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A Picture's Worth One Thousand Words 44

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on August 13, 2014 at 9:45 PM Comments comments (0)

Theodoros Angelopoulos's Landscape in the Mist, 1988

What Did the Lady Forget?

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on August 8, 2014 at 4:40 PM Comments comments (0)


Yasujiro Ozu




IDEA:  The young, liberated Setsuko comes to visit her affluent aunt and uncle in Tokyo. While there, she discovers a power imbalance in their relationship she brashly attempts to correct.

BLURB:  There is an acridity to What Did the Lady Forget? that is rather atypical of Ozu, a confrontational, transgressive quality that comes as a series of slow shocks. It is a rebellious attitude that festers under the picture’s surface, gradually accumulating in an impertinent face-scrunch or a nudge in the stomach, making itself known by rowdy schoolboys and refined professors alike. Because Ozu’s focus here is on the bourgeoisie, he gets to indulge in a particular brand of class satire that marries his characteristic generosity with vinegary critique. Though the results are rather problematic by today’s standards (an instance of domestic abuse, though handled shrewdly in terms of how its characters react to it, is still uneasily deferred), the observations on intergenerational influence and social mores still resonate with Ozu’s astute touch. Many films have picked apart the repressed, hypocritical upper classes; none, perhaps, with such simultaneous gentility and roguishness.


Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on July 31, 2014 at 4:15 PM Comments comments (0)

BOYHOOD   ***1/2

Richard Linklater




IDEA:  A twelve-years-in-the-making fiction narrative film, in which we chart the progress of a boy and his family from roughly 2002 to 2013.

BLURB:  Contrary to what its title would have you believe, Boyhood is not so much about the details of growing up as it about reflecting on the fact that you’ve grown. For to watch Linklater’s film – to see a literal twelve years compressed into under three hours – is to look back upon your own life not as you experienced it then, but as you process it now. Boyhood does not see through the eyes of a boy: its perspective is omniscient and detached, watching it akin to viewing a home movie in which we gaze back at ourselves removed from that version of us. After the film is over, we think about it, much the same way we think about our own lives. Its time is suddenly even more compressed; scenes are reduced to mere flashes of images we can recall. It is perhaps not the fault of the film, in the end, that the particulars of its sprawling family portrait don’t seem nearly as interesting as the mechanics of its concept. Moment to moment, Boyhood is actually rather banal; this is a film, indeed, that seems to be more about how we process it after we’ve seen it rather than how we feel while watching it. A brilliant cognitive echo of life, or a cop-out? Either way, the accumulation of all those mundane pieces slowly begins to form something greater. The cumulative effect is our lives. We are reminded that it wasn’t necessarily the content of the time spent that has brought us here, so much as the fact the time was spent. And it’s all built up over the years, and it’s still building, imperceptibly, endlessly.

Broken Flowers

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on July 24, 2014 at 11:40 PM Comments comments (0)


Jim Jarmusch



IDEA:  The aptly named Don Johnston, an aging and taciturn former ladies' man, receives an anonymous letter in the mail informing him he's the father of a 19-year-old son. Spurred on by his enthusiastic neighbor, he travels the country, visiting the four past girlfriends who may have sent that letter.

BLURB:  The only certainty in Broken Flowers, Jim Jarmusch’s marvelously droll study of late-life arrest, is that nothing is certain. Bill Murray’s Don Johnston figures this out in the director’s characteristically laconic fashion: amongst coolly curated spaces and inscrutable past flames, he partakes in a domestic odyssey that only curves, elliptically, to reveal question marks proceeded by telling silences. The answers are always out of reach, the guarantees stymied by the possibility, however farfetched, of yet more possibilities. Everything adds up to nothing, which is also, maybe, something. The film’s brand of nihilism is enlivened by humor and pathos, Jarmusch’s observations on ponderous notions – of impossible communication, of cosmic indifference, of chaos theory and karma – filtered through a pithy awareness of how simultaneously terrifying and archly funny those concepts can be. Where he looks, we look, and where he teases the suggestion of something important, we are inclined to go along with it, forming connections in our head that may or may not actually be there. Who can’t relate? Broken Flowers is about the perpetual questioning of probabilities, of seeing things and wondering if, how, or when they may pertain to you. That we might never know for sure is certain.

The Long Day Closes

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on July 14, 2014 at 5:45 PM Comments comments (0)


Terence Davies




IDEA:  Bud, a lonely young boy growing up in Liverpool, seeks solace in family, daydreams, and, most importantly, the movies.

BLURB:  The Long Day Closes is a movie of memories, which is also to say it is a memory of movies, of life and time wedded inextricably to the hypnotic movement of film. Forgoing narrative for a mélange of exquisite, almost unspeakably beatific impressions, Davies crafts a vision of his childhood in mid-1950s Liverpool that breathes with the cinema’s uniquely oneiric language. The images, immaculately composed and lit by Michael Coulter to resemble ghostly fragments of memory beamed straight from the subconscious, billow and float and seep into one another, recounted as much by a human mind as by the ethereal flickering of a movie projector. Most filmmakers might have mounted this film-drunk picture as pastiche, but Davies has something infinitely more profound in mind: less a quoting of classic cinema and song than a full-bodied absorption of them, an integration so seamless their entire histories seem to have been ingrained in the film’s fiber. This all results in a movie of near celestial stature, one that manages to align and conflate the processes of cinema, memory, and dream to such a degree they feel not only inseparable, but divinely enmeshed. Davies is hauntingly aware of the transience of those processes, and by the time the last frames fade away from the screen, it feels as if a sacred experience has been inevitably curtailed. Somehow, that’s what makes it all the more miraculous.

Down by Law

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on July 13, 2014 at 10:40 PM Comments comments (0)


Jim Jarmusch



IDEA:  Three men are caught and convicted on variously dubious charges. Thrown into a small prison cell together, the mix of their unique personalities proves both aggravating and ennobling.

BLURB:  There’s a sense of the mythic coursing through Down by Law, a feeling of deeper, grander, more cosmic implications lurking beneath its bruised Louisiana tableaux. Certainly Jarmusch’s singular and captivatingly irregular aesthetic plays its part in this: his long, meticulous shots hang so reverently on starkly grotty spaces and lethargic bodies that everything seems to exist in a stupor removed from time and Earth, while his intent listening to the nuances of dead air gives silence an imposing presence. His characters, meanwhile, the few of them that there even are, occupy desolate streets and even emptier bayous like insouciant folkloric nomads, fated to lives they might contest if they weren’t so entirely resigned to them in the first place. Jarmusch keeps it storybook simple, sketching a strange and rather vague trinity of misfits whose interactions are alternately trivial and possibly allegorical, and whose paths may or may not say something about the fickleness of America’s – or fate’s – allegiances. The film is at its most entrancing in its first two thirds or so, when these nebulous ideas are given ample room to accumulate. After that it grows somewhat desultory and diffuse, showing, perhaps, that Jarmusch was more interested in the broader primal strokes of his story than he was invested in a more probing study of character or milieu. For all the genuine mystery rumbling beneath Down by Law’s heavy carapace, only just enough is mined to make us feel there’s more yet to discover.

Edge of Tomorrow

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on June 20, 2014 at 2:10 PM Comments comments (0)


Doug Liman




IDEA:  In the future, a massive alien invasion threatens humanity. When officer William Cage is unwittingly thrown into battle, he is killed - only to wake up the day before, soon realizing every time he dies the day resets.

BLURB:  Muscular and exciting with a cerebral kick, Edge of Tomorrow is a model of brawny action filmmaking backed by shrewd, brainy storytelling. Like its protagonist’s increasing efficiency in navigating the vagaries of his infinitely repeating day, the film barrels forward with canny momentum, escalating viscerally as well as intellectually, gathering the requisite energy while finding new and clever ways to briskly reveal only the most essential information. It is a sterling piece of writing charged by the wit and dexterity of director Doug Liman, as well as incalculably aided by Tom Cruise in one of his best roles in years. Edited by James Herbert and Laura Jennings in a masterful build of repetitions and elisions, the film has a proficiency and a narrative intelligence rare in most blockbuster spectacles: instead of expecting the audience to unquestioningly delight in big action brawls, Edge of Tomorrow delivers on its robust thrills because they’re in the service of a terrifically constructed framework. Here is a case, happily, in which the success of alien warfare actually depends on savvy storytelling craft.

The American Soldier

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on May 27, 2014 at 6:10 PM Comments comments (0)


Rainer Werner Fassbinder




IDEA:  A Vietnam war vet returns to his German hometown, where he is enlisted by three crooked cops to put hits on some unwanted civilians.

BLURB:  Fassbinder’s wonderfully strange gangster/noir pastiche imagines a world so morally bankrupt it’s doubled back on itself and become parody. Here, crooked cops and macho killers are exaggeratedly disaffected phonies, their mock-professional attitudes and chauvinistic posturing only transparently covering their spiritual vacancy. In the place of real emotions are banal displays of physical violence; in place of affection is macho aggressiveness and put-upon misogyny; and normative behavior has been all but snuffed out, substituted by perversity, followed and consolidated by deadening complacency. The love Fassbinder has for the genre tropes he exploits is palpable: what is so thrilling is how he manages to both revel in them and expose them as the ludicrous illusions they are. His understanding of the ways in which visual culture shapes ideology and identity is manifest here in his parade of seedy degenerates, all of whom seem to be acting out images they’ve been fed, and who become part and parcel of the narcotizing culture they so indifferently inhabit. The film’s ending, in which sex (or, the impression of it) is only allowed after death and is conferred by brother rather than lover, is an ingeniously executed scene that sums up the movie’s thesis, both morbid and absurd, of a social compass thrown deliriously out of whack.

Under the Skin

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on March 29, 2014 at 4:40 PM Comments comments (0)


Jonathan Glazer




IDEA:  A woman drives around the streets of Glasgow picking up men. Luring them to her pitch-black lair, she seduces them, quite literally, to their deaths.

BLURB:  Mesmeric then ponderous, fascinatingly oblique then frustratingly vague, Under the Skin is an entrancing curiosity, a dark sci-fi fable designed to induce shivers first and tease the mind forever after. The results can be mixed: for every magnificently oneiric visual – naked bodies literally being swallowed in gulfs of blackness, superimpositions that create nearly prismatic planes – there are stretches that seem to lack the same kind of purpose or vigor, stalling in places that should instead be serving to develop, or deepen, the film’s richly existential themes. At times, the ideas don’t feel fully borne out, or are otherwise unable to efficiently surface through Glazer’s abstractions. At others, the chilled moods and textures evoked by DP Daniel Landin spark them to life, slips of potent commentary on social and gender programming emerging miraculously from the void. When the film threatens to drift away in a gossamer wisp or become just another dreamy mood piece, it is grounded, finally, by a beguiling Scarlett Johansson, whose humanizing force ensures that the tricky ontological questions manage to register at all. How we can interpret her character’s strange, hurried self-awakening – the way she begins to understand her skin, her body, and what may or may not be going on beneath that exterior – is all thanks to Johansson’s subtly modulated behavioral cues. In the end, we, like her, will become all too aware of how insufficiently our appearances represent us, but also, somewhat tragically, how inseparable we are from them. Glazer doesn’t always get there, but the seeds he plants only grow the more one ponders.

Top 10 - 2013

Posted by Jonathan Leithold-Patt on January 12, 2014 at 4:25 PM Comments comments (1)

For many critics and cinephiles, 2013 was an especially exemplary year for film. Some hail it is as one of the best movie years in, well, years, citing past consensus favorites like 1999 and 2007 as recent, comparable benchmarks. As far as I’m concerned, however, every year is an exemplary movie year: if you dig deep enough (which means watching films that may not show at your local multiplex) and see enough, any year will prove richly satisfying. 2013 was, like 2012 and 2011 before it, one of those richly satisfying years.

There were notable themes among my favorite films. One of the most significant was individuals separated from their environments, and even sometimes from themselves, in terms physical, psychological, or philosophical. These characters were torn precariously between modes of independence and codependence, singularity and acquiescence, stoicism and resignation, their futures as unsettled as their very unspooling presents. Whether it was staring into an existential void, battling the elements, or wrestling with self-contradictions amidst society’s seemingly unfeasible demands, characters in 2013’s best films had to learn how to make it on their own, for better and for worse.

Also prevalent were investigations into truth, family, reality, history, and the cinema itself, some of which took the form of boundary-pushing documentaries. These films, in their vibrant storytelling and invigorating formal experimentation, reaffirmed that film is as personally, culturally, and politically important as ever.

Sadly, there were films I wanted to see that I wasn’t able to before I made the list. These include, but are not limited to: To the Wonder (what’s a Malick fan to do?), Post Tenebras Lux (or is that a 2012 film?), In the House (ditto), August: Osage County (something tells me it wouldn’t have made it…;), Fruitvale Station, and The Great Beauty.

Without further ado, my top 10 films of 2013:

10. Stranger by the Lake / Alain Guiraudie

The other gay-themed film to premiere at Cannes 2013 (and by far the better one, if you ask me), Alain Guiraudie's ultra-minimalist erotic thriller ingeniously utilizes a single location and a few actors to craft a deft and haunting examination of the perilous traps set by love and passion. Allowing us access to no other place but the beach where men go to carry out anonymous sexual flings, Guiraudie paints a portrait of geographical and psychological demarcation that questions the extent to which we're willing to set boundaries in our lives and in our relationships. The final shot, a near-pitch black image of our protagonist stranded in the night, was among the most heartstopping movie moments of the year.

9. The Act of Killing / Joshua Oppenheimer, Christine Cynn, Anonymous

Few documentaries prove the old adage "truth is stranger than fiction" better than The Act of Killing, a bizarre, brilliant, ethically dubious act itself, in which Oppenheimer and his filmmaking team (many, tellingly, listed simply as "anonymous") tasked former Indonesian death squad leaders with reenacting their crimes for the camera - all in the style of their favorite Hollywood genres. The result is even stranger than you would imagine, an eye-opening account of systemic corruption, national brainwashing, history-writing, collective delusion, and, finally and most unbelievably, a moral awakening spurred on by, of all things, cinema itself. Politically conscious filmmaking in this day and age hardly comes more radical or provocative than this.

8. Leviathan / Lucien Castaing-Taylor, Véréna Paravel

Another documentary, this one just as unorthodox but in an entirely different way. Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel set out on a commercial shipping vessel in the Northeast, where they attached tiny cameras to various surfaces, humans, and even creatures aboard and around the massive boat. The footage that came from it is utterly hypnotic, collaged together in ways that turn potentially mundane sights like fishing, gutting, and underwater views into ecstatic, constantly shape-shifting abstracts. A shot of dead fish sliding up and down a waterlogged deck, with the camera positioned at ground level, is one of the most strangely beautiful things I've ever seen. No second feels wasted - this is cinema of the most experiential kind, a testament to what the medium can do with just its most basic, primal visual faculties.

7. Stories We Tell / Sarah Polley

I promise I did not mean to have these three documentaries listed one after the other. But here it is, and how well it goes with the previous two films' playful formal and narrative experimentations. Sarah Polley's film, however, is its own uniquely and creative thing, an intimate investigation into her family history that blossoms into a profound, all-encompassing map of human frailty, fallibility, and dignity. But it doesn't settle at just that, either. As the story unravels, it begins to branch out in all kinds of unexpected directions, with revelations emerging out of revelations like an infinite series of Russian nesting dolls. The film then becomes a treatise on the very form through which it speaks, a consideration of stories and storytelling, and the new, ever-oscillating meanings and perspectives they acquire when they're told and re-told. It's a complex, multi-faceted patchwork that conjures, before our eyes, vivid personal histories, ones that almost imperceptibly become ours, too.

6. Gravity / Alfonso Cuarón

Alfonso Cuarón's awesome, dizzyingly immersive 3D spectacle was as taut and exciting a moviegoing experience as one could have, in this past year or in any year. Emmanuel Lubezki's sterling, vertiginous camerawork makes you feel as if you're as unmoored as Sandra Bullock's isolated Ryan Stone, trying desperately to grasp at the spinning world around you as you ineffectively attempt to fight off the zero Gs. But Gravity is not merely a visceral ride or a display of cutting-edge special effects: the reason it works so well, why it strikes such a resounding human chord, is because it effortlessly taps into our fears and anxieties, and in ways so visually simple (not simplistic) that we hardly even need to think about them before they've hit us straight in the gut. Who can't relate with just not being able to hold on? Or, by the same token, not being able to let go? Cuarón's film distills these concerns into a highly original and, yes, nerve-wrackingly visceral visual language. Then, he shows us the human species' greatest, most intuitive strength: perseverance.

5. All is Lost / J.C. Chandor

A wonderful companion piece to Cuarón's film, All is Lost is also a survival tale focusing on an individual battling the tempest of a volatile, unpredictable, and perhaps indifferent world. Where Gravity took to a more macrocosmic portrait of adversity and endurance, Chandor finds his lone hero (lovingly titled "Our Man") in a more socially and economically precarious situation. It also, wonderfully, does away with dialogue almost completely, leaving us in a state of contemplation and diligent observation similar to that of Redford's main character. While the film takes place entirely in the middle of the Indian Ocean with only one person ever seen on screen, it never wants for thematic or visual inspiration. Every shot and beat of this thing is exhilarating, with Chandor and his superior team of artists drawing out not only the mythical implications inherent in such a story, but also the more unexpected sociological ones. It doesn't take long for us to recognize "Our Man" as a regular, rough-hewn American upended by economic crisis, beginning to slowly and painfully realize society may have moved on without him.

4. Frances Ha / Noah Baumbach

If you wanted to put it simply: delightful. Lovely. Warm. Sprightly, quick-witted, clever, and funny. Frances Ha was one of the most purely pleasurable films of the year, a shimmering black and white urban coming-of-age comedy that bounced along on notes of delicious deadpan humor and offbeat character interactions. That's only half of why it's the fourth best film of the year, of course. What really makes this one stick with you is its open-hearted and poignant portrait of a woman awkwardly stretched between life roles, paving uncertain pathways towards adulthood, independence, success, and self-actualization. Greta Gerwig, as the arrested-in-development title character, gives one of the most winsome performances of 2013, and she is as fully fleshed out as a character who doesn't quite know who she is yet could possibly be. Whether you're 20 or 30 or 40 or 50 or even 100, Baumbach's film is impossible not to relate to, a paean to (trying) to grow up and out that rings with utter truth. In the end, it offers no false consolation, only the acknowledgement of life's small, messy vagaries. That's comfort enough.

3. Her / Spike Jonze

Her takes a vaguely sci-fi premise - a man falls in love with his sentient operating system - and mines it for robust, unspeakably soulful insight on relationships, technology, and the vicissitudes of the human condition. Jonze's clever script works through multiple strands and contexts all at once: his film may be a slice of speculative futurism on the surface (and it's a damn good one - everything he puts on screen reverberates like a prophecy), but its sci-fi trappings are incidental to its profoundly moving dissection of love, relationships, and the process of learning and growing through experience. A masterfully subtle Joaquin Phoenix guides us through a relationship that, like real human ones, is dependent on two wholly autonomous, free-thinking, evolving participants. Simply but ingeniously, Jonze substitues one side of that relationship for a rapidly evolving tech, a device not unlike ones we enjoy today, that briefly meets its human counterpart eye-to-eye before, inevitably, outgrowing it. Her pinpoints the juncture in a relationship where both sides - human or not - recognize how they're fundamentally changing through each other, and must reconcile their former selves with the ones they're evolving into. This is a remarkably compassionate, sanguine vision of a near future that charts not our decay, but our immeasurable capacity to flourish.

2. Nebraska / Alexander Payne

In another year, Alexander Payne's faultless Midwestern portrait would have been my number one film. Directing from a wry and tender script by Bob Nelson, Payne's father-son road trip with the perfectly paired Bruce Dern and Will Forte takes us on an unforgettable foray into the stark beauty of America's heartland, its vibrant inhabitants, and its humble small town values. The regional detail is spot-on - scene after scene feels ripped from any midwesterner's life, with people and places that are so naturalistically rendered we never believe for a second they're fictional. The film presents, like Stories We Tell but in a more linearly narrative fashion, a kind of geneological excavation, with every moment and character interaction revealing new depths in this complicated and wounded family history, one that includes not just the battle-axe wife played by June Squibb and a host of hilariously mum sons, brothers, and cousins, but an entire township of colorful past friends and acquaintances. Everyone in this film knows each other somehow, and learning how they do and what they make of it now, all these years later in their fading little town, is a journey of endlessly beguiling surprises. And I haven't even mentioned just how hysterical Payne's film is, how I literally had tears streaming down my face from laughing so hard. Like the members of our own families, these beautiful characters are frustrating, strange, lovable, hilarious, and, in the end, completely real.

1. Inside Llewyn Davis / Joel and Ethan Coen

The atmosphere is entrancing. Glowing, burnished wintry blues, emeralds and grays envelop us in a state of sustained, trancelike rhapsody. Mellifluous music haunts the heavy air like a specter. A man, ashen, despondent, exhausted, wanders through the milieu in a stupefied blur, arriving at crossroads in which he will decide whether to continue wandering in circles, or if he will find a more concrete and gratifying path. It's 1961 in a folksy Greenwich Village; then it's on the road to Chicago. Then past Akron, back to New York. A circle. It feels less like reality than a bewitching, sad dream, or maybe a long ago memory you could have sworn was a dream, or a dream you could have sworn was a memory. The inimitable Coen brothers' newest film is a thing of miraculous, diaphanous beauty, a wispy, wistful, elegiac tone poem that is also one of the most vivid, tangible things I've ever encountered through a movie screen. It is a tribute to the artist's struggle, of which it is one of the most bruisingly accurate I can think of. Llewyn is an artist, which means he is passionate and creative, unwilling to compromise his vision. It also means he is caught in a cycle of self-doubt, indignation, melancholy and self-sabotage, stubborness and uncertainty. He is unwilling to sacrifice his artistic integrity, even if it will lead to success. He knows a part of himself needs the dejection and the pain to keep creating the art he's creating - to be keyed into the pain of life in order to express it, unfettered. He also knows there's no money in living like that. It's the artist as masochist, Sisyphus, tortured and self-tortured genius. The Coens turn him and his world into something sublime. Long after the movie ends, you keep exploring its alleyways, its diners, its empty streets and snowy highways and dusky cafes. It becomes a part of you. How seamlessly the Coen brothers craft their masterpieces. Their latest is the best film of 2013.

And the great, very worthy runners-up:


For its restraint and bluntly elegant artistry, and its powerful depiction of an institution that infected body, mind and soul in ways we can never let ourselves forget. Spectacular performances.


For its achingly poignant coming-of-age arc, realistic grasp of teenage introversion, and its emotionally walloping mother-son catharsis. And its hilarious ensemble.


For its Twain-esque magical realism and novel-esque script, and its heartbreakingly lovely central performance from young Tye Sheridan.


For its jazzy, free-riff vibe and surprisingly substantial tale of fraud, one-upmanship, disguise, survival, and reinvention.


For its full commitment to being loopy and bizarre and totally original, and for its rather brilliantly realized formal conceit.


About the Author

Jonathan Leithold-Patt is a 23-year-old film student at Columbia College Chicago. Besides watching lots and lots of films and writing about them, he is an avid painter.

Devoted to the Movies

Selected Reviews

2001: A Space Odyssey

The 400 Blows

A Prophet

A Separation

An Education

The American Soldier


Apocalypse Now

The Apu Trilogy


The Battle of Algiers

Beasts of the Southern Wild

The Bicycle Thief


Black Swan


Broadway Danny Rose

Les Carabiniers


Certified Copy

The Children Are Watching Us

Chungking Express

Claire's Knee

The Class


Cloud Atlas


The Cremator

Deconstructing Harry

Dersu Uzala

The Descendants

Django Unchained


The Earrings of Madame de...

Exit Through the Gift Shop

The Exterminating Angel

Fata Morgana

The Fighter

Frances Ha


The General

Holy Motors


The Hurt Locker

I Was Born, But...

The Ides of March

In a Year with 13 Moons

Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

La Jetée

Juliet of the Spirits


The Kids Are All Right

The Lady Eve

Late Spring

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

Little Fugitive

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

The Long Day Closes

The Lord of the Rings

Louisiana Story


Mamma Roma

Man with a Movie Camera

Martha Marcy May Marlene

McCabe & Mrs. Miller


Miller's Crossing

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters

Mon Oncle

Mon Oncle d'Amérique

My Life as a Dog



The Night of the Hunter

Nights of Cabiria


Oliver Twist

Once Upon a Time in the West


The Passion of Joan of Arc


Picnic at Hanging Rock

Il Posto

The Purple Rose of Cairo


The Red Balloon

The Right Stuff


Seven Chances



The Social Network


Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring

The Straight Story

Super 8

Take Shelter


Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

El Topo

Toy Story 3

The Tree of Life

Tropical Malady

Trouble in Paradise


Under the Skin



Where is the Friend's Home?

The White Ribbon

Zazie dans le Métro