Sideways (d. Alexander Payne)
Payne eschews the superciliousness regarding his characters that marred About Schmidt and Election and produces a heartfelt and moving (not to mention hilarious) portrait of midlife crisis. Not that he's getting all gushy; Paul Giamatti's Miles Raymond is a depressive borderline alcoholic and his pal Jack (Thomas Hayden Church) is an inveterate womanizer whose mental age seems to have been arrested at about 16. Their adventures on a trip through wine country are the stuff of a good novel. Not having read the novel upon which the film was based, I can't speak to the faithfulness of the adaptation, but Payne succeeds where so many others have failed, creating a film that's tonally novelistic but thoroughly cinematic in execution. This marks the second year in a row that a film starring Giamatti has topped my best films list, and it's not coincidental. He's one of the best actors working in film today, able to convey a broad palette of emotions with his soulful eyes alone. His looks generally get him cast as losers and outcasts, but just as with last year's American Splendor--in which he found a buried vein of humanity in misanthropic cartoonist Harvey Pekar (which many have claimed doesn't exist in the real Pekar)--he doesn't play types. He embodies characters, which is altogether more difficult for the actor and more satisfying for the viewer. But I'm a card-carrying Giamatti fan; the surprise is that the other actors keep up. Hayden Church is perfect as a has-been actor unable to commit to a monogamous relationship, and Virginia Madsen is luminous as a divorcee who forges a tentative connection with the emotionally fragile Miles. Even Sandra Oh, who's given the least to work with, hits all the right notes as an outwardly free-spirited "pour girl" who's really looking for a father for her daughter. To his credit, Payne doesn't go for the "home-run" Oscar-bait emotional scene, which makes Miles' life of quiet desperation all the more heartbreaking. The comedy sparkles, too: I still chuckle when I think about the scene in which Miles snatches a bottle of wine and careens down a hillside, chugging as he tries to evade the pursuing Jack. And the line "I'm not drinking fucking Merlot!" may prove to be the catch phrase of the year.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (d. Michel Gondry)
Charlie Kaufman is one of the best screenwriters (if not the best) working today. Yet if you think his scripts are impossible to screw up, take a gander at Gondry's so-so Human Nature. The announcement that Gondry was taking on another Kaufman project filled me with apprehension, which proved to be misplaced. Eternal Sunshine employs Kaufman's metafictional (metacinematic?) bag of tricks to produce a melancholy exploration of memory and regret through the lens of a failed romance. If anything made me more apprehensive than the selection of Gondry, it was the announcement that the film would star Jim Carrey, whose best performance as an actor was to mimic the quirks of Andy Kaufman. This, too, proved unfounded-Carrey is just fine as the jilted loner Joel (if anything, he's too subdued). Even better is Kate Winslet as the flighty Clementine, giving some emotional weight to a character that we all know (or have dated): the person whose outward exuberance and spontaneity are a carefully constructed fa?ade concealing deep emotional wounds. Frankly, I don't understand the complaints that the film is too hard to follow. Once we accept the premise that the events of the film are a journey through Joel's memories as he attempts to have them erased, there is logic (more correctly, dream logic) to all the weirdness. And, as in all of Kaufman's work so far, it's not weirdness for weirdness' sake. True, Kaufman isn't afraid to shatter the traditional barriers of "realistic" film, but it's all in service of the story. I don't mind being reminded that I'm watching a film, as long as it's a film worth watching. The critic Walter Chaw suggested that Kaufman is the nexus of Orson Welles and Preston Sturges. I'd go one better and say that he may be the missing link between Borges and the Marx Brothers.
The Incredibles (d. Brad Bird)
In this time of comic book movie saturation, simply making a good superhero movie is a notable accomplishment. Brad Bird and Pixar went one better and produced a movie that stands as not only one of the best of that genre, but with the best animated films ever made. It's certainly the best-looking CG film ever made, from the first rate scenic design to the fabric of the super-suits. The action is expertly staged, making use of all the wowee capabilities of the format. Thankfully, the filmmakers realized that while these elements are essential to a first-rate production, they are nothing without a first-rate script. Funny throughout yet capable of genuinely emotional moments, the script acknowledges our ironic distance from the superhero concept without stooping to wink-wink irony for its humor. The Incredibles is pure joy for those of us who spent too much of our formative years buried in comic books, but it's not just a love letter to the geeks of the world. In fact, it's hard to imagine any future list of the best animated films without this film (and Bird's previous effort, the criminally underseen The Iron Giant) very near the top.
Gozu (d. Takashi Miike)
Shock-auteur Miike sidelines the over-the-top gore (well, mostly) in favor of a Beckett-inspired aesthetic, with haunting and thought-provoking results. Unfettered by the restrictions of conventional plot structure (more so than usual), Gozu takes the audience into a dreamlike state, weird and funny and frightening all at the same time. I recently read a review of the film that made much of its homosexual subtext. It's there, no doubt--on reflection, I'm surprised I didn't get it the first time I watched the film. I prefer to think that Gozu is "about" coming to terms with repressed homosexuality in the same way the Waiting for Godot is "about" looking for God. Yes, it's there, but as with all real art, it's just one level. Gozu takes all the traditional themes of the Yakuza movie--honor, loyalty, violence (and, yes, homoeroticism)--and marinates them in a heady broth of striking visuals and bizarre characters, baking the concoction under the stage lights of the Theater of the Absurd to come up with a truly unique dish. Miike is a consummate craftsman and a director of unique vision, even in his less arty direct-to-video films; he's truly worthy of the auteur tag. Let's be grateful that he has thus far resisted the trend of Japanese horror directors coming to Hollywood. I don't think he'd do too well in today's bottom line-driven, mediocrity-championing American film industry. Though I would like to see his vision of Bush-era America...
Collateral (d. Michael Mann)
Essentially a two-man piece, the interplay between Tom Cruise's self-actualized hitman Vincent and Jamie Foxx's procrastinating cabbie Max is so good that one forgives any number of holes in the high-concept plot and a final act straight out of Hollywood Action Hack Screenwriting 101. As a thriller, it ain't all that, but as the story of a character's dark journey toward a kind of authenticity, it's compelling. Cruise, who has always been a solid (if overeager) actor, proves that he's much more interesting when he gets a chance to explore the darker aspects of human nature. Foxx proves beyond any doubt that he is, in fact an actor and not simply a gifted performer. The largely digital photography should be singled out for some kind of special award--the ability to shoot at night and in low-light situations is something that wasn't possible before the digital revolution, and while you'll never see me aboard the "film is dead" bandwagon, Collateral is a great example of how the medium can enhance the right story.
I Heart Huckabee's (d. David O. Russell)
Russell's giddy screwball take on existentialism shouldn't have been any good at all. At various points throughout, I found myself wondering if there was anything beyond a freshman philosophy-level intro to existentialism to be found in this story of an overearnest young environmentalist (Jason Schwartzman) who experiences an existential crisis in the midst of his battle against Wal-Martesque superchain Huckabee's. There may not be, in fact, but I was grinning throughout the film, and it stayed with me long afterward, begging for subsequent viewings. It says something about our society that a dead philosophical movement seems uniquely suited to address the difficulty of finding meaning in post-9-11 America. Perhaps it's philosophy itself that's the con game, promising answers, which are really just riddles and intellectual evasions. One thing is certain--Mark Wahlberg should only be allowed to work with Russell, who finds depths in the former underwear model that other directors are unwilling or unable to bring out. Wahlberg's painfully earnest, anguished Tommy Corn gives humanity and gravity (not to mention some great yuks) to what might have been a weightless intellectual exercise.
Kill Bill Vol. 2 (d. Quentin Tarantino)
Whether it was always intended to be so (as QT has claimed in interviews) or not, the second part of Tarantino's epic revenge pastiche managed to be quite a tonal shift from the first installment. Gone is the adrenaline-fueled nonstop action of the first film, replaced by a more contemplative pace and an almost mournful feel. In Vol. 1, Tarantino paid homage to the gods of Asian action cinema; the spirit of Sergio Leone seems to guide this second installment. As usual, Tarantino's myriad influences are on display (the Shaw Bros. tribute of the "Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei" chapter is so dead-on as to transcend any thought of parody and proceed directly to coolville), but they seem on the whole to be more of a piece this time out. But what really makes it work is love: Tarantino's love of cinema, the love of the actors for the material, and especially the main characters' love for each other. David Carradine's performance gives an elegant answer to the question of why Bill would slaughter the Bride's entire wedding party, and meaning to his enigmatic opening monologue ("...this is me at my most...masochistic.") Uma Thurman adds depth to her character, too--in the fantastic final confrontation, it's clear that she still loves Bill, even though she must kill him. After Vol. 1 hit, I wondered whether the two parts would have to be edited together to make a truly great whole--I can say now that the two parts stand just fine separately. QT gets the revenge thing right: Vol. 1 ramps up the bloodlust; Vol. 2 has the appropriately elegiac feel of the end of the quest.
Shaun of the Dead (d. Simon Pegg)
Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright's "Romantic Zombie Comedy" (RomZomCom!) managed to have more warmth, humor, and genuine fun than just about any genre movie this year (though the first 15 minutes of the Dawn of the Dead remake are spectacular). Just a few of the many great moments: Lucy Davis' master class on how to act like a zombie. The wonderful tracking shot of the hungover Shaun walking to the local store, oblivious to the zombification around him. "Well, they were a bit bitey." Sade as a zombie-killing weapon. Shaun is everything films should be when they are made by fans of the source material: passionate, clever, and well-executed; it contains enough inside jokes to keep the fanboys happy but doesn't rely on them for its appeal. The film hits exactly the mark it's aiming for, nothing more and nothing less. That in itself is rare enough in movies; so is the fact that it's so damn fun to boot.
Honorable Mentions:
The Bourne Supremacy (d. Paul Greengrass) - It's saying something about the current state of action films that this well-executed, well-acted, workmanlike spy thriller seemed somehow exceptional. In the end, the plot just wasn't involving enough to earn it a spot with the year's best, but this was a great time at the movies.
Baadasssss! (d. Mario Van Peebles) - Mario conjures up and exorcises the spirit of his father (yes, I know he's still alive) in this involving, honest account of the making of the first blaxploitation film. Mario's portrait of his father in unsentimental and unsparing, showing Melvin's passion and vision right alongside his destructive obsession and failings as a father (the scene where Melvin offers up the prepubescent Mario for a sex scene is particularly chilling, more so because it really happened). Vital indie filmmaking that puts most big-budget biopics to shame. All is forgiven for Posse.
Fahrenheit 9-11 (d. Michael Moore) - Yes, Moore is a self-important, manipulative ass who may have had a hand in losing the election for the Democrats. Yes, this film uses questionable tactics to make its points and ends up preaching to the choir. So what? Who says films can't be polemics; that they can't aim to rile people up? In this time of political and media conformity, voices that challenge the company line are needed more than ever. The film's enormous box-office proved that by preaching to this particular choir, you're speaking to at least half the country.
Spider-Man 2 (d. Sam Raimi)
Hellboy (d. Guillermo del Toro)
Two comic-book adaptations that provided the requisite big screen thrills,
but relied on characterization and small moments for their effectiveness. Tobey
Maguire's Peter Parker embodied everything that made Lee and Romita's unlikely
hero connect with generations of young people, and Alfred Molina's Dr. Octopus
was such a well-drawn character that his descent into super-villainy conveyed
a true sense of tragedy. In Hellboy, del Toro again showed that a passionate
and able filmmaker doesn't need Bruckheimer-sized budgets to look great and
supply blockbuster thrills. The best thing about the movie, though, was Ron
Perlman, whose ability to project soul through pounds of makeup applications
was more amazing than anything conjured up by a computer this year.
