A crowded caucus of clumsy people, and one that still blooms with life in the face of a sterile future. (Playtime, 1967)

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Props play off people. People play off props. It's a stage play for the screen, written with sardonic glee. (Sunset Boulevard, 1950)​​

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The animalistic intimacy of obedience; of order; of bodies hitting bodies, holding bodies; of a landscape of flesh and stone. A barren, primitive wasteland of masculinity softened only by fatigues drying in the wind. Then the shackles fall free. (Beau Travail, 1999)

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Never has the sound of screeching tires been so committed to film, even the jazz horns howl with burning rubber. (The Driver, 1978)

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Like walking through a kaleidoscopic museum of moving pictures.

(The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, 1964).

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A detailed portrait devoid of life yet full of wonder. A contemplation on a future of stainless steel monotony, but a resolute belief that color can still be found in a world full of grey. A perfect comedy. A perfect film. (Playtime, 1967)

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A claustrophobic, labyrinthine cage of inescapable suspense. (Alien, 1979)

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The inevitable bond of love and loss... and the inevitable inability to escape both.

(Hiroshima Mon Amour, 1959)

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Delectable. Like two scoops of ice cream on a summer day. (Monsieur Hulot's Holiday, 1953).

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The desert is a canvas, and David Lean paints every corner. (Lawrence of Arabia, 1969)

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A piece of art that believes in the beauty of aging and also values the wisdom that comes from it. (Howl's Moving Castle, 2004)

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The pastel colors of setting sunsets spun to a synthwave of a neon saturated underworld. Then it's stained with scarlet and a sprinkle of powdered white. (Scarface, 1983)

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With little more than a gust of wind and the passing of clouds, the tone switches from that of an idyllic fantasy to that of a nightmarish, well, nightmare. (Le Bonheur, 1965)​

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Has there ever been a more gorgeous, epic, fun and satisfying conclusion to a series of movies? Probably. But this is pretty damn good too. (At Worlds End, 2007)

 

Sublime. Extravagant. Appetizing to its core. (Ratatouille, 2007)

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A vivid, sweeping prism of aesthetic experience. From psychedelic underworlds to sterile facilities to barren wastelands, only here are so many metaphors and genres smashed together on a nonstop joyride through the Star Wars universe. The fall is near but the ride to get there is so fun. (Attack of the Clones, 2002)

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It's a movie of dominos, constantly rising, falling, crashing, tumbling toward their inevitable end. I don't know how you make it through the final hour on your first watch, the ballet of despair, the operatic spectacle of love and loss. There are certainly better movies, but are there any this great? (Revenge of the Sith, 2005)

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Villeneuve built a world but forgot the ocean. It's sweepingly epic, but lacks all the nuances and interiority that the book holds. (Dune, 2021)

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One of the most enthralling, mystical, forever-stuck-in-time films I've ever seen. Reminds me of the Smucker's 100-years-old segment that would come on after the morning news. (True Stories, 1986)

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A movie of mud and blood and fog. Every scene feels like it has a 60lb weight attached to it.

(Excalibur, 1981)

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The petal of a flower suspended over a pit of fire. Then, in its final moments, the petal drops.

(Phantom Thread, 2017)

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A psychedelic slasher film dressed up as a childhood bedtime story.

(Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, 1971)

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A very bloated, unfunny comedy (I still laughed). A wonderful capsule of 60s Americana (Santa Monica, where I live!). A glorious 2.5 hour cartoon rage room (I can't imagine the director's cut). And above all a veritable American epic. (It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, 1963)

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A delightful piece of British propaganda. I gobbled it up like marmalade. (Paddington 2, 2017)

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The squat fork that pokes at the conversation with questions and the long knife that cuts through it with answers. In the end, I suppose, you need both to eat your food. (My Dinner with Andre, 1981)

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It's like if you inhaled a helium balloon then spun in circles for a minute while listening to elevator music from the 70s. (What's Up, Doc? 1972)

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A desolate, decaying wasteland becomes a blank canvas for crumbling souls. "Together we can make it happen," the billboard reads... but what happens when we cant't? (Paris, Texas, 1984)​​​​