The opening shot is of an alligator sliding down a riverbank and disappearing beneath the green water. Later, we see an alligator bound snout and limb to a board on the bed of a truck. A Yankee soldier is poking at it with a rather long stick. Nature taken hostage by war? Perhaps. This movie is a poem, so such metaphoric moments would fit.

A Woman Under the Influence is an intoxicatingly lovely domestic drama that will lodge itself inside you like a dull weapon and stay there as long as you let it. Upon my first viewing, I likened this film to my experience of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? That film made me feel uncomfortable and unstable, partly because of the domestic setting and partly due to the relentless resentment between the characters. Though A Woman… had the same theme of marital turmoil and unfolded somewhat similarly in real time, I was most affected by the unique position I was put in as a viewer; I did not play the mere role of spectator, but rather, over the course of 150 hypnotic minutes, became one of these characters tortured by malignant secrets and memories. I was dragged into the dreadful feelings and motivations of characters with whom I surely didn’t want to identify, but from whom I couldn’t seem to separate myself. Afterwards, I felt drained, depressed, and even abused.

Director Robert Flaherty made his name with Nanook of the North. I’ve seen a couple of excerpts, but I never took the time to watch that film entirely. Flaherty tried to do the movie Tabu: A Story of the South Seas with F.W. Murnau, but that working partnership was less than successful in the end. Flaherty got a writing credit on the finished print. In the late 1940s, some oil and gas concerns wanted an epic, worshipful yet entertaining motion picture to tell the story of oil in America. Flaherty was known as a maker of documentary films that criticized humanity’s growing reliance on machinery. According to Flaherty’s widow, the man saw machinery as replacing the finer human values with new values that human beings were never meant to live by.

It was in the late 1960s when I saw this film for the first time. My high school had a teacher who was interested in exposing her students to fine motion pictures. Several teachers went together and sponsored the Kingsbury High Film Society. Hundreds of us were willing to pony up 5 bucks in order to get out of class once a month and watch a movie in the auditorium. In the bargain, we saw several really well-made films. One of them was High Noon.

It was in the late 1960s when I saw this film for the first time. My high school had a teacher who was interested in exposing her students to fine motion pictures. Several teachers went together and sponsored the Kingsbury High Film Society. Hundreds of us were willing to pony up 5 bucks in order to get out of class once a month and watch a movie in the auditorium. In the bargain, we saw several really well-made films. One of them was High Noon.

Peter Pan was always played by a female. Maybe even voiced by a female. Someone who was “mature” enough to know how to play the character, but had a high-pitched voice—like a boy. When I learned that P. J. Hogan was releasing a Peter Pan with a 14-year-old boy playing Peter, I knew I had to see it. I was prepared to be disappointed.

Excess to the point of excess. That’s what this movie is all about. The only thing that isn't done to excess is the boobage (small breasts, is what I mean). That said, I liked this movie a whole lot more than I ever expected to. Oooh aaah!

Being Owen Wilson. Being Steven Seagal. I can think of a lot of actors who might not have been good targets for this idea. As far as I know, Spike Jonze didn’t consider anyone else for the title role of the movie. According to IMDb, it took two years for Jonze to convince Malkovich to be in the film. I guess patience paid off.

It was in the late 1960s when I saw this film for the first time. My high school had a teacher who was interested in exposing her students to fine motion pictures. Several teachers went together and sponsored the Kingsbury High Film Society. Hundreds of us were willing to pony up 5 bucks in order to get out of class once a month and watch a movie in the auditorium. In the bargain, we saw several really well-made films. One of them was High Noon.

Being Owen Wilson. Being Steven Seagal. I can think of a lot of actors who might not have been good targets for this idea. As far as I know, Spike Jonze didn’t consider anyone else for the title role of the movie. According to IMDb, it took two years for Jonze to convince Malkovich to be in the film. I guess patience paid off.

There is an inexplicable joy in discovering a great film where you least expected it. The satisfaction of finding a little known gem is sometimes greater than seeing The Rules of the Game or Citizen Kane for the first time, as these are films that time and time again are ranked among the greatest of all time. Cluny Brown is one of these gems, forgotten by time as well as distributors (if we all tap our ruby slippers and concentrate maybe it’ll get a North American release, preferably Criterion). It is one of Ernst Lubitsch’s best films as it explores, through comedy, the many ironies and contradictions in the British class system. While I wouldn’t rank the film as high as Trouble in Paradise or To Be or Not to Be, it’s like saying Shadow of a Doubt is not my favorite Hitchcock film. Lubitsch is one of those directors who is consistently at the top of his game, thus making it hard to pick a single film to declare as his masterpiece.

Oftentimes, good direction is the foundation for a good film. However, sometimes other forces make a greater stamp on the project. No disrespect intended for Ronald Neame, but The Horse’s Mouth is all about Alec Guiness. Guinness found inspiration for the movie in Joyce Cary's novel of the same name, he wrote the screenplay, he convinced Neame to do the film, he starred in it, and he steals the show, portraying a gruff and maniacal artist, Gully Jimson, whose sole desire in this world is to find an empty wall onto which he might spread his wild imagination in thick paint and clashing color.

After the technically accomplished but ultimately hollow thriller Panic Room (2002), director David Fincher returns to familiar subject matter with Zodiac (2007), a dramatization of the murders perpetuated by the infamous serial killer known as Zodiac that terrorized the San Francisco Bay area in the late 1960s and early 1970s. With Se7en (1995), Fincher seems like an obvious choice to direct this film, but those of you expecting a rehash of that film will be disappointed. With Zodiac, he faces the daunting challenge of making an exciting thriller that runs two hours and forty minutes long where the killer was never caught. He does this by focusing on the people who investigated the case and how it affected them.

For his latest film, United 93, director Paul Greengrass gave himself a task so ridiculously difficult that it seemed destined for failure. His goal: to recreate the events occurring aboard the doomed flight based on incomplete information without alienating an intensely sensitive public and without being lumped in with numerous other filmmakers with a political ax to grind. He needed to avoid exploitation and sensationalism while staying true to the grisly truth. He needed to make a film that was purposeful without seeming to drag the audience to his point of view. Much to my surprise, he has largely succeeded.

This is not quite a sequel to Zombie’s first movie, House of 1000 Corpses (2003) but rather, the further adventures of a few of its characters–the notorious Firefly family. The Devil’s Rejects (2005) is a gritty, balls-to-the-wall horror movie cum road picture–imagine The Hills Have Eyes (1977) directed by Sam Peckinpah.

The Life Aquatic may seem like standard, even sub-par Wes Anderson fare, what with another ensemble film about an extended family (this time made up of documentary filmmakers). There are the Anderson regulars as well, headed up by Bill Murray playing Steve Zissou. But don't let the surface fool you. Beneath the ultra-mannered stylings of Anderson's characters and camerawork, there is a deeper message about the disconnectedness of modern society, and a helluva film. The disjointed narrative method signals a new and risky direction for Anderson, away from indie sensibility, and toward...toward...well, I couldn't really say. His own voice? Anyway, I like it.

Another dip into the lush world of Pedro Almodovar. The luxurious Penelope Cruz plays a woman under the influence in Almodovar's old stomping grounds, La Mancha. As with many Almodovar films, the plot is both everything and nothing, and doesn't stop short of featuring grisly murders, torrid, and near-unfollowable sexual histories, betrayals, and ghosts. Also, a veritable dreamcoat of Technicolor and more lovely women than you know what to do with. For diehard Almodovar-heads, Volver is pure dessert: tasty, rich, and wholly unnecessary. None of which to say it isn't worth your time. Ultimately, watching Almodovar play with the elements of melodrama is like taking a warm bath in maple syrup: you're not sure this is what the stuff was meant for—but damn it all if it doesn't feel kind of good.