Goal: to see 100 movies in the one-year between Christmas ’02 and Christmas ’03:

My goal: to see 100 movies in 2003. I didn’t quite make it…..

Final Statistics for 2003:

Movies seen: 86 (14 short of goal)

Movies seen in movie theaters (as opposed to on TV, DVD, etc.): 22

Japanese movies seen: 27 (Goal for 2004: 30)

Other Asian movies seen: 1 (Goal for 2004: 10)

European movies seen: 6 (Goal for 2004: 10)

The list of movies I have seen so far in 2005 is available here. The list of movies I saw in 2004 is available here.

Here’s what I saw in 2003:

86). The Last Samurai (2003; dir. Edward Zwick). What this movie needs is more ninja attacks. Since they were going to ignore historical reality, they might as well have gone whole hilt. It would have been more fun, at least. And perhaps the proto-fascist message would have been easier to swallow then. Not to mention the basic cultural imperialism: Hollywood appropriates the samurai film genre from Japan, and produces a film about how an American understands Japan better than the Japanese….

85). Piglet’s Big Movie (2003; dir. Francis Glebas). While watching it, I was smugly congratulating myself on how superior Japanese anime is to American cartoons—and then the final credits revealed that all of the animation in this was done in Japan. Our seven-year-old’s review: I thought it was going to be a movie with Piglet as the main character, but he’s hardly in it at all.

84). Elf (2003; dir. Jon Favreau). Sweet tempered and pleasant. They do a good job—and quite deliberately, too—of reproducing the tone and feel of the old claymation tv Christmas specials.

83). Ichiban utsukushiku (The most beautiful; 1944, dir. Kurosawa Akira). Fine wartime propaganda film, at least as good as any produced by Frank Capra for our side. Melodrama in documentary style about women who work in a high-precision lens factory in wartime Japan. I doubt I’ve ever seen a movie with more shots of clock faces. Clearly a fetishism of technology here, especially technology in the hands of young women.

82). Zoku Sanshiro Sugata (Sugata Sanshiro 2; 1944, dir. Kurosawa Akira). Yer basic sequel: repeat the most famous scenes in the original without adding too much thought or originality.

81). Casino Royale (1967; dir. John Huston and a whole buncha other guys, too). Weird to see this right after watching Kill Bill, Vol. 1. Like so many Hollywood sex farces from the 1960s,this one’s not half as wild or naughty as it thinks it is. Compared to a real maniac like Suzuki Seijun, it literally pales. The actors don’t even really look like they were having fun. A few clever moments—Woody Allen’s escape from the firing squad comes to mind—but mainly just a waste of great talent. Peter Sellers hardly draws a laugh.

80). Tora no Ô wo Fumu Otokotachi (They Who Step on the Tiger’s Tail; 1945; dir. Kurosawa Akira). Donald Richie calls this a musical, and he’s right: it blends together Noh and kabuki play music and narration with an (Orientalist) Western classical music soundtrack, complete with a chorus that comments on the action, a retelling of the Yoshitsune and Benkei legends. Enoken, the great Japanese film comedian from mid-century, is brilliant in a role that foreshadows the Fool from Ran.

79). Sugata Sanshirô (1943; dir. Kurosawa Akira). I begin a major project to rewatch all of Kurosawa in preparation for a lecture and paper I have to write in the coming months. This is AK’s first film; it’s remarkable how his style is already in place: there are scenes here that foreshadow his very late films, Ran and Mada da yo, with almost scary prescience. Terrific style, with many images and gestures taken from silent film—I saw what seemed to be several nods to Victor Sjostrom, in particular. But, paradoxically, the film also uses sound effects and music (both in the background soundtrack and in the diegetic music produced from within the storyworld) with great skill. A martial arts film: the up-and-coming school of judo proves it worthiness over the more established and haughty jujitsu. And the film sports a slimy villain, Higaki, complete with Western clothes and a handlebar moustache that he all but twirls. Just great!

78). Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (2003; dir. Quentin Tarantino). Lots of fun, especially if you love cheesy Japanese popular culture from the 1960s and 70s—Suzuki Seijun movies, samurai tv shows like Hissatsu Shigotonin, etc. Tarantino gets all the details right, down to the soundtrack and sound effects. Of course, he adds more severed limbs and heads than even the Nikkatsu studio would allow for, but it’s all in good fun. The miniature models of the city of Tokyo with the jet airplane zooming overhead are wonderful, as is the notion of an airline that allows passengers to carry swords on board.

77). Battle Royale (2000; dir. Fukasaku Kinji). Remarkable (and remarkably violent) allegory about life under conditions of capitalist alienation, and the function of art in such a life. Classical music, painting, cinema: all come in for borderline-nihilistic jibes. At least, that’s what I think Fukasaku was up to here, and the overall message isn’t hopeful. Junior high school education transformed into a to-the-death cage match, with Beat Takeshi as the ringmaster. Funny, horrifying, disturbing…. #5 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2000.

76). Hotaru (Firefly; 2001; dir. Furuhata Yasuo). A big hit in Japan two years back, the great star Takakura Ken plays an aging kamikaze pilot survivor who is suddenly forced—by among other things, the death of Emperor Hirohito in 1989—to confront memories of the war. The climactic scene has him trying to return belongings of a Korean kamikaze pilot to his bereaved family—who are not very happy to see him. It was interesting to see how a mainstream Japanese studio tried to deal with the question of Korean-Japanese history—who would have expected to see Takakura Ken sing “Arirang,” the national song of Korea? But overall a weak film, typical studio product: lots of pretty pictures of landscapes, trite Western classical music on the soundtrack, and nostalgia for the wartime period so thick that even Ozu couldn’t cut it with a knife.

75). Kairo (Circuit; also known as Pulse; 2001; dir. Kurosawa Kiyoshi). A startlingly intelligent horror film by my favorite up-and-coming Japanese director in the first half (ghosts start taking over the Internet, forming a circuit that lures more and more living souls into its web), it transforms into a less effective—but still interesting—meditation on human alienation and apocalypse in postmodern society. As always, Kurosawa picks out the most remarkable industrial wastelands for his sets; even his domestic interior shots feel like they are set in ugly warehouses. The acting is not up to his usual standard—this is his first film to use young, name talent popular from TV, although of course Yakusho Kôji at least makes a cameo appearance. Maybe that’s why he decided to kill everyone off at the end….

74). AIKI (2002, dir. Tengan Daisuke). Intelligent, sober martial arts story, about a boxer who becomes paralyzed from the waist down and finds personal redemption in a form of Aikidô. Some really terrific character acting in smaller parts—the small-time hoodlum that befriends the hero, the mysterious girlfriend with a past, etc.—and a refusal of sentimentality that borders on the miraculous for a film made by a mainstream Japanese studio (Nikkatsu). #5 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2002.

73). Better Luck Tomorrow (2002, dir. Justin Lin). Very well done flick, Risky Business for a new generation. The acting is particularly good—if life were fair, some of the Asian-American talent here would go on to a Tom Cruise-like career. And the editing is remarkably effective. Very nice.

72). Standing in the Shadows of Motown (2002, dir. Paul Justman). It's a shame they didn't make this documentary two decades earlier, when James Jamerson was still alive. And you wish they would have spent more time on the music itself, maybe pulling apart the backing track from a few classical Motown singles to show all the distinct musical parts at work. Nonetheless, you have to be thankful that the Funk Brothers finally get some recognition. Now maybe someone can do the Stax/Volt band, the Muscle Shoals' rhythm section, the Hollywood session musician gang, etc.

71). He Who Gets Slapped (1924; dir. Victor Seastrom [Sjostrom]). The first MGM film ever. It’s hard to believe that studio blockbusters could once-upon-a-time be so daring! The film is filled with remarkable visual images that serve no narrative purpose other than to dazzle the viewer. Lon Chaney is on the brink of hysteria all the way through, just a remarkable performance.

70). The Wolf Man (1941, dir. George Waggner). I hadn’t seen this one since I was in middle school. I’d forgotten all about the Freudian father-son conflict that is at the heart of the film. Oddly enough, you get an Oedipal triangle with no mother figure – and the father comes out the winner (and only survivor). Hmmm….

69). Good Boy! (2003, dir. John Hoffman). Passable movie for kids; our 7-year-old loved it; our 12-year-old didn’t—except for the fart jokes, which he thought were well executed. There is a funny yoga-for-dogs sequence and a couple of good one-liners.

68). Gion no shimai (Sisters of the Gion; 1936, dir. Mizoguchi Kenji). Saw this one also after a gap of many years. I had forgotten how tightly constructed the plot is here: all the pieces of the machine click into place with remarkable precision to bring about the sad climax. And it is great to see the city of Kyoto circa 1936, in all its glory.

67). Naniwa erejii (Osaka Elegy; 1936, dir. Mizoguchi Kenji). Watched it for the first time in several years as part of class preparation. What great sets and costumes! And you see even this early on Mizoguchi’s favorite trick: constructing the camera shot around the architecture of the building that the characters occupy.

66). Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2002, dir. John Cameron Mitchell). Deliriously fun, and with tunes you can tap your toe to.

65). Kurutta Ippeiji (A Page of Madness; 1927, dir. Kinugasa Teinosuke). Watched it for the first time in several years in preparation for discussing it in a classroom lecture. What an amazing piece of work this is! Surrealism, expressionism, remarkable editing and acting: one of the most startling silent films made anywhere.

64) School of Rock (2003, dir. Richard Linklater). Fun and passionate, but what do we make of a very commercial movie that bases itself on the very non-commercial glory of rock? Talk about your basic alienation and the commodity form…. Anyhow, a great performance by Joan Cusack as the school principal.

63) Bowling for Columbine (2002, dir. Michael Moore). Michael Moore gets a lot of flack for being more of a provocateur than a filmmaker, but his films have a genuine, inimitable style: ten minutes into them, you know whose work they are. That’s the kind of style we expect from great auteur directors, isn’t it? There are only a handful of documentary filmmakers with a similarly recognizable style. He also is the clear heir to the old gonzo journalism tradition of the early 1970s, albeit in a much more sober mode. He too should be allowed to make dozens more films.

62). A Mighty Wind (2003, dir. Christopher Guest). A loving parody of the early 60s’ folk boom. Eugene Levy is brilliant as the burnt-out genius, and they manage to get the PBS look on the reunion concert down to the last detail. I hope Christopher Guest gets to make dozens more films….

61). A Night at the Opera (1935, dir. Sam Wood). One of the very best Marx Brothers movies, both of our kids loved it. Watching it for the 99^th time myself, it dawn on me how often the figure of the illegal immigrant shows up in their films—a product, no doubt, of their upbringing on the Lower East Side of New York in the early decades of this century.

60). Sleeper (1973, dir. Woody Allen). The film where Allen really emerges as a director—filled with homages to earlier films (the Marx Brothers, Buster Keaton, etc.). And the best physical comedy he ever did—when did that disappear from his films?

59). What’s Up, Tiger Lily? (1966, dir. Woody Allen). Where Woody Allen takes a Japanese James-Bond knock-off, erases the soundtrack, and writes his own script for it, so that all the various spies and millionaire scoundrels are after a recipe for egg salad. A colleague told me once that he thought the original Japanese film looked as if it might be funnier than Woody Allen’s version; I think he may be right.

58). Austin Powers—International Man of Mystery (1997; dir. Jay Roach). The perfect film to watch after a long, hard day at work. Underneath the weight of the sequels and the hype that has transformed this into a “studio franchise,” it’s easy to overlook what a gem the first movie in the series—before it became a series—was. All the clever comic gestures had yet to harden into clichés. I always loved the “Our Man Flint,” Matt Helm, etc., films, and this is a remarkably fond tribute to them.

57). The Lady From Shanghai (1948; dir. Orson Welles). Once you get over Orson Welles doing an Irish accent, this turns out to be a terrific film—remarkable editing, great acting that verges on—but never becomes—overacting, and it’s steamy as all hell. It’s hard to believe that the Hollywood studios once upon a time made films like this (of course, they did so only reluctantly). Moral confusion rendered visual; the final shoot-out in the house of mirrors is the only logical conclusion.

56). Zatoichi monogatari (Zatoichi: The Life & Opinion of Masseur Ichi; 1962; dir. Misumi Kenji). The first in the Zatoichi series. Surprisingly little swordplay, as the movie seems more interested in setting up the Zatoichi character than in allowing him to show off his chops. Nice final duel sequence, though, of Katsu Shintarō and Ichikawa Raizō facing off against each other. Now I have to see the new Kitano Takeshi version!

55). Earth (Zemlya; 1930; dir. Alexander Dovzhenko). An astonishing silent film from the early hopeful years of the USSR, a story about heroic peasants using their (literally) collective might to overcome stubborn traditional landlords. Almost surrealistic in its editing at times. Dovzhenko knows how to let visual images—rather than the logic of narrative development—carry the weight of the film.

54). Lan Yu (2002; dir. Stanley Kwan). A very low-key exploration of the entanglements between sexual politics and politics on a larger scale—including Tiananmen Square. The first Stanley Kwan film I’ve seen.

53). Hōrōki (Diary of a Vagabond; 1962, dir. Naruse Mikio). It’s remarkable to watch how Naruse pulls a strong melodrama out of Hayashi Fumiko’s experimental, fragmented autobiographical novel. And Takamine Hideko is astonishingly good in the main role.

52). Katakuri-ke no kōfuku (The Happiness of the Katakuris; 2001, dir. Miike Takashi). Brilliant silliness, complete with absurdist claymation sequences that top Terry Gilliam’s animation for Monty Python. A tripped out version of The Sound of Music, and Imawano Kiyoshiro (former lead singer for RC Succession, the great Japanese punk/folk/rock band) is particularly wonderful.

51). Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away; 2001, dir. Miyazaki Hayao). I finally get to see this. A lot of the time, when you hear how great a movie is before you see it, you end up disappointed because your expectations were so high. But this one is as good as everyone says it is—incredible imagery, always surprising. #3 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2001.

50). The Swimming Pool (2002, dir. Francois Ozon). An intelligent, sexy mystery—of sorts—that takes its own sweet time in getting started, but for a reason that you don’t figure out until the final frame.

49). The Pianist (2002, dir. Roman Polanski). It’s nice to see a film about the arts that isn’t afraid of the arts. “Dead Poets Society” is supposed to be about the glories of poetry, but the makers were terrified that actual poetry might bore their audience, and so it never allows Robin Williams to speak more than two or three lines of any given poem. This film, however, gives itself over to lovely piano music, sometimes for eight or nine minutes at a stretch. And it’s directed with style—Polanski trusts in his audience’s intelligence.

48). Duck Soup (1933, dir. Le`o McCarey). It’s amazing how fresh this remains—in part, perhaps, because it is the Marx Brothers’ movie I have seen the fewest times. It’s also the most directly political of their works—and also the one in which the violence inherent in their comedy is closest to the surface. And it has the best musical sequences of all their films.

47). Seabiscuit (2003, dir. Gary Ross). It’s okay, but it has so little style to it, it’s in danger of turning into a tv show at any moment. Has Randy Newman ever composed a more boring score? And the editing is about as creative as a model plane kit. The montage sequence showing the death of Jeff Bridges’ son, the funeral, and the emotional aftermath could have been reduced to two shots, but the director didn’t trust the audience’s ability to make connections, and so he connected all the dots—just like a hack tv director would do.

46). Kurt & Courtney (1998, dir. Nick Broomfield). What an ugly little film. Real tragedy is rarely beautiful, I guess.

45). Shadow of the Thin Man (1941, dir. W.S. Van Dyke). Very enjoyable, of course. One “David Snell” is credited with the musical score, and yet other than the opening credits, I didn’t notice any musical score at all—quite odd. Lots of nice film noir touches, too.

44). G.I. Blues (1960, dir. Norman Taurog). There’s a great footnote in Greil Marcus’ Mystery Train that sums up this movie in about fifty words. What struck my eye is the moment when “Tulsa” (Elvis) is singing a sappy ballad on stage at a nightclub and one of the patrons sets off a barroom brawl by putting money in a jukebox and interrupting the live performance—with a much better canned performance of “Blue Suede Shoes” by one Elvis Presley. Of course, this was in part just an excuse to get “Blue Suede Shoes” onto the film soundtrack, but it also functions as a commentary on how much better the rockabilly song is than the one “Tulsa” is singing in the film.

43). The Lord of the Ring: The Two Towers (2002, dir. Peter Jackson). The best remake yet of The Wizard of Oz, but the songs aren’t as good (less Enya, though, than in the first one from the trilogy, which is a good thing).

42). The Lord of the Ring: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001, dir. Peter Jackson). An exciting film with a really boring soundtrack.

41). Tōkyō Rapusodi (Tokyo Rhapsody, 1936, dir. Fusui Osamu). Musical built around Fujiyama Ichirō’s hit song, “Tokyo Rhapsody.” Very sophisticated use of soundtrack, constantly moving back and forth smoothly between diegetic and nondiegetic music. The sound recording is much better than what I’ve heard from other Japanese films in the period—or maybe this film has just been particularly well preserved. The story is the old one: will success spoil Ichirō, the dry cleaning delivery boy who is discovered as a singing sensation? Lots of lovely footage of Tokyo from the mid-1930s: St. Nikolai’s Cathedral, Ochanomizu station, the Ginza, etc.

40). The Navigator (1924, dir. Buster Keaton and Donald Crisp). I dunno, maybe I’ve seen this one once too many times, but it strikes me as the least funny of the Keaton silents—no laugh-out-loud moments (the closest thing is the wet deck of cards sequence), but rather more smiles and grins.

39). Roman Holiday (1953, dir. William Wyler). So happy…. It’s interesting to see how neo-realism spread around the world so quickly, infiltrating even the Hollywood romantic comedy. And who knew Eddie Albert could really act?

38). Ben-Hur (1959, dir. William Wyler). I’d somehow managed never to see this one. Watching it now, I am surprised to see how much the cinema spectaculars of the 1960s and 70s—be it the David Lean epics, the Star Wars series, or even Planet of the Apes—derive their patterns from it. And also how much it pays its respects to the 1926 silent film—Wyler was in fact an assistant director on that earlier version.

37). Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003, dir. Jonathan Mostow). A kind of weird Hegelian dialectic is at work here, in which the rise to self-awareness of machines is bad because they feel no desire. And there’s a powerful sense of nostalgia for outdated technology, as well—hence, the underground shelter in which the two heroes end up safe, because the computer equipment is so outdated that it is immune to viruses.

36). GO (2001, dir. Yukisada Iwao). Taut drama about life as an ethnic Korean in Japan. Nicely edited and acted. It’s especially gripping in the first half, which has a feel somewhat reminiscent of “Clockwork Orange,” but not as strong in the second half, which becomes something like one of those liberal anti-prejudice films from the 1940s and 50s (think Gentlemen’s Agreement), a shift that is signaled in the musical score: the first half uses tense, trance/rock background music, while the second half mostly relies on a more elegant symphonic sound. #1 on the Kinema Junpō magazine Best Ten list for 2001.

35). OUT (2002, dir. Hirayama Hideyuki). Sparing, almost stingy, in its use of background music (something I’ve become more conscious of this summer, as I sit in on a class about music in film). Then again, what sort of music would be appropriate to a tale of four middle-aged women who find themselves unexpectedly in the business of chopping up and disposing of the corpses of murder victims? A Japanese take on the “Thelma and Louise” theme—one of the corpses is that of an abusive husband—competently acted and directed, with a nice sense of humor. #4 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2002.

34). Bruce Almighty (2003, dir. Tom Shadyac). So, what will my kids think of Jim Carrey when they see a documentary about him thirty years from now? Anger drives his comedy; that puts him closer to Durante than Skelton. And Durante made a lot of ho-hum flicks, too, just like this one.

33). I Dood It (1943, dir. Vincente Minnelli). It’s funny how some of the comics you liked as a kid age very well, while others dry up. I saw a documentary recently on Jimmy Durante, and he was as entertaining as I remembered him to be. Red Skelton, though, turns out to have been a bore…. Lena Horne sings a really weird number about the walls of Jericho.

32). The Hours (2002, dir. Stephen Daldry). At last, an uplifting movie about depression. I thought it worked quite well until the last half hour, when they needlessly started connecting the different time lines and suddenly things veered off into melodrama. If there’s one thing Virginia Woolf wasn’t about, it’s melodrama.

31). The Actress (1953, dir. George Cukor). Long, languorous tracking shots, and Jean Simmons positively glows. Script by Ruth Gordon; oddly enough, the heroine is named Ruth Gordon Jones.

30). Hollywood Homicide (2003, dir. Ron Shelton). The film shows a real affection for the city of Los Angeles; but, appropriately enough, the affection at times reveals its source in a tin heart.

29). Spellbound (2002, dir. Jeff Blitz). Engaging documentary about kids in the National Spelling Bee—but my dissatisfaction with documentary films (see comments on “Derrida” above) remains. Here we had the “Love Boat” variation: follow seven guest stars through a series of trials and tribulations until one finds true happiness.

28). Sweet Sixteen (2002, dir. Ken Loach). Terrific. How come all the great films about life in a class-based society are gangster films?

27). The Killing (1957, dir. Stanley Kubrick). So Tarantino didn’t invent the fractured narrative heist story, after all. Just great film noir. How come they don’t use those he-men voiceover narrators anymore?

26). Finding Nemo (2003, dir Andrew Stanton). People who complain that technical prowess in animation has taking priority here over characters and story are forgetting that cinema is above all a visual art: spectacular colors and images abound. Not bad at all.

25). The Cocoanuts (1929, dir. Robert Florey). Walter’s Marx Bros. kick continues. It’s interesting mainly to see what a 1920s Broadway musical comedy looked like – and, of course, for the “viaduct” scene and Harpo eating a telephone.

24). Daddy Daycare (2003, dir. Steve Carr). The kind of movie Hollywood doesn’t know how to make anymore; not offensive, necessarily, but neither funny nor sentimental enough. It was kind of nice to see Cheap Trick in action, though, however briefly.

23). Monkey Business (1931, dir. Norman McLeod). I’ve seen all the Marx Brothers’ films umpteen times, but this was the first time I’d seen this one in many years. What struck me is how well edited it is—continually jumping back and forth between bits of business. It was also fun to watch it with Walter, who is just discovering Groucho, Harpo, and Chico – at precisely the age when I first discovered them myself.

22). Masseur Ichi, the Fugitive (also known as: Zatoichi’s Crazy Journey) (Zatoichi Kyojotabi, 1963; dir. Tanaka Tokuzō). I’m always blown away by the great visual sense that carries through all of the films from the Zatoichi series. Yes, the scenes are all clichés (the swordfight in the shallows of a creek; the simultaneous emergence of a dozen enemies from the depths of a forest, etc., etc.), and yet you wish that studio films today paid half as much attention to the idea of visual spectacle. This one has the usual convoluted plot, the usual great performance by Katsu Shintarō, and the usual great swordfights. Very enjoyable.

21). Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939, dir. Frank Capra). First time I’d seen it in years; I’d forgotten the nice bit with the hat that Jimmy Stewart fumbles with whenever the Senator’s flirtatious daughter appears. It struck me as a bit hackneyed visually, but then it occurred to me that the reason it seems trite may be that everyone’s been imitating Capra (montages, use of shadows, etc.) ever since. One of the few Hollywood films from the 1930s to deal with race in a less than totally embarrassing fashion.

20). Derrida (2002; dir. Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering Kofman). Reasonably well-done documentary that tries to show why Derrida’s thought is important and attractive. Not as interesting a film as it could be; it made me wish for some sort of breakthrough in the vocabulary and grammar of documentary film making – and yet, they have accomplished something here. We need more films like this.

19). Deconstructing Harry (1997, dir. Woody Allen). The best late Woody Allen that I’ve seen (still haven’t seen “Sweet and Lowdown,” though). Nice use of jump cuts throughout. My favorite line: “You’re just like a born-again Christian. Except you’re Jewish.”

18). Arsenic and Old Lace (1944, dir. Frank Capra). Maybe it’s because I kept getting interrupted—phone calls, the kids, etc.—but I didn’t find this nearly engaging as I thought I would, though Peter Lorre and Raymond Massey were wonderful. The bitty old aunts weren’t quite bitty enough, I think.

17). Yoake mae (Before the Dawn, 1955, dir. Yoshimura Kimisaburō). Overly long, overly talky, but probably both were inevitable flaws of any attempt to film the sprawling novel. Mostly, they seem to want to give the folkloric version of life in the countryside. The last half hour or so, though, is particularly gripping and well done, and the sequence in which Hanzō is tied up by his own son and led to the cell where he will spend the rest of his days is quite striking.

16). Chicago (2002, dir. Rob Marshall). Too much hype, not enough dancing—guess that’s what happens when you cast movies stars, rather than dancer/singers, in a musical. Kinda interesting, but basically “Caberet” without Liza or Joel.

15). American Movie: The Making of Northwestern (1999, dir. Chris Smith). Gawd, I know these guys. I grew up with these guys. Jeez.

14). Adaptation (2002, dir. Spike Jonze). Great, just great. Even the disappointing ending was great in its perfect disappointment. Gotta love a film where the scriptwriter makes himself the hero.

13). Kanashiki 60-sai (Sad Sixty-Year-Old, 1961; dir. Terashima Hisashi). Fun teen-exploitation film starring Sakamoto Kyū, zany cut-out humor that eventually transforms into a conventional boxing film (will he or won’t he throw the fight?). Eerily, the film opens with a shot of Kyū-chan piloting a plane, and closes with a shot of him ascending the steps to heaven – Kyū in real life was killed in the 1985 JAL plane crash.

12). The Fourth Dimension (2001, dir. Trinh T. Minh-ha). A gorgeous exploration of the problems of time, ritual, and representation in the context of Japanese festival rituals and everyday life rituals. The lush colors give way for a moment to grainy, black-and-white and gray newspaper coverage of the death of Kanba Michiko at the ANPO protests in 1960; history breaks through the canvas.

11). My Voyage to Italy, Part 2. Very nice; ends up at Fellini and Antonioni and shows where they came from and why they are so important.

10). My Voyage to Italy, Part 1 (2001; dir. Martin Scorcese). Documentary on Italian film; lovingly done. Scorcese traces through his childhood in Little Sicily in NYC and how he grew up watching Neo-Realism on the Italian stations in NYC. Part 1 traced through the careers of Rossellini and de Sico.

9). Son of a Sailor (1933; dir.Lewis Bacon). Typical Joe E. Brown comedy. Maybe the first movie set on an aircraft carrier? Plot, as much as there is one, revolves around the debate over which will be superior: naval or air power? Joe E. Brown’s answer in the film: if you are in the middle of the ocean, a battleship’s the answer, but if you’re up in the middle of the sky, then an airplane’s what you want. Anyhow, airplanes sink a battleship at the end of the movie, answering the question–correctly.

8). Atarashii Kamisama (The New God, 1999; dir. Tsuchiya Yutaka). Fascinating low-tech documentary about members of an ultranationalist punk rock band. The film plays (sometimes intentionally, sometimes – I think – inadvertently) with the narcissistic desire to be on camera that drives fascism and with the sadistic desire to film others that drives certain forms of leftism – and with the considerable possibilities for romance that therefore exist between the two positions. And there’s some really bad music.

7). KT (2002, dir. Sakamoto Junji). Something like a Cold-War thriller (think of the film versions of John LeCarre), but with a difference: a sympathetic meditation on what happens to real believers when they get caught up in the industrial machinery of geopolitics. A Japanese-South Korean joint production, it recreates events surrounding the abduction of South Korean dissident (and future president) Kim Dae Jung from his Tokyo hotel in 1973. Fascinating subplots explore a remarkable range of postwar Japanese culture and society: the difficulties of being an ethnic Korean in Japan, the attractions of Mishima Yukio to a certain breed of idealist, the subordination of the Japanese military to American hegemony, the strange relationship between commodity and truth values in the Japanese mass media, etc. #3 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2002.

6). K-19: The Widowmaker (2002; dir. Kathryn Bigelow). I watched this on a plane returning from Japan to the U.S.; the video system stopped working fifteen minutes before the film ended; I didn’t mind too much. But it was fun listening to Harrison Ford attempt a Russian accent….

5). Blood Work (2002; dir. Clint Eastwood). Typical professional thriller with just enough brains to keep it interesting, even though you figure out who the bad guy is halfway through.

4). Pinpon (Pingpong, 2002; dir. Sori Fumihiko). Brings the world of manga (including hackneyed plots: a melancholic loner who turns out to be pingpong hero, facing down a remarkable grotesquerie of monstrous opponents) to the screen quite creatively. The film uses wild camera movement, computer graphics, sound editing and other effects to bring the feel of a manga to life on screen: watching it, one often has the feeling one gets in reading manga that the individual frames are wriggling into movement. The movie also provides a useful working definition of the term “homosocial.” #9 on the Kinema Junpô Best Ten list for 2002.

3). Ryōma no tsuma to sono otto to aijin (Ryōma’s Wife, her Husband, and her Lover, 2002; dir. Ichikawa Jun). Well-acted bedroom farce, with the novelty of its being set in mid-Meiji. And like all good bedroom farces, it ends up celebrating the sanctity of true love and marriage. Sakamoto Ryōma, the great martyr of the Meiji Restoration, is survived by a widow who insists on seeking out new men, plunging lower and lower in the social order as she does so. The attempt by Ryōma’s old comrades to save their slain colleague’s name from the dishonor her lifestyle threatens only complicates matters further…. A very enjoyable film, but I can’t help wishing that the director had taken his unusual characters up in a less conventional format—flashbacks in black and white, etc. And what is it with all the Stephen Foster music on the soundtrack?

2). Drive (2002, dir. Sabu). A delirious comedy that includes a number of dream sequences and that is itself built around the pliable chains of dream logic. Almost Hitchcockian in its drollness, as a meek mannered salaryman finds himself inadvertently dragged into a robbery gang’s getaway and then its pursuit of a member who made off with the haul from their latest robbery. Several hysterical moments–my favorite coming early on, when the gang shanghai the hero and his car and demand that he follow after their fleeing comrade. The hero stubbornly follows all of the rules of driving etiquette, stopping for red lights, signaling his turns, refusing to exceed the speed limit, despite the gun held to his head.

1). Tasogare Seibei (2002, dir. Yamada Yōjūrō). A competent jidaigeki about an honest, low-ranking samurai who (following the death of his wife) would rather look after his daughters and senile mother than indulge in the venal pleasures and corruptions enjoyed by other samurai—much to the consternation of the other samurai. An odd historical fantasy–after all, how many samurai really advocated women’s education, even at the risk of offending a superior? And what does it tell us that this heroic figure died subsequently in the Boshin War? A strange narrating device–the eponymous protagonist’s daughter, now grown old (shades of “Titanic”), narrates the heroic events of her girlhood from a vaguely defined “modern” point of time. #1 on the Kinema Junpō magazine Best Ten list for 2002.

Return to Michael K. Bourdaghs homepage