Chapter 18

Ten Must-Watch Movies

In This Chapter

Suggesting starting points for your study of film

Re-watching favourite films for new insights

Considering what qualities make for essential viewing

Boy, this was tough. Having to choose just ten essential films from the entire history of world cinema is incredibly difficult. I try to maintain a balance across genres, historical periods and national cinemas, but inevitably I leave many areas uncovered here.

In the end, I put self-torture aside and simply go with the films that mean the most to me, as a film student and now as a (very lucky) film academic. I’m not saying the following ten are the greatest films of all time, just that they’re great places to start studying film.

Don’t feel like you have to start at the beginning of this list and work through it to the end. Jump around to what interests you most and start from there. Hopefully this list will make you want to watch (or re-watch) many of these films, and, luckily, all of them are easily available to rent, download or stream.

Sherlock, Jr. (1924)

If you’re new to film studies, you may well struggle a bit with early, pre-synchronised sound cinema. The obscure jokes, the mannered acting style and the static compositions can be alienating. So whenever I want to show a film to students that can help them overcome their reservations, Sherlock, Jr. usually does the trick. Charlie Chaplin may be better known, but Buster Keaton’s understated dry wit as a performer and his visual inventiveness as a director make him the silent comedian most accessible to contemporary audiences.

Often the biggest revelation for students watching Sherlock, Jr. is that clever meta cinema (films about films) doesn’t begin with Pulp Fiction in 1994. In fact playing around with what film is and does was a defining characteristic of early cinema, and here Keaton takes this play to spectacular extremes. The moment when his projectionist character falls asleep on the job, leaves his earthly body behind and then tumbles into the action on the cinema screen is simply jaw-dropping.

The sequence that follows is a tour de force of physical precision and clever editing, as Keaton’s hapless projectionist finds the scenery constantly changing around him. The film was clearly a ridiculous, insanely dangerous project to take on. Keaton’s entire persona (and ‘Buster’ nickname) was based around his apparent immunity to injury while performing stunts, and you see some doozies here. The common knowledge that Keaton broke his neck while performing one of them (look out for the water tower!) only adds to their thrilling allure.

But is it still funny 90 years on? Of course humour is a matter of personal taste, but I’ve seen it many times and it still makes me smile. In the final scene, the earnest look on Keaton’s face as he studies the leading man on screen in order to find out how to woo his girlfriend is touching and sweetly comical, like the rest of this surprising little film.

Casablanca (1942)

Smart literary theorist Umberto Eco was spot on when he said that Casablanca isn’t just a movie, it’s the movies. He means that this film seems to be the perfect embodiment of classical Hollywood cinema, that golden era of confidence, glamour and escapism (see Chapter 9). If you need an example to illustrate any of the key elements of the classical Hollywood style, such as continuity editing, narrative economy or the visual treatment of stars, it’s all right here. It may not be as grandiose or ambitious as Gone with the Wind (1939) or Citizen Kane (1941), but Casablanca is practically flawless.

Of course the apparent perfection of classical Hollywood is in itself a carefully crafted illusion. Film historians have uncovered Casablanca’s troubled production history, consisting of compromises and last-minute changes. The original choice to play Rick was none other than (later President of the United States) Ronald Reagan. Imagining the clean-cut Reagan in the role is nearly impossible, because Humphrey Bogart is so good at world-weary cynicism. But if Reagan had played Rick, well, American history may have worked out rather differently.

Casablanca is also a great example of how big-budget, prestige Hollywood pictures typically try to offer something for everyone to maximise their audience. It’s both a genuinely thrilling and suspenseful wartime drama, pitting noble freedom fighters against sinister Nazis, and a swooningly romantic love story. Casablanca is meaty, adult drama, while staying true to the letter of the Hays Code and so ensuring that it’s technically suitable for children. Yet the film leaves enough space for grown-ups to infer violence, infidelity and possibly homosexuality in their imaginations.

This sense of openness and ambiguity is most obviously felt in Casablanca’s famous final scenes, which bring all the film’s thorny issues to a head without resolving them. The biggest dilemma of all is whether Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) should have left with her husband or stayed with her true love Rick. Even other movies can’t decide. In When Harry Met Sally (1989), Ilsa’s choice is a bone of contention between the mismatched central couple. Sally (Meg Ryan) supports her choice ‘because women are very practical, even Ingrid Bergman’, whereas Harry (Billy Crystal) can’t believe Ilsa would want a passionless marriage over her chemistry with Rick. See it and pick a side.

Singin’ in the Rain (1952)

Singin’ in the Rain is the crowning achievement of that most showbiz of genres: the Hollywood musical. MGM’s dream team under producer Arthur Freed created the film from scratch, combining catchy numbers from the back catalogue of classic 1930s and 1940s musicals and showcasing Gene Kelly at his most athletic and least pretentious (compared, say, to An American in Paris (1951)). The film’s historical setting, during Hollywood’s transition to sound in the late 1920s, allows the film to poke gentle fun at the silliest aspects of the musical genre (see Chapter 5 for my take).

Of course any musical stands or falls on the quality of its numbers. Luckily, Singin’ in the Rain has the perky and energetic ‘Good Morning’, as well as comedian Donald O’Connor back-flipping through ‘Make ‘Em Laugh’ and an incredibly slinky dance solo from leggy former ballerina Cyd Charisse. Not to mention that soggy title number from Gene Kelly, which is simply one of the most joyful five minutes of celluloid ever created. See it, and be forever tempted to start dancing with your umbrella and splash passing policemen.

The film’s view of 1920s Hollywood is mostly warm and affectionate, with plenty of fun in the forms of vampish Dietrich-alike actresses and chorus girls jumping out of cakes. Take its account of the coming of sound to the industry with a fairly large pinch of salt, however. For a start, converting studios into sound stages took much longer than the ‘couple of weeks’ cited here. Plus the visual style of many of the numbers (particularly the ‘Broadway Melody’ ballet) weren’t possible in late 1920s Hollywood.

Also, the conclusion to the film’s storyline sees the beautiful but vocally unappealing Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) exposed as a fraud because homely but talented Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds) has been dubbing her voice. In reality many Hollywood stars (including Cyd Charisse) had singing doubles throughout their careers without being treated as phonies. Of course, as ever with Hollywood, the film’s ending is the emotionally satisfying conclusion rather than the logical one. In the end, historical inaccuracies mean little in the face of Singin’ in the Rain’s barrage of pure unadulterated entertainment.

Rear Window (1954)

Although I resist the temptation to include many of the most obvious ‘Greatest Films Ever Made’ on this list – notably Citizen Kane (1941) – I just can’t leave out Alfred Hitchcock. In fact, Hitchcock’s achievements are so many and varied that I could easily devote the entire list of ten just to his films. Chapter 14 digs deeper into Hitchcock’s legacy.

So why choose Rear Window from an unparalleled body of work? Well, primarily because it’s a great film to introduce film theory – particularly the notion of voyeurism. In psychoanalysis, voyeurism is the pleasure of looking at people without their knowledge, which clearly comes into play in cinema spectatorship.

Hitchcock was well aware of this psychoanalytical idea and its relation to cinema, and Rear Window is the ultimate expression of this visual perversity. Its hero, Jeff (Jimmy Stewart), is a photographer who’s currently wheelchair-bound and spends his days gazing at people in apartments across the courtyard. But when he apparently uncovers foul play, the act of looking puts him and his loved one into mortal danger.

Hitchcock is also known as the ‘master of suspense’, and Rear Window certainly doesn’t disappoint on this score. In one key scene, Jeff’s girlfriend Lisa (Grace Kelly) bravely breaks in to the suspected murderer’s apartment to search for evidence. Jeff looks on from his rear window and is horrified to see the murderer return home. Hitch generates tension by keeping the perspective with Jeff, withholding important information, and so reinforcing his and the spectators’ impotence. More than 60 years on, the sequence is still edge-of-your-seat viewing.

Jeff’s stalled relationship with Lisa provides the emotional context for this tense murder mystery. Although the beautiful socialite clearly adores the wounded photographer, he fears marriage and the loss of excitement this brings. In typically kinky Hitchcockian fashion, Jeff only displays real desire for Lisa after she steps into the drama happening across the courtyard – and into his gaze. After overcoming the resulting dangers, the film ends with the suggestion of marriage (or at least domestic bliss). But the film’s final look isn’t from Jeff but from Lisa at Jeff as he sleeps. For those who just like to watch, Rear Window dares to stare right back.

À Bout de Souffle (Breathless) (1960)

If you want to understand why French cinema (which I cover in Chapter 11) is so effortlessly cool, look no further than À Bout de Souffle (literally ‘out of breath’). Jean-Luc Godard’s explosive debut takes the essential elements of the American gangster movie – the girl, the gun, the car and the disaffected hero – shifts them to the lovely streets of Paris, and adds jazz music, loads of cigarettes and sexy philosophising. The film is instantly recognisable as the work of an ambitious film-maker bursting with new ideas and a passion for cinema, which is why it continues to inspire film-studies students to this day.

Godard and his fellow cinéastes and critics at the influential Cahiers du Cinéma journal were notable early champions of Hollywood genre film-making. True to form, À Bout de Souffle pays homage to the hard-boiled anti-heroes of American film noir (see Chapter 5). Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) openly models himself upon his idea of Humphrey Bogart – and his French pronunciation of ‘Bogey’ is utterly charming. But Michel is an amateur crook, self-deluded and high on Hollywood nonsense. Face it, modelling yourself on a film-noir hero isn’t the most sensible of lifestyle choices.

Only a film-maker who understood classical Hollywood style as well as Godard could deconstruct it so effectively. The film opens in a provincial French town, where Michel promptly steals a car and heads off to Paris. Belmondo improvises wildly while driving, even addressing the camera directly. He takes out a gun and pretends to shoot the sun, accompanied by gunfire on the soundtrack. The effect is disorienting and exhilarating.

À Bout de Souffle shatters the illusion of coherent time, which is the intended by-product of classical continuity editing (check out Chapter 4 for details). Jagged jump-cuts chop up the dialogue scenes set in the bedroom of love interest Patricia (Jean Seberg). These moments may have taken place over minutes, hours or days. This disorientation has the effect of giving weight to the couple’s sexy sparring. But nearly every scene has small shifts and stylistic surprises in store. It’s like a movie, only different.

Don’t Look Now (1973)

Confession time: I admit that the first time I saw Don’t Look Now on late-night TV in the dark, it scared the bejesus out of me. Watching it now, at a more, ahem, mature stage in my life, the film’s moving portrayal of grief is what gets me. The film is still devastating, but in a completely different way. It may be a bit of a left-field choice, but for me Don’t Look Now proves that the films that really get to you are the ones most worth revisiting.

Director Nicolas Roeg is one of the unsung heroes of British cinema. He spent his long career making idiosyncratic and formally experimental films that don’t fit easily into any of the familiar genres of British film (which I discuss in Chapter 10).

Don’t Look Now is the story of a married couple, John and Laura Baxter (Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie), who are struggling to come to terms with the death of their daughter. John begins to see things that are impossible to explain; they may be ghostly apparitions of his daughter or hallucinations brought on by grief.

Only at the end of the film – spoiler alert! – do you realise that John has second sight and was foreseeing his own grizzly murder. Until this point, Don’t Look Now exists on the borderline between fantasy and reality, and as a result everyday objects take on a disorienting strangeness. Everything feels like an omen. The film is set in Venice, but grand vistas are avoided in favour of claustrophobic walkways and dank tunnels.

On reflection, Don’t Look Now repays my repeated viewing because it’s a strange mix of chilly art cinema, emotional melodrama and gothic horror film. The film’s frank and grown-up portrayal of marriage is surprisingly rare in cinema – see the famous scene where John and Laura’s lovemaking is intercut with them getting dressed to go out. Its imagery and atmosphere are distinctive and difficult to shake off. Ignore the title’s warning, but don’t watch it alone.

Blade Runner (1982)

Suggesting that Blade Runner is a film ahead of its time has become a cliché. The original release was greeted with critical hostility and audience indifference. But since then the film’s reputation has grown and grown. Today many people credit its dark and grungy view of the future for dominating the look of sci-fi films for the coming decades. This reading is somewhat ironic, given that Blade Runner is a film so clearly influenced by the history of cinema, from the vast skyscapes of Metropolis (1927) to the dark smoky rooms of film noir. (Chapter 5 has more on sci-fi and film noir.)

Who’d have thought that sci-fi and film noir would prove such productive partners? Jean-Luc Godard for one, whose Alphaville (1965) displays elements of both. But Blade Runner’s narrative, adapted from sci-fi scribe Philip K Dick’s short story, is a natural fit for this generic blending. In particular it offers a fascinating reworking of the femme-fatale figure in Rachael (Sean Young) who’s cold, aloof and damaged because (unknown to herself) she’s an android. This revelation opens up the disturbing possibility that the world-weary hero Deckard (Harrison Ford) is also non-human.

One significant stylistic borrowing from film noir, however, was largely responsible for the critical hostility that greeted the film’s original release: Harrison Ford’s incredibly wooden noir-style voice-over. Along with an equally unconvincing happy ending, this aspect frustrated many viewers. The voice-over and the ending were removed in the 1992 ‘director’s cut’ attributed to Ridley Scott, sparking off a short-lived trend towards multiple versions of films that privileged the director’s vision over that of the studio. In effect this revised version was the industry’s delayed recognition of the cult of the auteur, which began in film criticism in the 1950s (and which I write about in Chapter 14).

Pulp Fiction (1994)

When I saw Pulp Fiction in the first year of my film studies degree, it was like a vindication of my (somewhat unorthodox) choice of subject. This film was so exciting and provocative, so enthralled with the cinema of the past and so confident about the cinema of the future, that I began to wonder why anyone would choose to study anything else. Watching it again recently with students, during its 20th anniversary year, the film feels absolutely of its time, and admittedly it isn’t without flaws. But it remains a milestone of a film, and for that reason, it has to be on this list.

In the 1950s and 1960s, cinephilia (the obsessive love of film) was somewhat of an elitist hobby. You could see films only in cinemas, or occasionally on television. For example, pioneering film scholar Victor Perkins admits that the detailed textual analysis in his book Film as Film, which came out in 1972, was based on film screenings from the 1950s. By the 1990s, things were very different. Quentin Tarantino’s humble job as video store manager enabled him to see films from all corners of the world and all moments of film history (see Chapter 14 for more on Tarantino). The result is Pulp Fiction.

Whereas the previous generation of cine-literate directors (such as Martin Scorsese) was inspired largely by European art-house cinema (see Chapter 11), Tarantino’s influences are a heady mix of genres from martial arts films to blaxploitation movies to B-movie thrillers (to name but a few). In fact his entire fictional world is made from other movies. For this reason, some accuse him of empty, meaningless pastiche or namechecks for namechecks’ sake. But when his style works best, for example in the Jack Rabbit Slims sequence featuring John Travolta and Uma Thurman’s dance routine, the result is electrifying.

Today, thanks to the Internet, practically anyone can achieve a level of film geekery equivalent to Tarantino’s with much less effort. I’m constantly surprised by the breadth and diversity of my students’ influences. But as many of them go on to discover, knowing this stuff is one thing – making it into something as awesome as Pulp Fiction is quite another.

Spirited Away (2001)

As an introduction to the sweet and strange world of Japanese anime, Spirited Away, by the master of the form, Hayao Miyazaki, is pretty hard to beat (check out Chapter 12 for more on Miyazaki and Japanese cinema). It begins in the real world, where Chihiro is having a tantrum about changing schools. For reasons that seem logical only when watching, her childlike selfishness manages to get her parents turned into giant, meat-gobbling pigs.

Chihiro is then plunged into a wildly imaginative fantasy realm based around a traditional Japanese bathhouse – one staffed by animals and witches and visited by spirits. She must survive in this world alone, discovering that she does need the support of adults after all, and growing up a great deal in the process. The section of the film where she gets a job in the bathhouse actually offers some pretty decent advice on becoming an adult. Be grateful, work hard and don’t step on the super-cute soot sprites.

Spirited Away is so compelling because you have no idea what to expect next. Unless you always anticipate meeting an enormous spirit shaped like a radish in a lift. Admittedly, the film’s narrative structure and outlandish characters are most surprising (and occasionally disturbing) from a Western point of view. Viewers in the West are accustomed to a certain style of fairy-tale storytelling, and Spirited Away certainly isn’t it. Alice in Wonderland is the only thing that comes remotely close.

Miyazaki’s character animation is comparable to that of Walt Disney (see Chapter 6), but instead of cute little puppies, Miyazaki can make you fall in love with tall, silent ghost figures or bouncing disembodied heads without the use of dialogue. You find dazzling sequences packed with dozens of beautifully drawn and distinctive creatures, all doing their own weird little thing. But the truly memorable moments in Spirited Away are the sections of quiet contemplation where nothing much happens, such as the train journey through a flooded land. The whole film is a gorgeous visual treat.

Cidade de Deus (City of God) (2002)

Cidade de Deus appears on this shortlist because it proves that world cinema (the subject of Chapter 12) doesn’t have to be obscure and arty. Instead it can be breathlessly exciting and as adrenaline-filled as the best Hollywood action movies. This Brazilian co-production won rave reviews at international film festivals and went on to gross more than $30 million worldwide. As a marker of its reputation with regular movie fans, the film is currently at number 21 on IMDb’s Top 250 chart, level-pegging with Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954) as the highest rated foreign-language title.

Cidade de Deus is about growing up on the mean streets of the favela slums in Rio de Janeiro, which are infamous for gang violence and organised crime. It centres on young Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues) who dreams of a life as a photographer but keeps getting dragged back into violence. Co-directors Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund trained up a large cast of young unknowns from the local area to ensure authentic performances. If all this is starting to sound like dour gritty realism, don’t worry. The hyper-kinetic visual style and carefully crafted fight sequences are more Kill Bill (2003) than The Killing (2007–2012).

The style of Cidade de Deus is clearly indebted to American cinema. It uses the freeze-frames of Martin Scorsese, the chapter titles of Quentin Tarantino and the retro-chic visuals of Wes Anderson. These elements have led some critics to identify it as another victory for globalisation and a further loss of distinctive national cinema cultures. But this reading does an injustice to a film with such an original and important voice. You can equally read the film as a signal that American cinema’s long period of domination over popular screens is finally coming to an end. Come in, Hollywood, your time is up?