jackson film had outstripped it for grandeur on any kind of quantifiable level: the sprawl of the plot, the size of the ensemble, the scope of the events, etc... But few if any had done so grand a service to the human spirit.

No, its not as superhuman an endeavour as Roar, nor as rareified in poetry and human understanding as Syberberg's Parsifal. Mel Gibson directs this with little of the mad genius of Coppola's Apocalypse Now, nor the grandiosity of David Lean.

But this film, both as a sophoromic directorial outing, and a tale of heroism - barbaric heroism - against brutality, is as stirring and absorbing an experience as anything I certainly ever beheld.

Its not a conventionally pretty film. DP John Toll does nothing short of miracle, shooting in the rain and in overcast skies where a Lean or a Scott would have waited for clear skies. Likewise, our hero savages his defeated, disarmed foes: but unlike with TE Lawrence, here we're not asked to shake our head at the wanton bloodshed: the film is far, far more simple-minded in this regard, its morality no much more complicated than that of a Flash Gordon serial. But, in that way, does it not make it more complex? I find it all the more frightening about myself that the movie SUCCEEDS in selling Wallace's brutality to me as "badass."

At the same time, its a film of great tenderness. As it tilts - with an irable confident patience towards all-out war one would except the character moments to subside, the more lyrical side ot give way to the shrieking choirs of the muddy, clanging battlefields (themselves scarcely more exhiliratingly filmed). But see, it is not so. In fact, I was taken aback by how unbloody the film is at any number of crucial junctions: the big torture scene is as harrowing as anything in David Fincher's Seven, and it is so because we don't actually see...anything, really, except with our mind's eye.

Its also - to return to cinema pur for a moment - a film of little words. Entire sequences, of ten to fifteen minutes at a time, unfold with nary a word spoken by anyone. And the reason that I, having seen this film so often, continue to marvel at this so, is because it never calls attention itself: its not that there isn't dialogue - its that the pictures themselves become dialogue.

A miracle of the motion pictures, made manifest before the eyes of viewers, Braveheart is an almost unrelentingly grim motion picture, and all the more optimistic and life reafirrming for it. The final shot, a sword in the stone, is worthy of the legend of King Arthur. Splendorous and uplifting for every second of its 172 minutes.

I must confess, AA-style, that I have a problem: ever since first laying eyes on it, I've become a bit of an evangelist for Roar. In the sense that its a film I've made a mission out of getting other people to see.

I could talk about how...erm, "great" is the wrong word, but unique Roar is among movies. But its not. Its not even unique amongst works of art: It is, rather, unique among human endeavours.

It is so for its Captain Ahab-like determination and zeal to erect what's one of the greatest monuments to human stupidity that was ever concieved. Therefore, never up to this point have I used the word "watch." One doesn't "watch" Roar. One, to abuse a James Cameron quote, "bears witness" to events so befuddling, and so hyponetic in their sheer ludicrousness, that they cannot be believed short of - I'm gonna use that word again - bearing witness to them onscreen.

The effect is, I guess, a little like a creature feature along the lines of Jaws or Alien, but that much more harrowing, and so thoroughly insane that - to my mind - the only logical reaction is laughter. Not the laughter of guffawing over a raucous comedy, or one of those off-kilter satires we've seen so much of recently. No, this film scratches (pun not intended) something far deeper in our psyches. I suspect cat people (like moi) would be especially suspectible to its animalistic (okay, now pun is intended, sorry), magical pull.

Unlike what other reviews on this platform or others suggest, what's truly interesting about Roar is not the behind-the-scenes story in itself: the craziness that went into it is appearent in the experience of watching it far more vividly than in any of the numerous YouTube videos and documentaries made about it.

Now I'll be honest, this is a 85-minute feature, and I've yet been able to withstand more than 40 minutes in one sitting for the sheer intensity of it. If its playing somewhere on a big screen, I would have probably needed to be hauled out of the premises bodily. Oh, and Alcohol helps.

BEAR. WITNESS.

Full disclosure: I've seen this film before, but I didn't find a way to write about. Now I'm trying again, and I'll be channeling some of my impressions from back then.

You know, every now and again, when you get a little tired of cinema, there comes a movie that reinvigorates you. Thelma and Louise was just such a movie. So much so, that I was ready to be upset that Susan Sarandon - immpecable in every way - was robbed of an Academy Award, but then I ed what other film, bouyed by a tremendous actress, came out that year... Okay, I loved this but I'm fine with it.

Really, it was remarkable to see a film focused on two women being directed with such, dare I say, testicular verve. Sir Ridley Scott may have been more meticulous and certainly more grandiose, but he's scarcely been livelier.

This is perhaps the best screenplay to have come his way (although I did chuckle when Brad Pitt's character was oblivously antagonising Harvey Keitel's character: surely, even a character in a movie should know better than to piss off Harvey Keitel!).

I tend to dislike dramadies, but for what's ostensibly a tragedy, this is as funny and energetic a motion picture as they come. There's a piece in the film that kind of sums it up when Louise is cackling wildly, thinking about the tragic inciting incident. "Its not funny", retorts Thelma. She's right, its not. But, goddamit, it is!

This is very much also the case of the film's closing chase - as exciting as anything you'll have seen in any action film between Bullitt and the latest Mission: Impossible - its a very tragic ending, but its glorious.

Sublime from one end to the other.

Cheating time here since this is not really a movie in the usual sense of the word, but not is it just a taped opera performance.

Syberberg has recorded a full Parsifal (I will try not to judge the - very fine - rendition of the score itself, by Armin Jordan) and then filmed it mostly with lip-synching actors and moving cameras.

The symbolist cinematic treatment of the play is eccentric: Parsifal is perhaps as mystical a work of art as has ever been made, and as on the stage it attracts people with a penchant for the bizarre, but at least Syberberg's symbolism seems germane to the piece, even the rather peculiar conceit of having Parsifal turn into a girl once he's kissed.

The lighting - the film was mostly shot in a large sounstage, with sets constructed out of a huge death mask of the composer's - perhaps makes the drama a little more austere than it has to be. Parsifal is a great work, but not a very easily approachable one, and making it seem so dark and dank scarcely helps.

What does help, beyond Syberberg's assured symbolism and the magnificent soundtrack, are at least some of the performances. The boy and girl duo who play Parsifal are sometimes critiqued for seeming absent minded, but it seems clear to me that Syberberg was aiming at exactly that. Quick to reap praise is Edith Clever, lip-syncing to Yvonne Minton, the only professional actress of the bunch. The closing shot, which you can see here as the film's cover, is an unforgettable coup.

But, personally, I was very taken with Robert Lloyd's Gurnemanz, lip-syncing to his own very fine vocals. Gurnemanz is a kind of Gandalf before there was a Gandalf: a slightly tetchy, but sagacious "Old man exposition." Lloyd cuts an unusually suave, youthful figure - a kind of James Bond of a Gurnemanz - but it works. Obviously feeling more at home on the stage than with a camera shoved in his face, Lloy'd reserved, very still performance serves the character much better than having an actor roam around the stage opening and closing their mouths. Quite touching.

I repeat: this is not a traditional movie. This is a four-hour-fifteen-minute reel of people lip synching to a sung play in which scarce little happens by way of plot mechanics. Not advised as any neophyte's introduction to filmed opera, or to Wagner for that matter. But the faithful, it is a bizarre but peculiarly moving experience. It would feel wrong to give a Wagner opera less than the full rating anyway.

I said I wouldn't review TV series here, and I shan't. But here was a suite of two episodes, totaling some two hours, directed by a movie director, on a movie budget, finished for a theatrical standard and presented on a big screen.

Plus, this media series (I refuse to use the "fran****" word) is very personal to me. Doubly so in this case since for the last couple of years I've been kept from Letterboxd by helping Fellowship of Fans spy on this production. The question remained: would I be able to penetrate the walls of Patrick McKay and JD Payne's dramaturgy as I did their secrecy?

Well, the editing by Bernat Vilaplana and Jaume Marti certainly didn't help. Striking tableaux of frigid wastelands to rival Doctor Zhivago; aurous, murmuring Elfin timberlands and the luxuriant New Zealand countryside, all rendered as fleeting visions as we cut erratically from Elf to Hobbit to Man.

Not that all the factions had equal standing: Core to the action is Morfydd Clark's Galadriel. Wisely counterprogrammed to Cate Blanchett's wise seress, here is an Elf lady of different stock: standing at her brother's grave, we glimpse wells of combustible anguish that fuel Galadriel's thirst for revenge, but which also lead to nonesensical, frustrating actions.

Instead, the real MVP - and this also holds true of the second, much stronger segment - is Robert Aramyo's delightful Elrond. At turns vivacious and sagacious; canny, but with his heart ever in the right place, it is one of the best "prequeled" renderings of a character in recent memory. What a revelation!

Alongside these is the obligatory Hobbit storyline. If the "Stranger" that Markella Kavenagh's earnest Nori Brandyfoot finds after he falls from the sky (Terminator-style) is indeed Gandalf, I should decry it the most pandering pander ever pandered in the history of pandering. But for the meanwhile, the sugariness of the halflings is not as coagulated as one might think.

Surprisingly, the weakest link is in what's clearly set-up as the season's actual frontier: a pastoral village situated - as the odd map transitions give away - in the lands that will later turn magically into the sulphorous Mordor. Replete with the obligatory affair between mortal and immortal, the storyline does allow director JA Bayona to flex his horror movie muscle, although the bloodlessness renders it somewhat inert, and the razing of an entire nearby village is met with a shrug.

The strongest suit of the piece thus far is a visit of Elrond's to the thriving subterranean metropolis of Moria: although I still think it less resplendent than Erebor, the scenes that unfold therin (including a scene-stealing appearance from Peter Mullan) are the most interesting to watch.

Here and here alone, Bayona and the writers alchemize domestic scenes (themselves ranging from sitcom-like to earnest to Machiavelian) and grandiose camera moves in teneborous spaces into a single whole. Unlike scenes expressing Elf-children's distaste for origami (seriously), here the earthbound does not trivialize the mythic, and the result is a vein of Mithril found amidst the colossal but unmovable rocks.

Taken as a whole, the overall effect is pleasant but not much beyond, although I'll wait to see the following episodes regardless: it may well be that this aquiline show - tattered though its plumage may be - had yet to fully spread its wings.

I don't get it. Is this a historical film or a fantasy film? No, not because our protagonist is released by a deus-ex-corvi but because the film seems preoccupied with weaving a spell - a potent one, made of viscera and firelight and oners galore - but overdoes it: before the vvitch (hehe) can bring us under the spell of her draught, intoxicating as it is, its odor becomes so overpowering as to threaten to drive us from her hut.

Whether the cloth of weird rituals, archaic language and relentless bloodletting in which the film is garbed is the garb of the historical Vikings is not the point. What matters is that, for as often as its effective, it is alienating, especially in the opening part of the movie: there are just a few too many wolf howls, blood rites and talk of Valhalla to allow the audience to acclimatize to this windswept Norse landscape, however vivid it often proves to be.

The alienating factor extends to our characters. We have a grim man sworn to vengenance on his usurping uncle in Alexander Skarsgård's Amleth: Prince Hamlet, basically; he's also sworn to emancipate his mother, but thirty minutes before the ending (which is to say, too early) this gets a Euripidian twist, one of those moments where the acting punches through the thick accents.

The brawn and blood are in the right place, but ultimately what we have here is a late-90s/early-aughts historical epic - perhaps a very excellent one - trapped in too much arthouse outlandishness.

[Listening to Wagner] "is worst than obsession, it is possesion [...] you no longer belong to yourself."
- Claude Debussi.

Given backhandedly as it was, this is one of the greatest compliments ever bestowed upon a dramatic work. But does this overwhelming, immersive quality apply to this biopic of the composer? Well, its certainly one of those two traits...

Well, technically, its a miniseries, but it was shot as a film and I will be reviewing it on those grounds; and, to be fair, there's a lot of cinema in it, much of it thanks to the earstwhile Vittorio Storato's cinematography which, combined with Sir Georg Solti's reading of the Meister's music, sometimes manufactures the sublime.

Just as often, however, the two clash, the music drowning the action even as the latter attempts to assert its dominance with gunfire and oration. Indeed, there's a lot of anti-cinema in this: monologues abound, and the acting often stagey, dare I say, operatic. Ironically, of this most-distinguished of casts, its opera superstar Dame Gwyneth Jones (a fine actress) in a bit part who comes off most naturalistic, precisely because she's so dialed back.

Its ironic that Mozart should earn such a prodding, "warts-and-all" biopic in Amadeus while Wagner, an incomparably more complex persona, should not merit the same exploration in this much longer film-cum-miniseries. Not that the filmmakers shy away from his bohemian bombast, his teutonic pretentions, but as committed as Burton is to the role, there's not much to his Richard beyond the grandstanding and the polemics.

Some would say that the overwhelming nature of the film befits the effect of its namesake's works, its soliloquizing akin to the lengthy monologues for which Wagner's protagonists are known. But as anyone who's seen a good Die Walküre knows there's subtlety in the bombast: it is immersive, which sadly this biopic only intermittently is.

Being an "influential" film is a curse. We stop looking at the film for what we get out of it, and start looking at it in of what other filmmakers got out of it.

Bonnie and Clyde is definitely an influential film: it ushered in the "New Hollywood" era in earnest. Does that mean its good, though? Its certainly well-directed: I loved the opening sequence, for instance, and Beatty and especially Dunaway are on fire. But there's a problem.

The film osciliates wildly between treating the titular criminal pair as lovably oafish, romanticised Robin Hood figures, and deeply dysfunctional and deplorable individuals; and, to me, it ends up feeling extremly decadent as a consequence.

This is an issue I have with a lot of so-called "New Hollywood" films, but which is especially appearant in this film because portions of it feel like a dark comedy before snapping back into a very earnest drama.

An odd duckling of a film, much like its characters.

I abstained from the novel or the Lynch film so as to see this tabula rasa and...I'm glad I did. I really should watch it again (which I intend to do soon) but here goes...

I loved the style of this film: its so confident in its muted tone, its meditative pace, its composed shots. Its also exactly why the comparisons made in reviews, such as are quoted in the trailer ("the next Star Wars Lord of the Rings!") are so inappropriate and potentially damaging to this film. Not because its better or worst, but because its different.

For one thing, its less of an adventure story. It has many of the trappings of an adventure film, but it also has the trappings of a Machiavelian drama, what with warring feudal houses and all. But I don't want to make too much of that aspect of the film, either. Its really more about the characters.

So lets talk about those characters. There's a whole bunch of them but only two really leave a lasting impression. The first is our hero Paul (Timothee Chalamet) and this is another area where comparisons to Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings do Dune a huge disservice.

See, if you're going to watch Paul thinking he's another "unassuming youth sent on a mission" you're in for a disappointment; which is a shame because Paul's story is a compelling one. Here is a young prince, stupefied by a series of engimatic visions; at once groomed for the role of a Messiah (which he didn't ask to be) and having a noose tightening around his neck unawares.

Its too esoteric a predicament for audiences to identify with it as naturally as they do a Frodo or a Luke, but there is an upshot in the form of Paul's mother, Jessica (Rebbeca Ferguson). Contrasting with the cosmic nature of Paul's predicament, Jessica is simply a really, really concerned mum, and is much more natural to empathize with as a result. When Ferguson pulls all the stops, its hard not to feel for Jessica.

Curiously, the film looses some steam when things do really come to a head. Looking back on Villenueve's filmography, I guess action setpieces don't come all that naturally to him, and here he mostly covers them up with explosions and with Hans Zimmer's droning score. Yet again, quite a contrast to the action-heavy franchises of yore.

I dwell on this notion of inappropriate comparisons, because this is just "Part One." It ends kinda abruptly, which is not an issue for me, so long as they actually get to make Part Two, which will depend on people coming into Part One with the right expectations.

I...didn't really care for this. As is the case with all the Craig Bonds, I've really appreciated the gritty, earnest atmosphere. It can be a bit cheerless (although possibly less so here than in Spectre) but at least its dramatic and that counts for a lot.

But its so...cluttered, probably because it tries to be what no Bond film had been before, which is a conclusion of what came before it. That need to pay its dues to the previous Craig outings weighs on the film's plotting tremendously.

Madelaine is in it...then she's not in it...then she's back in it. Spectre are in it and...then they're not. Bloefeld is...mostly talked about during the first half, then he's in it for a little while...then he's not. Rami Malek's character is glimpsed in the beginning...then is alluded to very infrequently...than becomes a focus of the action in the last hour. There's another 00 character in little bits of it. Just a dash of Q - its all over the place, in that way.

This review may contain spoilers.

Ya'll know by now that I don't like crime dramas: the idea of a criminal as a protagonist is repugnant to me. That isn't to say that a film can't ask me to sympathize with the antagonist, which is exactly what American Gangster does, and mostly does pretty well.

Sir Ridley Scott continues to prove that when he's handed a half-decent script (for a change) his mise-en-scene is second to none: the film is a leisurely 2.5-hours but excellent performances along with Ridley's inspired cross-cutting keeps it chugging along, and when the excerement does hit the ventilation at the end, its quite something.

Perhaps the film, taking a page from the book of the crime drama genre, has a bit too much sympathy for its villain in the sense that it asks us to rejoice when Frank Lucas' sentence is mitigated at the end. That fell flat for me, but I'd consider that portion of the film more of a coda, anyway.

Today I did something good. I convinced a young cousin of mine to put Sam Raimi's Spiderman on over the MCU-era Spiderman. So naturally in revisiting this film (which I don't believe I've seen since its premiere) I couldn't help but compare it to the MCU iteration.

Comparatively, the film certainly lacks some polish: it takes half the runtime, with many haphazard episodes and setpieces, before the central conflict materializes; the Green Goblin's design, and his puzzling reluctance to hurt Aunt May (or Spiderman himself, who he captures early on) hamper this second half, and there are some cheesy acting moments throughout, largely courtesy of the lead, Tobey McGuire.

However, the setpieces, while much simpler, are so much more inventive: I'll take the simple bully-fight in the school corridor that happens early-on in this film over most of the setpieces that Marvel had chalked up since.

Much more significant, however, is the overall earnestness of the film: it takes the biggest cliche in the book - "with great power, comes great responsibility" - and wears it on its sleeve. It doesn't quite have the solemn seriousness of Nolan's Batman films, but its played straight and I LOVED that.

I always had a soft spot for Arthurian legend, but the movies made off of it have not really been any good: Here on Letterboxd, I'd previously reviled John Boorman's Excalibur. I've since moved from reviling it to...still not really liking it.

I mention Excalibur because my assesment of this film hinges on two elements, one of which is very much like Excalibur; the other - diametrically opposite to it.

The former is the overall approach to fantasy: both films opt to treat it as a fever dream. Over time, I found that the trippy, surreal approach works better for films about real-world subjects like Apocalypse Now. By contrast, fantasy tends to work best when its treated as if it were history: see The Lord of the Rings but also Game of Thrones. In taking that approach, the filmmakers behind those two enterprises had grounded the fantasy, whereas doing fantasy in a very dreamlike state is...its putting a hat on a hat.

Not that The Green Knight is all up in the air: in many ways, its a much more grounded film than Boorman's: Dev Pattel's vivid realization of the callow youth of Gawain is miles away from the hokum of Williamson's Merlin or all the shouting that I had the endure in the first hour of that film; and gone are Boorman's tinfoil castles and spotless suits of armour.

However, there's a much more important and detrimental way in which Lowry's film is indeed diametrically opposite to Boorman's, which is that Boorman made a film for the people: he may have totally ripped-off The Empire Strikes Back in doing so, but he nevertheless produced a film with identifiable traits of a thriller and an action film in alternation, which audiences could have (and judging by its $30 million grosses, did) latched unto.

That idea must fill Lowry with dread, because his film is NOT any of those things: its not a film for the people, it is very much a film for the intelligentsia, and that's probably why professional film critics swoon over it.

My own convicton is that snobbery does not make good art. That being said, this film does manage to somewhat straddle the line of a commercial movie: sure, its surreal and often ambigious, but its never impenetrable - the basic idea of this boy dressed-up as a knight, paying for his inability to live up to that standard - is clear enough.

A fine motion picture, ultimately, but just fine.

Great camerawork and fine performances in the service of a slightly glacial, slightly staid story.

Bertolluci's camera is lithe in all the ways that the film's narrative never quite manages to be. But it does try.

The chariot race at the end (more on this later) gets praise as the standout setpiece, and not unjustly: its one of the few places where the awkward 2.78:1 framing really serves a purpose; although the sound design is antiquated: a bit too much of roaring crowds covering the reality of the race itself.

But there is at least one more standout setpiece. A much simpler one: a dry-run at battle-speed rowing. Its to do with Wyler's editing, and its utterly suspensful. Much better than the actual naval fight, which is ghastly and the reality of which is completely covered-up by Rosza's (excellent) score. I suppose that's where we've shifted from these movies: their setpieces were about spectacle - essentially crowd or peagantry scenes - whereas our are about action and fighting.

In general, this is a pretty good 1950s historical epic: a little bit ponderous here and there, a little bit melodramatic here and there - mostly owing to Charleton Heston being the lead. A big star, but not a very naturalistic actor. But its a lot less stage-y than many of its contemporaries.

My REAL issue with the film goes back to my original point: Ben Hur ends with the chariot race, and a completely different movie then starts; a movie in which Ben Hur is a secondary character to the unseen Jesus, and a movie which is never as compelling as the one we've watched up to that point.

Apologists say that the story of Christianity is entwined in Ben Hur's throughout, but it really isn't. I mean, sure, Ben Hur meets Jesus once and is told of him in yet another instance; but that's just mechanical. Its not as though Ben Hur becomes a follower of Jesus before his own story makes way for Jesus'. If his values coincide with those of Christiany its just that: coincidental.

Cut those sequences out and you have a reasonably lean 1950s historical epic with some standout setpieces.

I've contemplated knocking it down by half a star for moments of dodgy acting by the kid, but otherwise I think this has a strong claim for the best action film ever.

The setpieces are SO impressive and engaging, and they build on one another to the most glorious crescendo with the big truck chase at the end. It has escalation.

Of course, that's not the actual end of the movie: the final action setpiece is much more scaled-down, but its also more personal: instead of having the characters contained within vehicles, they on-foot and its no accident that the villain sheds his helmeted appearance so that he faces the heroes literally face-to-face.

As was the case with Die Hard I really miss these kinds of spectacle films over the KCK (Cutsie Kiddie Crap) we mostly get nowadays.

More than a little bit cheesy, but goddamit I miss actioners like this one.

I'll have to rewatch it to really discuss it with any length of eloquence, but the action setpieces (though most of them are small-scale and deceptively "simple") are absolutely top notch.

Yeah, I'm not really feeling the vibe of this wave of "artsy" horror movies in recent years.

I mean, it all looks very pleasing, and Morfydd Clark is good in the lead part, but it falls into the usual pitfall that watching a character teteering on the edge of insanity lose their mind is not as cathartic as watching sane characters lose their minds.

It really does look very good. There are definitely some inspired moments: I love the first shot after the title, for instance. But then, there are just a few too many whistles and bells going - as in "why is this shot upside-down?" - typical first-time director stuff, I suppose.

I swear I didn't do this on purpose!

You know, I often think its not movies that change, its the audience. Here's Ridley Scott making another gritty period film like Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, and while I'm definitely not saying its as good a film as either of those two, I do believe that the biggest difference with regards to its reception is to do with the fact that it was released in 2010, the audience's tastes having shifted in the interim towards more brisk, lighthearted fare.

Really, as I was watching this film, the only thing that really fell flat was anything to do with King John (Oscar Isaac) which was just half-arsed, probably back in the scripting phase. Even though its a sideplot, its not insignificant because it sets-up the very end of the film, but still.

Its also a touch meandering and cluttered but otherwise there's really nothing seriously wrong with this film. Ridley brings his directorial A-game as usual, Crowe is his dependable self as usual, and his pairing with Cate Blanchett is great. Its not amazing, but its much better than the reputation its been getting, I think.

Its a good thing I'm not lactose intolerant, because otherwise I would have been killed by the 90s cheesiness that fills every single frame of this movie.

EVERY. SINGLE. FRAME.

Cheesy performances (Morgan Freeman playing an "Arab", Alan Rickman playing a "villain").
Cheesy dialogue.
Cheesy soundtrack.
Cheesy action.
Cheesy Sean Connery cameo.

I loved it! What a hoot!

Its no Titanic, but its good. The characters are just the right mix of irably resourceful and realistically panicked. Neame's direction is not outstanding, but works. Good effects works, all things considered. A great early John Williams score.

The last film I saw, Apocalypse Now, was a masterclass at many things, not the least of which was how to do voiceover right.

This... is not that kind of movie. The voiceover isn't of much substance here at all; which is odd because, when you look past it, Costner is able to do some nice visual storytelling: the friendship between his Dunbar and the Indians being the best example.

Along with cinematographer Dean Semler, he also knows how to do landscapes. I watched the extended cut, and it really shows where the film got the moniker "Lawrence of the Plains". Like that film, portions of this feel like a semi-travelogue.

Unlike that movie, the pace here leaves something to be desired, partially because Costner is still forming as a director here, and other than the aforementioned strengths, a lot of the film is very workman-like in how its directed.

There's just one more exception, and its a big one: the buffalo hunt towards the end of the film's first part is one of the best things I've ever seen. Clearly, Costner dedicated a lot of attention to getting this one sequence right, and boy does it pay off! Loved it. I suppose the film never recovers from it, in the sense that it never matches that spectacle, but still.

Fuck me!

Maybe its the semi-lockdown, but for the second half of this, I felt like I was slowly going insane with the characters, traveling deeper and deeper downstream into their (and my) psyche.

Fuck 2001 - this, THIS is the "ultimate trip."

....

Okay, its been enough time to reflect on this and try to write something a bit more level-headed, so here goes...

I'm so glad Coppola directed this and not Milius, much less Lucas. Which is odd to say because - unlike both Milius or Lucas - Coppola hadn't directed a widescreen spectacle before or since.

Not that this film is packed with spectacle: its basically one really big, exciting sequence early on to "invite" the audience in. What distinguishes it from what a Milius or a Lucas would have done, is the amount of build-up.

Of course, that sequence had become synoymous with Wagner's Die Walkure, which is ironic because the film as a whole is much closer to his Parsifal in its reflective, dream-like quality.

Now, I don't typically like surrealism in film. I think it works here because instead of going for a pervasive dream-like feel, the film turns it on gradually. The opening sequence in Saigon notwithstanding, the early sequences feel much more tangiable and real.

For all its feverish, hellish imagery, this film is not without optimism, which I appreciate. The entire film is setting up a tragic eventuality where Willard either s Kurtz or kills him just to take his place. But instead the film ends with him taking Lance away.

....

had to rewatch it to make sense of the experience. The kind of "going isane with the characters" anxiety I had the first time wore off, but I still can't shake this movie. Coppola's masterwork.

Coppolla once said that he wanted The Godfather to be a "metaphor for capitalism." That subtext is certainly there, with the opening line (over black, no less) being "I believe in America." But to me it always fell by the wayside, maybe by dint of not being an American...

I enjoy this film as a good old fashioned tragedy. Seeing Michael become the ruthless crime lord that, at the beginning of the film, he had no intention to be. If Apocalypse Now is Joseph Conrad with a Vietnam War coating, this is William Shakepeare with a 1940s gangster coating. Its there in the way Brando carries himself as the leader of the family: there's a touch of King Lear about him. In spite of his hideous occupation, when he learns of his eldest's fate, you can still feel a little sting.

Of course, all of this doesn't necessarily conflict with the theme that Coppola infused into the movie. Its there in all manner of subtle ways: when Paulie is assasinated, you can see the statue of Liberty in the back of the shot. Its subtle, but not unnoticable, and I like those kinds of grace notes.

However, there is an "episode" in the film - and I call it an episode because its just that - to do with Johny Fontaine and a Hollywood producer. Its one of the most memorable parts of the movie, being beautifully staged and especially edited, and yet, it has NOTHING to do with the rest of the plot. Its there to forward the theme, not the narrative.

Now, this wouldn't be that big an issue, had this isolated chapter not come at the expense of scenes that made much, much more of Michael's disapproval of the family buisness, which would deepen the tragedy. As it is, all we have is Michael's offhand "that's my family, Kay; its not me."

Also, by way of tragedies, this film is what I call "more Macbeth than Othello" by which I mean that the tragic hero commits bloodshed early, rather than as the climax of his downward spiral. I tend to favour tragedies that lean more in the latter direction, but maybe that's just me.

Michael first brings up the idea of committing murder - and we're talking cold, premeditated double murder at close range - at the hour and thirteen minute mark; which would seem like a lot but again because of the Johny Fontaine chapter, its only half an hour or so after the inciting incident.

As a result, what should come across to the audience as a complex decision, is played-out in such a way that the viewer tends to fill-in the blanks, assuming that Michael always had a bloodlust for him to turn to violence so quickly and with relatively little provocation. I feel like some of the tragedy is lost in that.

I point all this out because I really do like the tragedy. The murder itself is one of the best filmed scenes I've ever beheld: its amazing what a master like Coppolla can do with three people talking in a restaurant. I also don't think there's anything in the sequels regarding Michael's relationship with Kay that's quite as poignant as the shot of the door getting shut on her at the end.

This is a comedy, right? I mean, its got an overenthusiastic Hilterjugend boy with a Kiwi Hitler for an imaginary friend. So it must be a comedy, right? Right?!

Look, being an Israeli Jewish person, I love my Nazi humour as much as the next person. So this comedy would have been fine me; and indeed, THAT aspect of this film is very, very funny. So why then does around 70% of this film play like a period drama, instead?

There are moments in this which are heartfelt, poignant, delicate, absolutely beautiful and...which have no place in a whacky comedy. For the second half of the film, I was laughing less often than I was in some dramas, simply because the jokes were so few and far in between.

The Suicide Squad of the 2000s historical epics.

After a belaboured and unnecessary framing device, we're thrust right into the Battle of Guagamela; which may as well be a paradigm for the entire 3.5-hour ordeal.

The battle is sprinkled with impressive shots, and has satisfying battlefield violence. Sadly, the pre-battle speech and Colin Farrel's delivery of it are a pale imitation of the speeches in Braveheart and The Return of the King.

Worse still, the course of the battle and strategies of the warring factions are rendered entirely incomprehensible, in spite of cue cards telling us which flank of the army we are watching at any given moment. Its visual mud.

That really is the entire movie. You can just feel Oliver Stone choke behind the camera in facing the scale of the thing. Only in the smaller moments does he manage something evocative: Christopher Plummer delivering words of wisdom as Aristotle; the denoument of the battle of Hydaspes, seen through the dazed eyes of a beaten Alexander; and his entrance into the beautifully-realized Babylon - these are the only things that truly work in this film.

Has there been another film quite like Taxi Driver? Recently, Joker had been compared to this, but that film follows Aristotle much more closely.

Travis can't be confined so easily to the "tragic hero" box. Sure, essentially that's what he is, and in that regard I suppose there was more to be made of his normalcy early on, so that his already-terrifying (major kudos to Robert De Niro here) downward spiral into insanity would be all the more tragic.

But in actuality, Travis is halfway between a tragic hero and an anti-hero. The actions that are his tragedy ironically result in good. Honestly, when the Jodie Foster subplot started getting up-to-speed in the last third of this film, I thought it might start to derail. Only in the epilogue of the film did I realize what that was in service of and how it was building towards something...different. One of the greatest "Oh!" moments of my film-viewing life.

You see, through this element of the story, beyond merely doing some good (which a lot of tragic heroes do, as a sort of "sweetener" to the audience), Travis is also ignorantly (and - again - ironically) celebrated as a hero by the public. Thematically, its a great commentary on our moral shortsightedness as a society, but narrativelly, too, its somehow an ending that manages to be a comedy, a tragedy, and an open-ended story all at the same time.

Tremendous filmmaking.

This movie is BIG. That's good; I like big. If, on the face of it, it seems a retread by Sir Ridley Scott coming off of Gladiator, the larger scale and the distinct narrative both alleviate this issue. Is it as good a film, though? Hmm...

The director's cut helps flesh out the characters, but the screenplay still leaves things to be desired. Be it Guy De Lusignan entering the film practically carrying an "antagonist" sign before any chance of conflict had arose, a far cry from Commodus.

Conversly, King Baldwin VI, Raymond III and David Thewlis' character all put on this goodie two-shoes act that's a bit hard to swallow, regarding their cohabitation with the Muslims. Baldwin even goes out of his way to explain that this coexistence isn't "just expedient" but just. This film needed characters like Proximo to fill its ing cast with.

As someone who did an undergraduate thesis on the Crusades, I can tell you its not terribly accurate to history, and as an Israeli, I can tell you Israel most definitely doesn't look like this. Not even remotely. Does it matter? Not really. Because its a MOVIE, and a damn fine one: Its well-photographed, well-performed, the set design (historically accurate or not) is in the best tradition of a Ridley Scott production. Overall, the thing leaps off the screen.

Given that, I could take the characters' motivations being softened: at least they're likable. My issue is the story itself. The script is thick with allegory to the then-current state of relations with the Middle East. Shoot me, but I don't want allegory in my movie. I want the story to stand on its own thematic underpinnings, which would in turn be applicable to any number of real-life scenarios.

That said, its never not a coherent narrative, and between that and Scott's sure hand in showing off his production design, its still fairly easy to lose oneself in this story, and put the allegorical stuff out of one's mind. If only we had more movies of this scale and grittiness gracing our screens nowadays...

Christopher Nolan must have really wanted to direct a Bond film, because that's what he gives us here, but with his usual time-bending, sci-fi twist and scale to burn.

As a pseudo-Bond film, its great spectacle. Not the greatest I've seen by any means, even just from Nolan: as much as his devotion to do things for real - to the point of crashing a 747 - is irable, it honestly didn't come off *that* spectacularly on the screen. It just seemed the aircraft gently taxi-ed into a building. The opening of The Dark Rises was much more impressive.

Its also quite confusing. I generally prefer to watch films twice to review them in any real depth, and its all the more warranted of this one. The plot is more complicated than is beneficial to a movie like this. I'd rather rewatch Skyfall.

As a human story, it fails quite spectacularly. Its fun enough that I don't mind it with regards to our main characters when its just them early on in the film. However, Elizabeth Debicki is introduced quite early on as a character we're meant to care quite deeply about. Only near the end of the movie did I realize I didn't even catch her character's name. That says everything there is to be said in this regard.

Still, I've read reviews that trash this movie entirely, and its really not warranted. Its a spectacle in the vein of Inception (a film I also find lacking in humanity), and its fun. Its mostly just a bit too laborious for its own good.

On the other hand of the pendulum swing, I think the people giving this glowing reviews are somewhat swayed by the novelty of being able to see a new movie in theaters for the first time in a while.

The grubby aesthetic and the allegory are a bit too thick for me, but this must be the most rigorous and succesful application of a faux-documentary style in a narrative genre film.

Its quite a bold undertaking of a movie for Blomkemp and Sir Peter, really. Conceptually and in of having been produced on a shoe-string budget. Its honestly shocking how good it looks.

Its even very unique structurally, with its main plot only coalecing within an hour into a movie that's less than two hours. That it works is a small wonder, and the terse nature of the presentation plays a huge part in that.

But this film isn't just irable as a concept or a production: it has action sequences that legitimately manage some excitement, and I daresay the end coda was quite poignant.

I owe John Boorman something of an apology. Having started my exploration of his filmography through Excalibur, a few minutes of Zardoz ("no thank you, next!") and his Lord of the Rings screenplay - I didn't know he was actually a filmmaker of some stature.

Deliverance makes for a much better showcase of his talent. Knowing he also made Exorcist II I'm inclined to think that he thrives in drama/comedy and thrillers more than he does in pure genre.
This film features lovely evocations of nature (photographed by Vilmos Zsigmond), solid performances and a coherent story with character development which were so sorely missing from his Arthurian film.

I've read a review of this film from Quentin Tarantino, and I agree with his main point: the events that transpire in the film's midpoint are surprising, reviling and dramatic - but because they're situated in the midpoint, the film never recovers from them: its never nearly as interesting after that point. Oh well. It was still a good time.

Ah, the crime drama genre, probably the most prestigious Hollywood genre, and one of my least beloved.

Thankfully, The Godfather is the exception to the rule, because it understands that the ONLY way to make a crime drama truly resonant is to have the main character get gradually sucked into it from the outside. If the character is embroiled in organized crime from the outset (Goodfellas, Scarface) that inevitably puts a wedge between him and the audience.

That being said, Part II does benefit from how convincing Michael's descent was to watch. Whenever someone talks out-of-line around him, the audience is on pins-and-needles. Al Pacino doesn't need to do much to hold this up: just that terribly icy glare of his is enough.

However, that's also where my problem with this movie lies. People pile on Part III for not bringing anything new to the table, but honestly that's true of this film. The first film saw Michael's fall into organized crime, and the second film...has him fall some more.

There are certainly flourishes added to keep it fresh. If nothing else, it improves upon the previous film in its absolutely gorgeous visuals. There are flashbacks threaded into this film featuring the "rise" of Michael's father, and you could tell them apart from a glance purely through the colour timing.

Those air quotes around Vito's rise are my main issue with this film. Tragedy, you see, is the study of a fall from virtue - NOT from wealth. Since Vito falls into a life of crime early and without discernable objection, there isn't really a rise here to juxtapose with Michael's "fall." His "rise" is entirely materialistic.

That aside, I don't take issues with the film's other artistic aspects. I love the ing roles - Lee Strasberg is particularly compelling - the music is good, and while its a long film, I have no complaints about the pace. Its meticulously structured, with a strong "hook" at the opening, but it also knows and has the confidence to slow down and dwell.

I guess what I'm saying is: its good, but I had my fill with the original film.

Bloody hell!

This...I'm not sure how to describe this. I suppose its an unintentional horror-comedy, though that a really gross simplification of this nutty film. Does it even qualify as a film? A narrative film, I mean? I don't even know anymore!

However, as a sort-of horror-comedy it is easily the scariest film you will ever ever see.
E A S I L Y

I mean it! Alien and Jaws have nothing on this by way of the anxiety factor.

Truly one of a kind. Earns its grade for sheer bonkers-ness!

Damn!

This has recently been voted "Best of Best Picture" and, for my money, its well-deserved. There is a grand total of two moments - only two - that make The Return of the King, all four hours of it, the best of the best. Just those two.

One is Sam hauling Frodo bodily up Mount Doom. Its the thematic climax of the series, a beautiful summation of the main theme of friendship.

Its also pure cinema. In cutting to a wideshot of Sam against the slopes, one feels just how small Sam must be feeling in the face of this adversity. In cutting from the climax of Gimli and Legolas friendship to this moment of Frodo and Sam, the theme itself is likwise accentuated cinematically.

The other moment is decidedly not cinema: its words; two of them, to be precise. Its the "The End" title-card that closes the film. The Battle of the Five Armies didn't have them because it was never film as the end - this film was.

We live an era with an aversion to finality. One where a climactic film like Avengers: Endgame can have sequels with not one eyebrow being raised; one where people still debate the merits of a Star Wars trilogy set AFTER Return of the Jedi, or flock to a fourth Pirates of the Caribbean film. But no one can seriously picture a sequel to The Return of the King.

Why is that, though? Its not like the film pulls a Wagnerian "and then everyone died, the end." In fact, for a concluding chapter, the body count on the main characters is shockingly low.

It doesn't even require much thinking to come up with threads for sequels. I mean, what were Aragorn's dealings with the Men loyal to Sauron? Did the Dwarves reclaim Moria? and what ever became of the Orcs? But no one actually wants those questions answered. Why?

Well, the film does go Wagner with its ending, but in a different way. Like Götterdämmerung, it deliberately flattens its own world, leaving in its wake quite a dull setting.

You wouldn't want to see another Wagner opera set AFTER the fall of Valhalla, and you wouldn't want another Middle Earth story set after the departure of the Elves: it would just be too dull. It sounds funny when you come down to it, but this film is great because it activelly discourages sequels from ever happening.

There is much more action with the events in Rohan, so in a way that becomes the "A Story" or driving narrative of the 2nd movie.

This comes from Peter Jackson from 1998, and its something that he clearly carried through into the finished film: this movie focuses much more on the Aragorn storyline than the Frodo storyline.

Is that a problem? I mean, surely, Frodo's is the main story of the trilogy, so he should be the main focus throughout, right?

Well, looking at entries from other film series reveals very similar patterns: The Last Jedi was really more about Luke than it was Rey; The Hobbit was consistently more about Thorin than Bilbo. It happens in a lot of Marvel movies, too: Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War, Hope in Ant-Man. Are those all problems? The simple answer is: no, not if you go along with it and find yourself enjoying it the way it is.

The movie certainly doesn't abandon the Frodo/Sam storyline, mainly thanks to a powerhouse performance from Andy Serkis as Gollum and a wise change from the novel to make the character of Faramir more antagonistic. But the Rohan storyline is where its at.

It occured to me I didn't review this even though I said I would. Truthfully, I've always been at a loss of things to say about The Fellowship of the Ring. I suppose some of it has to do with the fact that I don't think quite as strongly about it as I do the other entries, which surprisingly seems a minority around my Letterboxd colleagues.

However, for The Battle of the Five Armies I spun my critique around my thoughts of another movie, so its only fitting that I'll spin my review of this film around the review of someone else.

@Gstiger had written a review of the original Star Wars where he (quite rightly) heaps a lot of praise of Guiness' Obi Wan, saying:

Alec Guinness is just killin’ it. Like Ian McKellen in “The Lord of the Rings,” he’s bringing class, gravity, and a pinch of wit to a story that’s pretty fanciful and goofy.

This seems like a good jumping off point for me, because in spite of this being referred to as the "Frodo-centric" entry, for the whole of the movie's first part there's a strong Gandalf subplot not too dissimilar to his storyline in The Hobbit.

Obviously, I take exception to the "pretty goofy" remark being said anywhere near The Lord of the Rings, becuase the film refuses to let the fanciful elements dictate a twee tone. Its actually shockingly serious.

I can't if I saw this or Braveheart first, but the similarities always seemed to me to be so strong as to be almost blatant, namely in the overall tone. So it was no surprise to me to later discover Jackson describing his film as "Braveheart meets Legend." You can really SEE it. Certainly, they're bigger influences on this film than Ralph Bakshi's cartoon, which had inspired a whole of two shots in the film...

Returning to Garrett's point, however, in rewatching this I was struck by the similarities and differences between Obi Wan and Gandalf. Its clear Lucas had The Lord of the Rings and especially The Hobbit in mind when he created the character: Guinness himself acknoledged this.

However, whereas Guinness is mostly relegated to dogged stoicism (which of course fits with Sir Alec's understated style), I was struck by how much more variety we get from Sir Ian's Gandalf. Ontop of the stoicism, there's some Santa-esque whimsy there (without being quirky by way of Yoda or Williamson's Merlin), he's occasionally crotchety, too, but most importantly there's a palpable sense of fear there. In the words of co-writer Philippa Boyens: "We wanted to show that Gandalf may have made a mistake, that this is weighing heavily on him."

This is significant for the film as a whole because it ties back to the point I've made earlier about the film being very serious and quite grim with its narrative. When the would-be stoic father-figure is so palpably worried as Gandalf is here, it really stresses the viewer out.

In that way, it really isn't an "adventure" film in the strict sense of the word. At no point are any of these character gung-ho about this undertaking, which is much more realistic when you really think about it.

Comparisons to the Star Wars prequel trilogy abound, but I prefer to think of this trilogy as the anti-Star-Wars-sequel trilogy. The first film, The Force Awakens is the fast-paced antithesis to the methodical but slightly-glacial pace of An Unexpected Journey.

The visual look of the films is quite different, too, with Abrams and Johnson stressing puppetry and in-camera sets, and Jackson reveling in his digital landscapes, sometimes to the comparative detriment of his films.

However, both middle films were kind of subversive in their approach. Except, like I said, The Desolation of Smaug actually succeeds at making its audience rethink the motives and morals of the characters; and - just as importantly - the third film doesn't undermine that. If anything, it doubles down on it.

If the second film's closing moments leaves the "was this quest a good idea?" question in the air, the third film initially seems to land on the answer that no, it wasn't. The dragon is slain, sure, but at a terrible cost, and instead of a comfortably-placed "happily-ever-after", adventure gives way to sullen politics and greed.

The first half of this film features precisely ZERO of the titular battle, and has been accused of being slow; again, quite to opposite to the freneticism of Abrams' movie. But this part of the film actually gives the audience a feel of the stagnation that the characters have arrived at. They are cornered within the very place they fought so hard to regain.

Key to this stagnation is Thorin's fall to madness. Again, like Kylo in the Star Wars films, we have here a complex character that stands out of a crowd of heroes and villains. But whereas Kylo stepped unto our screens with his "villain" label visible from a mile away, Thorin has been pitched to us as the hero from the opening moments of the first film, and this makes his journey much, much more complex.

Just as importantly, unlike The Rise of Skywalker, this film doesn't conflate martydom and tragedy. That Kylo is redeemed in death (at least, in the film's twisted logic) takes away from the true tragedy of the situation. Thorin's demise is likewise redemptive, but it only comes to because of his earlier, regrettable actions and even after he's reformed, there's that little bit of risidual hubris there that allows Azog to get the jump on him. Now, THAT's tragedy, alright.

I've already written a review of this film and I'm quite proud of it, so I'll just leave it at this: this film has its flaws, but there's one thing it does exceptionally well.

This film manages to question the very morals of the quest that the characters are on, without it ever coming across as a strawman. Indeed, the movie avoids an easy answer throughout. Right up until the very end - and beyond it - one can still question: "wait, is this quest a truly noble cause? Was it a wise idea?"

How often do we see that in a movie like this?

I'm not counting the spinoffs for now. I'm only treating the main cycle of films (or "episodes").

1. The Empire Strikes Back

   There's really nothing to say. Fantastic action-adventure film, with that added edge of drama.

2. Star Wars

   As someone who didn't grow up on this stuff, its too much of a "kids film" for me, but still excellent.

3. Star Wars: The Force Awakens

   Pretty much a remake of the film above it, but extremlly well-crafted and endlessly entertaining.

4. Star Wars: The Last Jedi

   It deconstructs the Star Wars "formula" only to than put it together as-is, but its still entertaining and very visually-striking.

5. Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith

   Yes, I like it more than Return of the Jedi. Its uneven, but there are moments of genuine gravity and some inspired choices. Ian McDiarmid takes the scenes with Anakin and - through sheer willpower - makes them almost touching, in a strange way.

6. Return of the Jedi

   Dissappointing for a grand resolution, episodic with the inclusion of Jabba the Hutt, silly due to the inclusion of the Ewoks.

   Nevertheless, the Luke/Vader storyline is stirring and provides a good resolution to the three/six films.

7. Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace

   Clunky in its storytelling, but - for an action-adventure film - it does action and adventure quite well. If nothing else, its hardly the worse of these.

8. Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker

   A deflating resolution to the sequel trilogy (and to the saga as a whole, kinda) in its rushed nature. The Rise of Skywalker features some good spectacle, photography, acting, music and humour, but the story is rushed to beyond the breaking point, and its morally bankrupt in how it portrays Kylo Ren.

9. Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones

   I love that we spend the first fourty minutes or so of this film with the plot unfolding in an unhurried pace, which allows us to appreciate the Republic. It gives extra weight to its demise. And...unfortunately that's where the praises I have for this film end.

   Tensionless, decidedly un-romantic, oddly-paced and not too visually engaging due to pushing the envelope on CGI and digital cinematography before either technology was quite ripe for what the director wanted.

Even though I have a cat, I haven't seen a lot of films in which cats feature with any real prominence. I mean, there's one in a shot in The Fellowship of the Ring, but its a blink-and-you-miss-it one.

So, this "list" has one entry: the ultimate use of a cat in a film, as far as I'm concerned. Sir Ridley Scott's Alien. Man, when he cuts to the cat's face while the alien is doing its thing, its just SCARY. Its sort of like the Kuleshov effect, in that our dread informs the cat's blank expression. I can't imagine another film topping it.

• Alien

This is a tricky one.

In order to answer this question properly, I think we really need to separate good production value and versimilitude. A film shot largely outdoors like Lawrence of Arabia or Braveheart can feel very real in comparison to a lot of the films on this list, but that's because it doesn't have to rely as much on production value as a crutch. Therefore, those types of films won't feature as prominently on this list.

1. Gladiator

   I quite honestly could have chosen one of any number of Ridley Scott films for this: Alien and especially Blade Runner come to mind. I always stress that Sir Ridley Scott is one of the greatest film producers, the reason being that - regardless of the quality of the script (which he doesn't write) - his films never fail to excell at production value: they always look and sound terrific.

   I suppose my choosing of this particular film of his can be attributed to a personal bias: I do love me some Roman history, to the point that I originally wanted to study it, instead of Middle Eastern history. This film (which, untill recently, I haven't seen since its theatrical run) put me in Rome and ensnared me. For that alone, it has my everlasting iration.

2. 2001: A Space Odyssey

   There's a silly notion going around (aimed especially at films such as the next one on the list) that a film can only evoke grandeur by shooting outdoors.

   While some of my favourite movie moments were shot outdoors and benefitted enormously from it (ah, the intimacy of Wallace and Murron's cold breath in a freezing Scottish night in Braveheart!), this film - shot almost entirely in a studio - is the prime example of the magic of cinema doing just the opposite.

   So much of the glorious space vistas here, the sense of vacuity outside the walls of the set, are nothing but models - essentially toys - being photographed against an animated background; and yet the film feels gargantuan.

3. The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

   You ask me about production design, and you know a film from this series will crop-up. It was inevitable.

   As with Ridley Scott's films, I could have picked any one of the films in this series, or of Jackson's filmography: looking around other people's list I saw The Fellowship of the Ring is a favourite of the community in this regard, or perhaps it gets votes for being the first of the lot.

   In spite of a few garish digital shots, I chose this entry over that one and others for a couple of reasons: For one thing, since this film relied less on outdoors photography, its production design had more to replicate.

   But I think the main reason has to do with the aesthetic. The production design of The Lord of the Rings is among the most inconic and well-known in cinema history. Whereas An Unexpected Journey couldn't break away from that design and in fact revelled in revisiting familiar locations, this film is anything but.

   After a flashback to the familiar Bree, we go into a new part of Middle Earth: the Wilderland and - true to its name - it doesn't look like anything we've seen in these films. Its still recognisably Middle Earth, but its different in such a refreshing way. Mirkwood, especially, is just wonderfully trippy; and you can just about smell Laketown off of the screen.

   Even when the film does go outdoors for The Desolation of the dragon, the location is so otherworldly that the illusion is perfectly maintained. In fact, its one of few instances in these films where the travel montage and vistas aren't just used for grandeur and scenic beauty, but for storytelling, as the barren landscape reflects our main character (Thorin) spiralling into madness, just as he nears the completion of his goal.

4. Titanic

   There's really not much to say except: A James Cameron film. Like many films on this list, it has the occasional, garish, VFX shots, but on the whole it looks and feels tangiable, grand and expensive.

   James Cameron doesn't just oversee the production of excellent sets, but he uses them exceptionally well. As the ship cracks and teeters over the ocean water, he'll show you porceline plates falling over, chairs sliding around - all he needs to really get the point across.

5. The Empire Strikes Back

   If 2001 is a science-fiction epic in space, than The Empire Strikes Back is a fantasy film in the same setting, and the aesthetic perfectly mirrors that.

   Star Wars always had (or used to have) a grungy look, but in the first film, that grunginess sometimes crossed over to shoddiness: just look at how cheap the unpolished Vader suit looks in the original film, once you get to see it in HD.

   Empire manages to combine that worn world while still putting the budget proudly on display. Irvin Kirshner and his cinematographer know how to light the sets much more dynamically, too, which makes them all the more impressive.

   To be fair to Lucas, his idea to add windows to the Cloud City set after the fact - ed by Kirshner - certainly adds a lot of life into those scenes, and is one of the best changes made to the films.

I wasn't going to do the entire MCU: 22 films is just overkill - and don't even get me started on Phase 4.

I'll just focus on The Avengers films.

1. The Avengers

   I think people who don't quite see the brilliance of this film fail to denote one thing: ITS A COMEDY. It isn't meant to have a compelling sense of stakes (which it doesn't have), its meant to be funny, with its quipps and one-liners. For that, I love this movie. It cracks me up!

2. Avengers: Infinity War

   Focused, unusually, around the character of the villain, Infinity War is a bit piecemeal and not complete as a standalone film, but it works. Thanos is menacing but also understandable, and Brolin brings it.

   Tony Stark, the protagonist of the entire MCU, is also very well used here. His showdown with Thanos is one of those great pairings of protagonist/antagonist.

3. Avengers: Age of Ultron

   A bit uneven, Ultron still has one of Marvel's better villains. The action setpieces are a bit interchangable, but the Whedon touch is still there.

4. Avengers: Endgame

   Released to almost universal acclaim, I really liked this movie..for the first two of its three hours, and than it unravelled in the most mind-numbing way.

   Its not bad by any means, but its just not good enough for this kind of culmination and resolution.

5. Captain America: Civil War

   For all intents and purposes, this is Avengers 2.5, and while that's not a cause for criticism per se, the conflict and sense of stakes sure are.

   The concept of "superhero versus superhero" was always infantile, and while The Avengers uses the bickering within the group as a source of comedy, here its played much too straight for that. These supposedly responsible superheroes have the same ability to negotiate and discuss differences of opinions as nine year-old boys do.

   Furthermore, when they do come to blows, it ends up being so inconsequential. Rhodes is injured severely, we're told, but by the end of the film he's just fine. One faction of the Avengers is imprisoned, only to be set free. Even with regards the climactic rift between Tony and Steve, a letter (read in voicoever during the end of the piece) informs us that they will come to patch things up.

The epic may well be my favourite genre. One of the reasons is that, when done right, its no longer a matter of balancing the scale and action with the intimate drama. Instead, the scale feeds into the stakes and the drama, and propels them.

Now, the epic is one of the most tricky genres to define. Most film scholars seem to agree its defined by being "big". Big vistas, big sets, big cast, big format, etcetra.

To me, this "bigness" hinges primarily upon two elements: genre elements and plot. In of genre elements, the epic is a decidedly composite genre, one which is free to pick elements from any other genre and mix them up.

For instance, the first film/s on this list belongs to the fantasy genre, but also contains elements of the action, adventure, war, drama and horror genres, to name a few. This also aids my enjoyment of the epic because it adds a sense of realism. Real life, after all, doesn't have a genre. By avoiding being pinned down to any one genre convention, the epic achieves a similar sense of realism.

Returning to the issue of the scale of the plot, epics to me are films that actively revolve around some event of historical importance: a war, a large-scale disaster, a change in government, etcetra. This is also true for films of fictionalized history, including fantasy and science-fiction epics.

Because my definition requires these historical events to be the focus instead of a mere backdrop, this list won't include such fine films as Titanic, Saving Private Ryan, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, etcetra.

1. The Lord of the Rings

   One tends to think of epics in of historical epics, but under the parameters I defined, fantasy epics (and, later down the list, science-fiction epics) are definitely eligible.

   In of scope, The Lord of the Rings has the advantage of being told across three or six (if you toss The Hobbit in there, as I do) films.

   If you define the plot of an epic as one which revolves around historically-significant event (within the world of the film) what can be better than a film in which the heroes must prevent the end of the world?

2. Braveheart

   It may not be the most sophisticated of this list, but damn did this movie move me to tears, and the action! Whey boy!

   In of pulling together disparate genre elements, Braveheart is another prime example. Its a drama, a tragedy, a comedy, a romance, a revenge story, an action film, a war epic, a medieval period-piece - all mixed up into an intoxicating blend.

   I especially ire Braveheart for one important narrative choice: its treatment of the characters' lowest point. As is the case with all great drama, the lowest point immediately precedes the climax, but where many films segue from one to the other very quickly, Braveheart takes the time to let it fester.

   It spends twenty minutes with the princess' affair, with the assasination of the Scottish lords, the attempts on Wallace's life. The seeming aimlessness of that section of the film, only makes the climax that much more effective.

3. Gladiator

   On the face of it, Gladiator is a clone of Braveheart, and while it is a historical epic and a revenge story, and even features familiar faces, it has its own sensibilities.

   While the plot does result in an event of historical significance - a shift in the dominion of Rome - the film itself may be the smallest of scale of the whole list (enjoyably so!) by staying within the bounderies of the Colloseum and the royal court.

4. 2001: A Space Odyssey

   The more epics from the 50s and 60s I watch, the more I my appreciation of 2001 grows, in spite of its pacing issues.

   Its now clear to me that Kubrick, who already directed a historical epic in Spartacus, wanted to have a new spin on this genre by making a science fiction epic.

   All the trappings of a 60s epics are here: its essentially a reel of 65mm film to showcase space vistas on a large curved screen to the sound of classy music.

   Thematically, too, its primarily a glorification of the space age, which was only just beginning when this film came out. The idea that space exploration allows man to come in with a transcendant Alien race (who left behind the Monoliths as milestones) and become more evolved as a consequence, is intended to present the space race as the stepping stone to human evolution.

5. Lawrence of Arabia

   Perhaps the most sophisticated film on this list, I have a personal attachment to this film's subject matter, being that its the subject of my academic career.

   I absolutely adore what this film's second part is trying - and at times succeeding - at doing. Its trying to unravel the audience's understanding of the first part, presenting all the actions of the main character as ones that were fuelled by hubris and sadistic impulses from the start, rather than by heroism.

   Still, I can't help but feel that T.E. Lawrence's motivations are too inconsistent. Twice in the film, he changes his mind on leaving the battlefront within the course of a single scene. For a film so leisurely paced, one would expect a few scenes to be dedicated to that internal conflict, on its own.

   Unlike 2001, here the splendour of the desert is delivered in just the right amount, with a surprising amount of variety. Maurice Jarre's score juxtaposes the visuals by promising oriental romanticism in a film that is everything but that. The 65mm footage (which unlike 2001, required no duping) is very hard to beat, too.

6. Kingdom of Heaven

   Another period of history I'm personally involved with studying. Kingdom of Heaven is another utterly transportative production from Sir Ridley Scott.

   Its just not as transcendant as the top three films on this list, nor as sophisticated as the other two.

7. Spartacus

   The most graphic of the 50s and 60s epic featured here, Spartacus therefore manages to avoid the sanitized, ceremonious pomposity that other entries from that era trafficed in.

8. Ben-Hur

   One of the better of the religious epics of the 1950s, I nevertheless couldn't help but feel a bit let down by this 11-Oscar winner.

   Its not the sheer length of the picture so much as its structure. The bulk of the story is that of Judah Ben Hur (Charleton Heston), which reaches its climax with the absolutely exhilirating chariot race.

   But instead of wrapping up, the film than morphs into a retelling of the cruxifiction, which takes up another 45 minutes. It would've worked better, had the Christian story been more closely wedded into Judah's life throughout the course of the picture, but other than Jesus giving him water, it really doesn't.

This is a complex subject, so bear with me, and read the notes.

To me, the whole idea of a film series is that one can tell an overarching story greater than what any individual film can ever hold. The concept of crafting such an overarching story - whether it was premeditated or whether it emerged as the individual entries were crafted - is fascinating to me.

So I'll be ranking film series - using the best of each as a representative - based on how well they managed to craft such an overarching story. Episodic series such as Indiana Jones or Nolan's Batman trilogy don't count.

I've made a diagram of the top 4 against the three-act structure, to visualize the damn thing.

1. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

   This is my favorite film series, not least because it has a perfectly cohesive overarching story across all SIX entries. The secret to its success is that the story is premeditated, with each trilogy being produced essentially as one film in three parts, and with all six made by the same producer/writer/director and the same production crew. As a result, it actually functions like one huge three-act screenplay.
   

   Part of why that is, is that this series has a definitive, conclusive ENDING, which is exactly why its last entry is its very best: there's drama to be found in finality. There's no "episode 7" here!

2. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

   In of cinematic merit, I'm not the biggest fan of this series, but in of crafting a cohesive overarching story - this is a good example.

   The framework laid out by Rowling (who claims to have outlined her entire story from the outset) and screenwriter Steve Kloves persistence to this series makes it fairly cohesive. You have the semblance of three acts, with the rejuvination of Voldemort being the equivalent to the end of Act I in a screenplay, and the introduction of Horcruxes ushering us into Act III.

   We'll wait and see how well Fantastic Beasts fits into this structure, but I'm not hopeful: the whole charm of this series for new audiences is that they get to experience this magical world with Harry and through his eyes, so a prequel set in this world - let alone FIVE of them - diminishes that.

3. The Empire Strikes Back

   Here, the overarching story was decidely NOT premeditated, and no amount of retroactive meddling by George Lucas can make it seem like it ever was. This series also switched too many directors and writers to be all that cohesive stylistically: for instance, this movie - the best of the lot by a mile - doesn't credit Luas as either director or screenwriter.

   As a result, its overarching story is kind of wonky.

   Disney's sequels and spin-offs, while good on their individual merits, remain largely extraneous from a narrative standpoint: the story already reached its conclusion (lackluster though it may be).

   But even within the prexisting films, the continuity is shaky and they don't really function like a three-act screenplay. Think about how this works for a new audience: the midpoint of Episode III totally ruins the plot twist at the end of V; and the conclusion in VI was underwhelming even just for the two films that immediately preceded it, but as the conclusion of five?

4. The Avengers

   I rank the MCU behind Star Wars even though its technically much more cohesive. However, its not REALLY one overarching story. It has more in common with something like Indiana Jones than it does with Middle Earth: its an anthology, a series of episodic films, but they do build towards something bigger, so they do earn a place on this list.

5. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl

   The first three films - following the example set by The Lord of the Rings - are fairly cohesive, if somewhat lukewarm. The other two are, again, extraneous.

Those who follow me know I have a fascination with serialized films, so when Letterboxd set up their Best Sequel Showdown I had to jump in.

First, I'm going to come out and preface that I avoid an obvious candidate in the form of some of the entries in The Lord of the Rings/Hobit franchise, because those aren't sequels in the traditional sense of the words. They're a direct continuation of the same story: essentially, another part of one bigger film. Also, there's something to be said for avoiding the obvious.

Second, I'm going to judge this, first and foremost, by reflecting which films present the greatest leap in quality from their predecessors, rather than which films that are sequels are the best.

Third, in juding a sequel's pedigree, I'm also taking into its aesthetic: I want it to feel like a genuine continuation of the previous film, rather than an entirely different take on similar material. For instance, Aliens is a great film, but its so far removed from Alien in its filmmaking sensibilities, that it just doesn't count: Its not even in the same genre!

1. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

   This film kind of cheats, because of the episodic nature of the series. There's not much in the way of a throughline from the previous films which this one follows: its just yet another adventure with the titular character. Its also a bit deriviative of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

   Having said that, its core is entirely different. Instead of yet another treasure-hunt, its a classic Spielberg father-son story, and one of the best of his career. Its a silly action-adventure movie (in the most enjoyable sense), but its serious, even touching when it needs to be.

   While it is an episodic entry, its a kind-of conclusion for the character of Indiana Jones, and the father-son dynamic feeds into that beautifully.

   Also, because it follows Temple of Doom, of which I'm not a big fan, its quite a major improvement upon its predecessor, which is the main critieria for a "Best sequel."

2. The Empire Strikes Back

   This is the cliche "best sequel" film, and indeed the only reason that it isn't my number one pick is its different sensibility to the original film. George Lucas gets credit for all of the Star Wars sextet, but he only produced and wrote the story treatment to this film: He didn't direct nor wrote the actual script.

   As a result, this film just feels different, in a way that streches credulity as to its continuity with the original film. It has a different sense of scale, a different visual look (dynamic lighting, tighter framing), a different structure (parallel storylines) and tone.

   There are also narrative ticks: making Vader Luke's father was a great twist, but it doesn't really gel with the original Star Wars, where that idea was clearly just not there.

3. Terminator 2: Judgment Day

   Not the masterpiece its hailed to be, but more-so than the previous films on this list - Terminator 2 is a HUGE leap-forward in quality compared to Terminator, hence its position as one of the best sequels.

4. The Dark Knight

   In some respects, I like Batman Begins and even The Dark Knight Rises better than this: They feature more of Nolan's love for nonlinear storytelling, they spend more time with Bruce outside the suit, and they flesh out his relationship with Alfred much better. There's also the continuity issue of switching actresses for Rachel.

   However, this film is by an large an improvement on its predecessor, it is a great film on its own right, and it is a continuation of the same character story and told with the same aesthetic.

5. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

   Another film I like a bit less than the rest of the Letterboxd crowd: I'm not even sure its my favourite Harry Potter film.

   It also has a similar problem to The Empire Strikes Back in that its aesthetic is to different to its predecessors that its kind of hard to take it seriously as a genuine continuation of the previous film.

   However, I'm not at all a fan of the Chris Columbus entries, especially the one immediately preceding this film, that being The Chamber of Secrets (zzzzzz). Therefore, this film qualifies as a major leap forward in quality compared to its predecessor. Hence, one of the best sequels ever made.

letterboxd.sitesdebloques.org/showdown/the-perfect-score/

• The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

  Howard Shore's conclusion to a six-part, 20-hour masterpiece. Through his monumental work, Shore wove numerous renouned soloists (Renee Fleming, Enya), instruments from all over the world (everything from bagpipes through gamelan to didgeridoos), a large orchestra and multiple choirs and the biggest collection of musical themes in the history of film scores: 160 recurring themes (also known as leitmotifs) are used in the piece.

  Just to compare, John Williams' Star Wars work - at a comparable length - has just over fifty recurring themes.

  Also, if John Williams gave Star Wars the sound of a musical, Howard Shore gave The Lord of the Rings (and The Hobbit) the sound of an opera, with choirs and soloists, which is great for the antiquated setting as well as for the cinematic sensibility: film music is, after all, an offshoot of opera music.

• Star Wars

  While it possesses more memorable tunes than Howard Shore's work, Williams' work for Star Wars is decidedly less cohesive, with themes being absent from certain entries (e.g. The Imperial March in the original Star Wars) and some being confined to one or two entries where they would have been perfectly applicable to all the films (e.g. the Droids' theme in Empire Strikes Back).

  Also, Williams more freely uses his themes for romantic purposes: i.e. applying a theme for a moment just because it sounds good. There's no narrative reason to use Leia's theme for Ben Kenobi's death, or Yoda's theme for the Cloud City shootout. Makes the thematic construction feel more haphazard.

• The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

  Of all scores on this list, this one is perhaps the most detrimental to the success of the film its attached to. Leone likes lots of buildup towards action, and those sections need to be filled with something. In this case, its Morricone's music.

  If the music was of a lesser callibre, it would've made those long build-up sequences feel a bit hollow.

• Braveheart

  On its own, this score isn't that great, but its an excerise in futility to truly separate a score from the film. As such, I love this score.

  The late James Horner always had a ion for bagpipes, often putting them into puzzling context with the narrative of the films he scored. e.g. his score to Titanic, which is very deriviative of this. Here, however, these instrumental choices make sense and work brilliantly.

  The lyrical gaelic ages are juxtaposed with brutal percussive and synth ages for the action sequences, perfectly echoing the filmmaker's style.

  Also, this score helped popularize celtic music, and served as a major inspiration for the score to The Lord of the Rings (my number one spot), and I love it for that. Peter Jackson actually originally wanted Horner to score his films, but the latter refused the lengthy project.

• Jurassic Park

  Although Howard Shore is responsible for my number one favorite piece of movie scoring, its John Williams who earned two spots on this list, and if I were inclined to make a longer list, he'd probably feature a few more times, which is why I have to classify him as the superior composer.

  This score again has the sensibility of a musical: the themes are not too numerous, and they run long: more like musical numbers than leitmotifs, really. The upbeat, tuneful quality can feel sugary, but with this film it goes hand-in-hand with Spielberg's attempt to capture the awe of these creatures.

My ranking of his Lord of the Rings and Hobbit trilogies are somewhat arbitrary, because I hold that each trilogy is one film split three ways and as such are of a much more homogenous quality than most trilogies.

1. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
2. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
3. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
4. The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
5. They Shall Not Grow Old
6. The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
7. The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey
8. King Kong
9. Heavenly Creatures
10. Braindead

...plus 4 more. View the full list on Letterboxd.

Who knew that this actor could direct so well? As much as I have to flinch at his drunken comments, being Jewish, I just find myself drawn to - and often moved by - his films.

1. Braveheart
2. Apocalypto
3. Hacksaw Ridge
4. The Man Without a Face
5. The ion of the Christ