1969: Army of Shadows (Jean-Pierre Melville)

Released: September 12, 1969

a.k.a.: L'armée des ombres

Director: Jean-Pierre Melville; Screenplay: Jean-Pierre Melville based on the novel by Joseph Kessel; Cinematography: Pierre Lhomme and Walter Wottitz; Studios: Les Films Corona and Fono Roma; Producer: Jacques Dorfmann

Cast: Lino Ventura (Philippe Gerbier), Paul Meurisse (Luc Jardie), Jean-Pierre Cassel (Jean Françoise Jardie), Simone Signoret (Mathilde), Claude Mann (Claude Ullmann/“Le Masque”), Paul Crauchet (Felix Lepercq), Christian Barbier (Guillame Vermersch/“Le Bison”), Serge Reggiani (The Hairdresser)

Jean-Pierre Melville is the only director who could have made Army of Shadows and achieved such spectacular results. There certainly are other directors that have excelled in making “war films” and could have outdone any action sequences that Melville created. There are definitely other directors, both French and around the world, who have successfully explored the struggles of common French citizens in their efforts to resist the Nazi occupation. But in Melville, there was a man who could not only adapt compelling source material for the screen, but also draw upon his own unique experiences in the Resistance movement. Even more importantly, Melville represented a director who quite naturally created characters that went well beyond the clichéd heroes common to many films dealing with World War II. Utilizing his knack for creating the brooding, conflicted people that are used so perfectly in his crime dramas, Melville transplanted these same characters into the setting of 1940s France and allows the audience to appreciate the decisions that these seemingly ordinary men were forced to grapple with.

This is what stands out to me most about Army of Shadows and why I make the bold statement at the beginning of this piece. Knowing Melville’s track record, it seems obvious to me that he was the perfect fit to make the travails of characters like Gerbier, Luc and Mathilde come alive and feel harrowing to everyone watching. In the 1960s, prior to beginning work on Army of Shadows, Melville made three highly-acclaimed crime dramas that presented heroes that were far from perfect. In Le Doulos, Le deuxième soufflé, and Le Samourai, the lead characters are ones that are difficult to classify. These men may be criminals, but they all show redeeming qualities that reveal dualities to their personalities. Nothing is ever completely as they seem with any of them, whether it be Jef Costello or Maurice Faugel.


So it is in Army of Shadows, which feels very much like a noir-meets-war film. Absolutely nothing is black and white. Even when the answers to problems confronted by the various characters appear obvious, the actual execution or implementation of the answer is never simple. This gray area is what makes the drama so riveting. Rather than displaying French heroes performing herculean feats and slaughtering any Nazi in their path, Melville highlights the haunting decisions that must be made by those leading the Resistance. Even though men like Gerbier have dedicated their lives to freeing France and defeating the Nazis, the trepidation with which they make life-and-death decisions for themselves and others feels sincere.

The movie focuses on the efforts of engineer turned Resistance fighter Philippe Gerbier (Lino Ventura), who at the start of the film is being transported to a Nazi internment camp. While being transferred from this camp, Gerbier sees an opening and makes a daring escape. Managing to dodge the gunfire that ensues, he works his way back to Marseille and reenters the Resistance network that he heads in that city. The film then fleshes out the extent of the secretive organizations operating throughout France, as the various contacts that Gerbier works with are revealed. We meet Felix (Paul Crauchet), his second-in-command in Marseille, and the always-effective Mathilde (Simone Signoret), who as a woman appears to be completely above suspicion by the authorities in Paris. There are also more mysterious figures that are known only by codenames like Le Bison (Christian Barbier) and Le Masque (Claude Mann). It eventually emerges that they all answer to a boss in Paris, but only a select few are aware of his true identity (which will not be revealed here!).


The story is told very matter-of-factly, making it the antithesis of any romantic visions of the French Resistance movement or WWII in general. At times, the movie is downright brutal, and will make a viewer squirm and hesitate in the same way that the characters on the screen do. The scene in which Gerbier and his underlings uncover a turncoat and drive him to a safe house in order to execute him makes me uncomfortable in a way that few other scenes I have ever viewed are capable of. They drive the man, who in actuality looks like a boy barely out of his teens, to the house and realize that the neighbors are home. This rules out the original plan of shooting him and disposing of him quickly. The men then begin going over the possible methods of execution, trying to come upon the one least likely to alert the neighbors. All of these machinations take place while the soon-to-be victim looks on, terrified by the fact that he is witness to the planning of his own execution. Plus, the more discussion that takes place, the more time that is allowed for the enormity of the situation to sink in upon Gerbier, Felix, Le Bison and Le Masque. When they finally settle on strangling him, the assassins themselves are so horrified by the prospect that they argue over who is actually going to carry it out. Eventually the man is strangled with a dishtowel and although there is little gore or blood, it is among the most disturbing scenes I have ever seen in film. It is impossible not to sympathize with these men who are trying to act as detached partisan leaders, but can never completely shed their ordinary civilian personas.

Melville couples such psychologically troubling scenes with sequences that are reminiscent of the action sequences he perfected in his gangster films. Gerbier’s escape from the Nazis is the equal of a Hollywood action blockbuster. So too is the distressing scene in which his would-be Nazi executors instruct Gerbier and other captives to start running down a dark hallway in hopes of outrunning the machine guns that they have set up. They tell the men that anyone who can successfully run the gamut will be spared. There are other exciting scenes that are more familiar in similar war films such as Philippe being secretly spirited away to London by a British submarine or his parachuting back into France in order to reenter the country undetected.


Lino Ventura as Gerbier is spot on. As a bespectacled, middle-aged engineer, he is completely believable. He lends credence to the idea that most of the people involved in the Resistance were ordinary citizens thrust into extraordinary situations. When he grapples with important decisions that must be made, the trepidation displayed feels not only understandable but fitting. Jean-Pierre Cassel as Françoise Jardie and Simone Signoret as Mathilde are excellent as well, but it is Ventura who stands out from all of them.

How this movie was released to a middling reception in France and was never officially released in the United States until 2006 is mystifying to me. From the opening iconic shot of Nazi storm troopers marching through the Champs-Elysées until the devastating finale (which, again, will not be revealed here, but let me take the time to reiterate how amazing I feel the finish is), there is hardly a misstep in the entire film. Melville may have directed “better” films, depending on how you want to define that subjective term, but he never made a movie more moving than Army of Shadows.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1969: In looking everything over, I realized that 1969 was a very good year, even if there is at least one major film that I couldn't get a copy of to watch for this countdown. The one key film that I have not seen is Costa Gavras' Z, which is one that I'm guessing would be right up my alley. On the bright side, it looks like Criterion is releasing the film in late October, so while that does nothing for this countdown it will be nice to finally get to see it.

As for those that I have seen, there are two favorites in this runner-up category. The first is the counterculture road story Easy Rider, directed by Dennis Hopper. I know that it turns a lot of people off, but I genuinely enjoy it -- the craziness, the great use of pop music, the snapshot of a certain era and subculture. The other is George Roy Hill's Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which is my favorite Paul Newman-Robert Redford collaboration and among my favorite westerns as well. The other movie that I would acknowledge, although I don't place it in the same category as the previous two, is Sydney Pollack's They Shoot Horses, Don't They?.

For a second straight year I also have to point out that I go against the conventional pick of the top film of this year, as Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch is one that I have never cared for. I can think of two Peckinpah westerns that I find to be vastly superior to The Wild Bunch and have always been surprised to see this one lauded so much more than other efforts of his that I think are much better. Just a personal opinion, and the influence that The Wild Bunch has had on westerns and film in general is undeniable.

1968: Once Upon a Time in the West (Sergio Leone)

Released: December 21, 1968 (Italy)

a.k.a.: C’era una volta il West

Director: Sergio Leone; Screenplay: Sergio Leone and Sergio Donati based on the story by Sergio Leone, Dario Argento and Bernardo Bertolucci; Cinematography: Tonino Delli Colli; Studios: Finanzia San Marco, Rafran Cinematografica, Paramount Pictures; Producer: Fulvio Morsella; Executive Producer: Bino Cicogna; Music: Ennio Morricone

Cast: Henry Fonda (Frank), Claudia Cardinale (Jill McBain), Jason Robards (Cheyenne), Charles Bronson (Harmonica), Gabriele Ferzetti (Morton), Paolo Stoppa (Sam), Woody Strode (Stony), Jack Elam (Snaky), Keenan Wynn (Sheriff), Frank Wolff (Brett McBain)

Yes, I know that this one debuted in the United States and worldwide in 1969, but in sticking with my original guidelines in choosing my #1 for each year, I am going with the earliest release date. By that criterion, Once Upon a Time in the West becomes a 1968 movie and saves me the giant migraine that would undoubtedly set in if I had would be forced to choose between this western classic and the film that I have chosen for 1969 (but more on that in two days!).

I have a unique history with the films of Sergio Leone, particularly his westerns. The first movie of Leone’s that I ever watched was actually his final film Once Upon a Time in America. This one is known to be something of an acquired taste, but I loved it from the start. His westerns, however, I did not warm to immediately. I decided that I would go through them chronologically, so I watched the entire Man With No Name trilogy, going into it with unbelievably high expectations. Upon first viewing, I have to admit that I was somewhat underwhelmed. I liked them, but not to the extent that I had been led to believe that I would. This meant that as I went into Once Upon a Time in the West, I expected a similar reaction. Instead, I quickly realized that this was what I was originally expecting of a Sergio Leone western. It was an engrossing experience.


Following multiple characters through storylines that are woven together into one cohesive narrative, Leone depicts the once Wild West becoming civilized. The movie begins with an iconic opening scene in which three men wait at a train station to kill the enigmatic Harmonica (Charles Bronson) when he gets off of the train. Executed with leisurely pacing that makes the buildup more tense, it culminates in a shootout that sees Harmonica kill all three men before continuing on his journey. Around the same time, Brett McBain (Frank Wolff) waits with his children on the desolate farmland for the arrival of his new wife. Before she can arrive, however, the family is massacred by a group of hired outlaws led by the notorious Frank (Henry Fonda). Frank and his men are hired by the railroad baron Morton (Gabriele Ferzetti), who covets the McBain farm in order to complete his vision of a railroad all the way to the Pacific. In order to conceal who is behind the massacre, Frank attempts to plant evidence that will lay the blame at the feet of another outlaw, the recently escaped Cheyenne (Jason Robards). Eventually, Cheyenne and Harmonica come together in opposition to Frank, protecting Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale) when she becomes entwined in the chaos.


To go much further with a plot summary would require a lengthy essay. Suffice it to say that the story is epic in scope and plays like an elegy to the Old West that Leone and other legendary directors had created in their films. In Frank, you have the outlaw gunslinger who realizes that the days of he and his compatriots are quickly coming to an end. He is scrambling desperately to ensure that he remains important and that he maintains a line of work that will utilize his coldblooded skill set. Frank works for Morton, despite the fact that men like Morton are the root cause of making Frank obsolete. Cheyenne is in a similar position, in that as an outlaw he is finding it impossible to maneuver as he once did. His past reputation allows him to be set up by Frank, leaving him a man with a bounty on his head and all the dangers that entails. Harmonica’s entire life has been consumed by a vendetta, a commonly depicted occurrence in western tales. And sometimes overlooked, is how the journey of Jill McBain is illustrative of the death of the Old West. For so long the west represented a land where people had the ability to start over; where an individual’s history could be overcome. Jill is a woman that is moving to the west in search of such a new beginning, hoping to forget her past as a prostitute in New Orleans. Instead, she is quickly jolted into the reality that such an option is no longer viable and is plunged into the resulting chaos.

The image of the Old West has come full circle, from the mythology of John Ford all the way to the apparent end of an era in Once Upon a Time in the West. Leone even went to Monument Valley, the favorite location for John Ford, and filmed breathtaking scenes of Jill being driven to the McBain farm. I don’t want to extend this metaphor too far, so I am in no way insinuating that this would be the last of the great western movies – far from it, as great westerns have continued to be made until the present, if at a less consistent pace. But it is fascinating to see Sergio Leone – a man who loved westerns to the point that in preparation for this film he, Bernardo Bertolucci and Dario Argento embarked on a marathon of classic westerns in order to spark ideas – crafting a movie that could almost serve as a final chapter in a history of the west.


The movie is a collaborative effort that emerges even greater than the sum of its parts. In terms of acting, what elevates the film for me is the interaction between the characters and the smooth transitions that weave different strands of the plot together. My main gripe in other Leone westerns is that they can sometimes play like a series of vignettes, where individual scenes stand alone rather than working cohesively as one film. This is never an issue in Once Upon a Time in the West – things might feel overly-sprawling at times, but they are always brought back in sync. This is why I say that the film is a collaborative effort, as Leone and the other writers deserve credit, but so too do the actors. The casting of Henry Fonda, an All-American icon, as the ruthless Frank must have been a head-scratcher at the time. Even Fonda was reticent, as he initially turned down the role. However, he would soon come to regard it as among his finest performances, and I defy anyone to argue otherwise. The other performances each contribute their own unique flavor to the film. Robards as Cheyenne adds many lighthearted moments. Harmonica, played perfectly by Charles Bronson, is the brooding enigma that adds mystery to it all. Basically, what I’ve said in a rather long-winded way is that the movie flows remarkably well for a film this epic in scope and length.

Still, for all of the deserved praise of those on-screen, things would not be the same without those who contributed behind the camera. I go back and forth on what is my favorite Sergio Leone film, but this one is never lower than #2. It is amazing to think that if Leone had had his way, he would have abandoned westerns after the Dollars Trilogy and moved on to other projects. The studios wanted to cash in on his western appeal and convinced him to make another. Thankfully, Leone acquiesced and this was the result. He had already proven himself to be a director of immaculate visual style and his collaboration with cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli was successful on the earlier The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. In this film they outdid even that effort, with sweeping pans and visual flourishes that rival anything ever done in the genre.

And then there is Ennio Morricone. He had already created the popular scores for the Dollars Trilogy and he would go on to compose outstanding work for decades to come. But I continue to believe that this is the finest score that he ever composed. An equally strong claim can be made that this isn’t even the best score that Morricone wrote for a Leone film, let alone in his entire career, but that just shows how strong his overall body of work is. The music is spectacular, and the memorable melody of the title song is one that I continually have stuck in my head after watching.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1968: This is a down year for my tastes, with the Leone film standing far, far ahead of any other contenders. The other films that were given serious consideration were actually very few, but they would be: Rosemary's Baby (Roman Polanski), The Hour of the Wolf (Ingmar Bergman) The Bride Wore Black (Francois Truffaut), The Lion in Winter (Anthony Harvey).

My guess would be that Stanley Kubrick's landmark science fiction film 2001: A Space Odyssey will be a very popular pick. I can appreciate much of the visual innovation, but in all honesty the movie has never done much for me and there are many other Kubricks that I prefer.

I would like to see Ingmar Bergman's Shame but have not yet had the opportunity, so shame on me!

1967: Le Samouraï (Jean-Pierre Melville)

Released: October 25, 1967

Director: Jean-Pierre Melville; Screenplay: Jean-Pierre Melville and Georges Pellegrin based on the novel “The Ronin” by Joan McLeod; Cinematography: Henri Decaë; Studio: Compagnie Industrielle et Commerciale Cinématographique (CICC); Producers: Raymond Borderie and Eugène Lépicier

Cast: Alain Delon (Jef Costello), François Perier (Inspector), Caty Rosier (Valerie), Nathalie Delon (Jan Lagrange), Jacques Leroy (Gunman), Michel Boisrand (Wiener), Jean-Pierre Posier (Olivier Rey), Catherine Jourdan (The Hat-Check Girl), Robert Favart (Barman)

- “There is no solitude greater than a samurai’s, unless perhaps it is that of a tiger in the jungle.”

With 1967’s Le Samouraï, director Jean-Pierre Melville generated the perfect mix of style, coolness, intelligence and suspense, and crafted one of the best crime dramas to ever be released. In terms of style and “cool,” none has ever been able to equal hitman Jef Costello, or even more so, the overall atmosphere created throughout the entire film. It screams of being hipper than anything you’ll ever see. Far from being based entirely on style, the script and direction takes the ultra-cool Costello character and allows Alain Delon to carry out a study into what makes a man like this tick. Melville probes into the killer’s psyche, laying out and ultimately testing the code that he has lived by for his entire professional life. And all of this is done in such a manner as to feel like one big game of chess, pitting the police force of Paris against the lone wolf assassin. It is suspenseful until the end and when it finally reaches its dramatic conclusion, it allows each viewer to recalibrate the events of the story to fit their own interpretation of the finish.

So with that opening paragraph I’ve pretty much laid it all out as to why I consider Le Samouraï to be among my favorite films. Since in most of my reviews here I’m not exactly into the whole brevity thing, I’ll soldier on, but I think that paragraph succinctly sums up why I praise this film so much.

Jean-Pierre Melville was such a versatile director and he has many films that I adore, but anyone who watches his movies will instantly understand that this is a man that had a passion for American noirs and crime dramas. The influence is glaringly obvious in 1962’s Le Doulos, where he uses black and white photography to great effect, creating scenes that one would expect from directors like Siodmak or Lang in their noir heydays. The same is true of Le Samouraï, despite the fact that it is not filmed in black and white. The fact that it is shot in color is incidental, as the same atmosphere and visual tones are created by Melville throughout the film. They may be in color, but every visual has gloomy overtones. The interiors are shady nightclubs or dim apartments, the exteriors involve chases through city streets or driving through gray skies and rain. Every action is ominous, every camera movement is used to generate suspicion, and the result is Melville taking a very leisurely-paced film and making it thrilling.


The fictitious samurai code that is displayed to start the film (Melville made it up) is descriptive of the life lead by Jef Costello (Alain Delon). Costello is a supremely confident freelance hitman, whose services are continually in demand due to his perfectionist nature. He works and lives in complete solitude, with the exception of late-night trysts with his part-time girlfriend Jane (Nathalie Delon, Alain’s actual wife at the time of filming). He lives in a sparsely furnished apartment, with little more than a bed, a bookcase, and a pet bird that he shows a unique affection for. Such a character also reveals Melville’s love of American noir, as anyone familiar with 1942’s This Gun For Hire will immediately recognize the similarities between Jef and Alan Ladd’s Philip Raven. Like Raven, Jef’s entire life revolves around the contracts that he receives and seeing that they are carried out efficiently and without incident. This is telling because in the assassination that opens the film, Jef is uncharacteristically sloppy in his execution, allowing several witnesses to see him, among them the beautiful piano player Valerie (Caty Rosier). When he is arrested for the murder, he is placed in a lineup and appears to be sunk. However, when asked to identify the killer, Valerie surprisingly declares that Jef is not the man, even though it appears that there is a twinkle of recognition on her part.


The police are forced to release Jef, but the Inspector (François Perier) is convinced that he has found his man. The ambiguity between the good guys and the bad is highlighted by the methods used by the Inspector in his efforts to convict Jef. The Inspector tries to blackmail Jane into admitting to lying by corroborating Jef’s alibi on the night of the murder. Jane, the ever faithful girlfriend, refuses and resigns herself to accepting the wrath of the Inspector.

For Jef, his life is in disarray after the messy contract. On one end he has the police trying desperately to catch him, using elaborate measures to track his movements and planting bugs in his apartment. There is a wonderful sequence in which the Inspector communicates officers via radio, directing them in following Jef through the Paris subway. The underworld is also after Jef because of his shoddy performance. When he goes to meet the contact of his employers, rather than receiving payment for his services the contact tries to kill him. Jef is only wounded, but it sets him down a path of trying to discover who it is that hired him and then tried to have him killed. Eventually, the same man who took a shot at him tries to hire him to kill the employer, Olivier Rey. Sensing a setup, Jef quickly surmises that he is being hemmed in on all fronts. He eventually decides that his only way out is one final job, but this time he doesn’t even bother with his usual precautions.


The superstar of the film for me will always be Jean-Pierre Melville, for the various reasons I have already expounded upon, but Alain Delon and François Perier work as perfect foils. Delon plays the brooding Jef in such a way as to at first make him come across as an enigma, but the more that he reveals about the character the more obvious it becomes why the movie is titled Le Samouraï. Despite the gruesome work he does, Jef is a man who most certainly lives by a code. He believes that there are ways that things are done in his business and that certain things are off-limits – after all, how else can one explain the ending? Conversely, the Inspector, who is supposed to be the good guy, is not above bending the rules in order to attain his own goals. He tries to strong-arm Jane and is determined to convict Jef at all costs. In comparing the two, the argument can actually be made that Jef is the more honorable of the two in adherence to the particular code that each has vowed to follow.

It is funny that once again in this countdown, in a year that is seen as ground-breaking in Hollywood, that I choose another French masterpiece to trump the many great films from the United States in this year. Le Samouraï is that good and is absolutely essential for everyone interested in cinema to see.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1967: A pair of legendary American films come in a close second for me in this year. The first is Mike Nichols' The Graduate, which is always a joy to watch. It manages to be both artistic and fun, at times laugh out loud funny. The malaise that can set in at a time like graduating from college is something that I can certainly relate to. Plus, it has some of the best use of pop music in film. The second movie of this pair is Bonnie and Clyde, directed by Arthur Penn. This was certainly a trendsetting film, but leaving all that aside, it is also very entertaining. This isn't my favorite performance from Warren Beatty, but he is still outstanding.

These two films and Le Samouraï really stand out from the pack for me, but here would be other films to acknowledge for me in 1967: Wait Until Dark (Terence Young), Belle de jour (Luis Buñuel), Playtime (Jacques Tati), Point Blank (John Boorman), The Red and the White (Miklós Jancsó)

1966: Persona (Ingmar Bergman)

Released: October 18, 1966 (Sweden)

Director: Ingmar Bergman; Screenplay: Ingmar Bergman; Cinematography: Sven Nykvist; Studio: Svensk Filmindustri; Producer: Ingmar Bergman

Cast: Bibi Andersson (Alma), Liv Ullmann (Elisabeth Vogler), Margaretha Krook (Doctor), Gunnar Bjornstrand (Mr. Vogler), Jorgen Lindstrom (The Boy)

My initial reaction to seeing Ingmar Bergman’s legendary Persona was unlike anything that I have ever experienced. By the time it ended, I was unsure whether I could even put together a coherent theory on exactly what took place in the film and the reasons why it happened. Was the plot meant to be taken literally, with the viewer simply being given a vision into the proceedings? Are these dreams or hallucinations being displayed? Are there hidden aspects to the film that I overlooked on this first viewing? It was mystifying. The only thing I was certain of was the fact that I loved it. In retrospect, I think that the puzzling nature of the story was precisely what made the film so appealing to me, and it is without question that this is the quality that continually brings me back to it.

This is the second straight year where my selection is a film that detractors often lampoon with the description of pretentious. In reading recent reevaluations, I have even seen those that had previously been admirers of the film argue that the film has aged poorly. I can be somewhat sympathetic to those who view it this way. Anytime an enigmatic film attains the level of praise that Persona has over the years, such a reaction is unavoidable. And I suppose that even while being a huge fan of the film, I can even acknowledge the fact that the pretentious criticism has some truth in it. There is no denying that Bergman attempts to tackle heavy topics and make bold artistic statements in the process. What keeps it from falling into the dreaded “pretentious” arena for me is the fact that Bergman is skilled enough as both a writer and director to pull it off.


The movie opens with a dazzling and surreal opening sequence that ends with the famed shot of a young boy staring at, and reaching his hand toward, the blurry image of a woman’s face. Seeing this for the first time, as a Bergman neophyte, was quite the wakeup call. While it meant nothing to me at the time, this eerie shot figures prominently in many popular interpretations of the story and is a proper introduction to the surreal tone that the film adopts. The story then begins in earnest, and if taken at the most surface of levels, is actually straightforward. A young actress has suddenly and inexplicably stopped speaking in the middle of a performance and has not spoken to anyone since. Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) is charged with caring for the actress, Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann). The Doctor of the hospital suggests that to better care for Elisabeth that Alma should take her to a seaside house and observe her in hopes of leading her to recovery. At first apprehensive about such an undertaken, eventually Alma travels to stay alone with Elisabeth at the resort.

Once at the beach house, roles and perceptions begin to shift. Reality and fantasy intermingle, leaving explanations to the viewer as to what is real and what is imagined. Elisabeth remains silent throughout the stay, while Alma talks incessantly, to the point of pushing herself toward her own mental breakdown. She begins to share stories that while not shockingly graphic, are striking enough to make the audience squirm alongside the silent Elisabeth. The recounting of her sexual encounter on a beach and the subsequent abortion that resulted, truly is unsettling. The relationship between nurse and patient is also called into question when Alma reads a letter that Elisabeth has written, telling how she enjoys being able to observe her nurse. Elisabeth reveals the stories that Alma has told her and says that she thinks the nurse may be falling in love with her. Is Elisabeth truly ill or is she playing Alma in hopes of gaining knowledge of her own?


Bergman and Nykvist shoot the film in such a way as to further muddy the truth concerning the relationship between the two women. The physical resemblance between the two is obvious, and the legendary director-cinematographer duo create shots that make one (at least in my case) begin to wonder if they are not two personalities of the same person. Continually you see images where the faces of the women seem to mesh together. There are instances where Alma sees Elisabeth walking the grounds of the property, asks her about it shortly thereafter, only to have Elisabeth deny that it ever took place. Then there is the time when Elisabeth finally speaks, only to deny that she did. Is Elisabeth lying? Did the event actually happen? Again, it’s to you to decide, as Bergman never tells you. The connection between Alma and Elisabeth grows even more bizarre when the blind Mr. Vogler returns to see his wife, only to have Alma approach him and pretend to be Elisabeth. After feeling the face and seemingly being satisfied that it is indeed his wife, the two sleep together without hesitation. One would think that a blind man would be able to realize, through touch, whether or not the woman he is getting intimate with is actually his wife. So, it appears to lend credence to the thought that Alma and Elisabeth are one and the same.

Any interpretation made about the film seems to have holes in it. The split personality theory is the most satisfactory to me, but it is not entirely impossible to view the story quite literally. Many knowledgeable film critics and historians have had difficulty coming to grips with a completely coherent interpretation, so I do not at all feel embarrassed for not having one myself. After many viewings, I’m not sure that I understand any more about the meanings and interpretations than I did the first time – and at this point, I’m not sure that I even care. The realization that I have come to in regards to Persona is that it is a visual masterpiece and a thought-provoking meditation on the concepts of identity and reality. Does this sound like an overly vague analysis? It is, but it is the best that I can settle on. Rather than getting caught up in trying to uncover precisely what Bergman wished to say in making the film, I now simply put it on and enjoy it for its artistry. The overall production is so arresting that everything else is secondary to me.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1966: A trio of films line up behind Persona on my list of favorites for 1966. Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers is a unique film in the way that much footage is so realistic that it looks like a documentary. It is an engrossing story and one that still resonates today in the “terrorist vs. freedom fighter” conflict taking place in locales around the world. I am also a big fan of Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow-Up. It is a film that has resulted in many spin-offs and remakes, but Antonioni’s film still manages to remain mysterious. And finally, Sergio Leone’s popular The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. It’s not my favorite Leone but I still really like it.

Some of the other films worth mentioning, but were never really in contention are: Au hazard Balthazar (Robert Bresson), El Dorado (Howard Hawks), Le deuxième soufflé (Jean-Pierre Melville) and A Man for All Seasons (Fred Zinnemann).

1965: Repulsion (Roman Polanski)

Released: January 1965 (United Kingdom)

Director: Roman Polanski; Screenplay: Roman Polanski, Gerard Brach, and David Stone (adaptation and additional dialogue); Cinematography: Gilbert Taylor; Studio: Compton Films; Producer: Gene Gutowski

Cast: Catherine Deneuve (Carole Ledoux), Ian Hendry (Michael), John Fraser (Colin), Yvonne Furneaux (Helene Ledoux), Patrick Wymark (Landlord)

Roman Polanski himself is an incredibly polarizing person; his films can be even more so. Watching Repulsion now, over forty years after its original release, it seems like there is the likelihood of two equally strong reactions to the film. To some, it may play as a pretentious, overly psychoanalytic bore, and a prime example of style over substance. For others – and I obviously fall into this camp, if I’m choosing it as my #1 film of 1965 – it is an unmitigated masterpiece. What makes it such a crowning achievement is the fact that Polanski not only made a disturbing film, but came the closest to replicating the feeling of a nightmare as any other director ever achieved.

With Repulsion, we have another blueprint on how to make a film scary. And I don’t mean the ability to quickly startle a viewer or make someone momentarily jump or scream. I am talking about creating a truly chilling film – the kind of experience that leaves images and scenes embedded in one’s mind long after a movie has ended. For me, this means making things intimate, playing on paranoia and madness on a very personal level. I might not be able to relate to the mental sickness and madness of the Carole Ledoux character, but there are certain elements of her breakdown that at least approach more familiar territory – mainly the isolation. This is what has stuck with me for so long after multiple viewings of this film. In Carole Ledoux we are witness to a character that is both guarded to the point of rejecting friends and suitors, yet terrified of being left alone. She has past scarring in her life that repulses her from men and appears to render her incapable to close friendships, yet at the same time when she achieves the seclusion that she craves it is a trigger for her phobias to consumer her. Attempting to interpret what Polanski is saying by this is what brings me back to the film.


In giving a plot summary, the film will sound very simple and somewhat bizarre. A young Belgian girl, Carole (Catherine Deneuve), lives with her sister Helen (Yvonne Furneaux) in London. Carole in very shy, working sheepishly at a beauty parlor and doing nothing but traveling back and forth between her apartment and job. It becomes obvious that Carole is in a perpetually unsettled state whenever she is observed interacting with men. Carole is drop dead gorgeous and is followed faithfully by Colin (John Fraser), a young man who seems genuinely interested in growing closer to her. Instead, she resists all of his overtures, turning down offers for dinner and forgetting any plans that Colin makes for them. She becomes even more uncomfortable whenever Helen’s boyfriend Michael (Ian Hendry) visits the apartment. Michael comes across as something of a shyster, but the reactions that he elicits from Carole are still overly dramatic. It seems that Carole approaches panic whenever attention is shown to her by a man.

When Helen travels to Italy for a vacation with Michael, Carole is left alone in the apartment and slowly begins to be completely consumed by her paranoia. It is this point in the film that I would guess is the demarcation point between those that appreciate the film and those that find it to be incredibly pretentious. This is because once she is on her own Carole begins a descent into unmitigated madness, and the visuals that Polanski shows to the viewer begin to alternate freely between hallucination and reality. Carole’s deep-rooted fear of men and repulsion from any sexual contact begins to manifest itself in visions that Carole continually has of men waiting to violate her. They constantly and suddenly appear in the most awkward of places – under the covers of her bed, through walls, and in the corners of rooms. It is interesting how Polanski conveys the fact that Carole’s fears are the result of some type of experience in childhood. Rather that use the cliché and awkward recounting of the story in dialogue, he simply shows pictures of the sisters at a young age. The contexts in which the pictures are shown tell the viewer all that needs to be known. Carole becomes unable to do anything other than languish in the apartment, missing work for days and even failing to pay the rent for the room. When she is visited by a pair of men – Colin who is inquiring about her wellbeing and the Landlord who wants his money – Carole herself is unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy and the resultant confusion turns deadly.


If this movie was going to have any chance of success, aside from Polanski, the person shouldering the most load was obviously going to be Catherine Deneuve, who was barely in her 20s when the movie was made. She clearly delivers, but not in the way that a blond bombshell would be expected to. It is impossible to hide her beauty, and in fact it adds to the mystery surrounding why Carole is so timid with men (and in all relationships, really). But Deneuve’s performance in no way depends upon her looks. It is not a “talky” film, particularly in regards to Carole. This means that Deneuve has only her body language to convey the deranged state of mind of her character. It is very reminiscent of great silent film performances, as it is so dependent on her ability to use body language and facial expressions.


I view the movie as if I’m being given a peak into someone else’s nightmare. If ever it is appropriate to refer to a movie playing as a nightmare, this is it. And the thing that makes watching Carole’s descent so harrowing is the fact that it seems so unnecessary. The life she leads should be a carefree one: work at a beauty parlor, room with a sister who looks to be successful, enjoy the attention of ambitious and good-looking young men. The fears that she harbors appear to be almost entirely unfounded – no one is ever nasty toward her, yet she is constantly concerned that the men are out to get her. She has a sister who clearly cares very much about her – just witness how she reacts when Michael suggests she see a doctor – but even this support is not enough to overcome Carole’s demons. It is a disheartening statement that Polanski is making. To me it comes across as him saying that some evils cannot be overcome, no matter what support or affection one receives.

This is a bleak film, with equally dreary black-and-white photography that perfectly complements the mood of the proceedings. I don’t know if I would go so far as to declare this my favorite Polanski film – Chinatown is far too good to casually make such a claim – but it is at least very close. It never fails to sends chills down my spine at certain points in the film and leave me thinking about what I just watched every time it ends.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1965: I’ll go on record now as saying that I’m counting Orson Welles’ Chimes at Midnight as 1965, and although most list The Battle of Algiers in this year, I’m considering it 1966 as that’s the earliest verifiable date that I can find. If others wish to switch these around, go for it, as there are no hard and fast rules!

Chimes at Midnight definitely belongs in this section, as it is at times charming and at others Welles creates magnificent battle scenes. Falstaff is such a likable character. It’s a pity that the film and its DVD versions are in such bad shape that at certain sections the dialogue is virtually incomprehensible. Here are some other films that I think I need to acknowledge for this year: Doctor Zhivago (David Lean), Loves of a Blonde (Milos Forman), For a Few Dollars More (Sergio Leone), The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (Martin Ritt).

1964: Hamlet (Grigori Kozintsev)

Released: June 24, 1964 (Soviet Union)

a.k.a.: Gamlet

Director: Grigori Kozintsev, Iosif Shapiro (co-director); Screenplay: Grigori Kozintsev, based on the Boris Pasternak translation of the play by William Shakespeare; Cinematography: Jonas Gritsius; Studio: Lenfilm Studios; Music: Dmitri Shostakovich

Cast: Innokenti Smoktunovsky (Hamlet), Mikhail Nazvanov (Claudius), Elze Radzinya (Gertrude), Yuri Tolubeyev (Polonius), Anastasiya Bertinskaya (Ophelia), Vladimir Eerenberg (Horatio), Vadim Medvedev (Guildenstern), Igor Dmitriyev (Rosencrantz), Stepan Oleksenko (Laertes), A.Krevalid (Fortinbras)

There is something amusing about the fact that what I consider to be the finest on-screen adaptation of this classic English play was done in the Soviet Union and in a completely different language from that used so gracefully by Shakespeare. In certain reviews, I have even read where some consider it suspect to regard such an adaptation so highly, as they are convinced that the power of the language is lost in translation or that such a version is somehow untrue. Since I am far from a traditionalist on such things, I find this a bit much. To me, this is akin to arguing that none of Homer’s tales should ever be done but in Greek and stories like The Count of Monte Cristo or Les Miserables should never be told on-screen unless the actors are speaking French. Translation into foreign languages does no damage to a truly timeless tale, which Hamlet most certainly is. If produced properly, you could perform it in Pig Latin and it would still be gripping.

And Grigori Kozintsev does it properly. I’ll omit the usual detailed plot summary that I include in every review, as I am going to assume that most everyone reading this is at least moderately familiar with the story. If not, I’ll acquiesce and provide a brief and most basic overview: it is about a prince (Hamlet), whose father is killed and whose mother then quickly marries his uncle. Hamlet is then visited by what he believes to be the ghost of his father, who tells him that he was murdered by a plot hatched by the new king. From there, the various plotting and schemes begin to play out, with different characters involved in the intrigue along the way. Shakespeare’s original play contains some of the most quoted and memorable lines in the history of literature, many of which even one completely unfamiliar with his work would recognize. It is commonly cited as being the greatest play that he ever wrote and while I’ll leave such an argument to more learned Shakespeare buffs, I’ll simply add that the eternal appeal of its story is undeniable.

Shakespeare had already been adapted for the screen many times before Kozintsev decided to make this film. Hamlet in particular had been filmed to great acclaimed by the great Laurence Olivier in 1948. The interesting thing about adapting Shakespeare for the screen is that the length of stage performances were recognized as being far too long for the cinema. As a result, certain sections of plays have routinely been cut or condensed in order to bring the films to more manageable lengths. In the case of Olivier’s version of Hamlet, he chose to focus almost entirely on the inner struggle of Prince Hamlet, ignoring the political intrigue that is taking place in the story at the same time. This approach proved to be successful for him, as his film would win the Academy Award for Best Picture that year and Olivier himself would be nominated for Best Director and win the award for Best Actor. To this day it is often held as the movie to which all other film versions of the play are measured against. Kozintsev would go on record through the years remarking that he felt the political subplot was vital to the story and thus he considered it something that had to be included in his film. Still, he would also make alterations to the original play, tailoring his screenplay to better fit the film format. So while he maintained the storyline concerning the historical squabble between Denmark and Norway, he too made cuts (completely eliminating three scenes) and condensed other scenes into much shorter versions. Aside from these alterations, Kozintsev’s screenplay is faithful to the plot as written by Shakespeare.


What is so appealing about Kozintsev’s version is that he embraced the fact that he was making a _film_. This is not a production of Hamlet that just so happens to be recorded. Kozintsev recognized that in making a movie, he would not be bound by the same limitations that applied in the theater productions that he had successfully staged in the past. This meant that he could perform sweeping camera movements, experiment with how dialogue was utilized, and give Hamlet the epic visual style that could only be achieved on film. The only comparisons that I can even venture to make are the adaptations that Akira Kurosawa made of Shakespeare stories, with which he included his own striking visual style. But even these are not truly appropriate. For in those instances, it was Kurosawa taking a general story and transplanting it to his own unique setting. Kozintsev essentially took the story as written by Shakespeare, dialogue and all, and projected it on an epic scale that would be worthy of David Lean at his most grandiose.

The final result is a visual masterpiece, with shots and camera work that are at times jaw-dropping. The various exterior shots of Elsinore Castle positioned atop a cliff overlooking the ocean are breathtaking. In fact, all of the exterior shots are incredible, creating an atmosphere that allows the entire film to feel colossal. Just by watching Hamlet riding his horse into the castle or the various shots of huge waves crashing into the rocky shoreline, you get the feel that you’re watching an epic story unfold. The castle is filmed in such a way as to make it feel enormous, with countless number of servants and courtiers always bustling about the premises, and eventually takes on the feel of a gigantic prison. Combining with Kozintsev’s lofty vision of the story is the black and white photography that provides the impenetrable gloom that hangs over everything. The exterior shots that I just recounted are made even more powerful through the performance of cinematographer Jonas Gritsius. Particularly at night, the stark photography perfectly fits the mood and allows for Gritsius and Kozintsev to play with shadows and lighting. The appearance of the ghost of Hamlet’s father is expertly done. Where others would be tempted to overdo it, just the appearance of the shadow is enough. I would run out of adjectives if I tried to fully describe the shots of Hamlet following his father’s beckoning ghost – let’s just say each shot deserves to be framed. Connecting and complimenting everything that Kozintsev does is the score by Dmitri Shostakovich, who is among the greatest modern composers. It fits perfectly.


That fact that this is a film also allows for fascinating use of Shakespeare’s writing. While in a stage performance, all dialogue and thoughts must be spoken by the actor in order to relate them to the audience, in the film Kozintsev is able to get a bit more creative. Just as Olivier would dare to do in his own version, Kozintsev takes some of the inner-dialogues that Hamlet has with himself and utilizes voice-overs to convey them. Rather than having him perform awkward monologues in which he is talking to himself, Kozintsev shows Hamlet deep in contemplation while the voice-overs express his innermost thoughts. This works to magnificent effect during the famed “to be or not to be” soliloquy. Kozintsev has Hamlet walking along a jagged shore, with waves crashing around him, as the soliloquy itself is performed in a voice-over. As the famed speech is read, actor Innokenti Smoktunovsky utilizes perfect physical responses to reinforce the thoughts of his character. It is a powerful scene and among my favorite in the entire film.


Being an English speaker creates an interesting situation in viewing the film, as the subtitles are created directly from Shakespeare’s original work. So basically, you are watching the visuals created by Kozintsev, while reading Shakespeare in subtitles. As I said, I don’t think this detracts from the film at all, but it could create something of a dilemma in evaluating performances. I could be no judge of how well an actor is delivering the lines of Shakespeare in Russian. What I did feel like I was able to judge is how well the physical characteristics of the performance matched to the words of Shakespeare I was reading. In that regard, Innokenti Smoktunovsky delivers a masterful performance. His take on the Hamlet character is fitting in portraying Hamlet as an enigma. The character works best, I think, when he appears to be walking a fine line between cunning and insanity. How close is Hamlet to being mad, as his mother and uncle believe him to be? Is it all just an act in order to plot revenge against his uncle? At times, Smoktunovsky could make you believe either option.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I have recently been on a kick of Shakespeare films. I love seeing different interpretations and seeing the visions of different directors. Plus, not having read the original Shakespeare in quite some time, it allows for me to rediscover these great stories in varied and interesting ways. Grigori Kozintsev would go on to make another spectacular Shakespeare film (his version of King Lear will be a contender for 1971), and directors ranging from Olivier, Kurosawa and Polanski would provide their own interesting takes of good ol' Billy's works. But it is hard for me to cite anything other than this film as my favorite screen adaptation of a Shakespeare play. Re-watching it for the purposes of this countdown only bolstered this claim. Marrying the brilliance of Shakespeare’s language with unsurpassed visual beauty is an unbeatable combination.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1964: I’m a bit shocked myself not to be choosing Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove. When I started the countdown, I was fairly certain that it would be the pick for this year. And truth be told, if I were making choices another day, I might very well pick Dr. Strangelove and I would be perfectly content. It’s a great film, hilarious to this day, and one that is somehow both dated (in a good way, meaning it is a perfect capsule of an era) and timeless.

This was actually quite a huge year in terms of cinema around the world. For the most part, I’m going to just list other favorites. But one film I do need to say something for, which I had never seen until I forced myself to do it for this countdown, is Pier Paolo Pasolini’s The Gospel According to St. Matthew. This film has stuck in my mind since I watched it, which is remarkable considering how I didn’t expect to like it at all. As a non-religious person, I figured I would just watch this one in order to say “I’ve seen it” and move on. Instead, it was quite powerful and does an extraordinary job of making events that have attained mythical status, as most stories of the Bible have, and making them feel so human.

The other films that were considered and are worthy of mention: A Fistful of Dollars (Sergio Leone), Kwaidan (Masaki Kobayashi), Marnie (Alfred Hitchcock), Onibaba (Kineto Shindo), Gertrud (Carl Theodor Dreyer), Zulu (Cy Endfield)

1963: El Verdugo (Luis García Berlanga)

Release Date: September 1963 (Venice Film Festival)

a.k.a: Not on Your Life

Director: Luis García Berlanga; Screenplay: Rafael Azcona, Ennio Flaiano, Luis García Berlanga; Cinematography: Tonino Delli Colli; Studio: Interlager Films, Naga Films, Zebra Films; Producer: Nazario Belmar

Cast: Nino Manfredi (José Luis Rodriguez), Emma Penella (Carmen), José Isbert (Amadeo), José Luis López Vásquez (Antonio Rodriguez), Angel Alvarez (Alvarez), Guido Alberti (prison director), Maria Luisa Ponte (Estefania), Maria Isbert (Ignacia)

Man, do I love the Internet! Were it not for the world wide web there is a very good chance that not only would I have never had the chance to watch this neglected masterpiece, but there is even the possibility that I never even would have learned about it. This is a movie that was a giant mystery to me, one that I had only vaguely heard of. Once I started making the rounds of various movie blogs on the ‘net a few months back, I discovered the wonderful Wonders in the Dark decades countdowns right around the time that Allan published his review of this film. This was quite the surprise – after all, I had grown accustomed to having not seen many of the films included in Allan’s choices, but to see a movie at #29 for the entire decade of the 1960s and know _nothing_ about it really piqued my interest. Plus, it sounded like such an entertaining film. I had to see what I could do about watching it.

Alas, efforts to get a copy were futile – I’m still not even certain that a Region 1 DVD has ever been released and everywhere I looked had the Region 2 as unavailable. Desperate, I searched until I finally settled on my last possible option – watching the film online in what promised to be very poor quality. With no other way to see it, I figured I would just have to take what I could get and hope for the best. Not surprisingly, considering that it’s chosen as my #1 film of 1963, the poor quality did nothing to detract from my enjoyment. It was a stunner and I quickly understood why Allan included it among the decade’s best films. I watched it once and was thrilled. I watched it again and still loved it. I watched it a third time and began to wonder why Criterion or another similar specialty label has not scrambled to snatch the rights to this film and give it the proper release that it deserves.

It is a black comedy of the highest order, with much of its humor being derived from the seriousness of the characters in the farcical situations they find themselves in. The story opens with a young undertaker José Luís Rodriguez (Nino Manfredi) going to a prison to carry away the latest inmate who has been executed. While there, he and his partner meet the aging executioner (or el verdugo), Amadeo (José Isbert), who is approaching retirement age and wondering who will carry on the dying tradition of his trade. When José Luís gives Amadeo a ride home and is invited into his home, he meets Amadeo’s daughter Carmen (Emma Penella). The two quickly discover that they share an embarrassing dilemma – neither of them is able to find a spouse, as any prospective partners are scared away due to the nature of their work. For José Luís, people shy away from an undertaker. For Carmen, nobody wants to marry the daughter of a professional executioner.

The two begin to casually date each other, going together on picnics with Amadeo and other innocent excursions. Eventually things progress to the point that they sleep together and are very nearly discovered in the act when Amadeo returns home one day. When it is learned that Carmen is pregnant, there is only one solution in the strict Catholic nation of Spain: the two will be married. The complications ensue once they are married. Amadeo learns that the apartment he thought he was receiving upon retirement would no longer be given to him if his daughter is married. The only exception would be if he can convince his new son-in-law to assume his duties as the state executioner. José Luís understandably balks at the notion, not wanting anything to do with the sanctioned killings. Amadeo is persistent, however, promising that he’ll never actually have to go through with an execution, as pardon almost always comes through before the act. And even if a pardon does not come, he can simply resign before he has to follow through. José Luís eventually relents, takes the job, and quickly begins making more money than he has in his life. But at the same time he becomes obsessed with following the news and crimes beats, constantly worried that a killer will be caught and sentenced to death. When one such murderer is sentenced to die, José Luís gets the letter he has been dreading, summoning him to come and perform his job. He begins to scramble to figure a way out of the situation, but is he willing to give up the cushy life that the executioner’s paycheck has provided him?

It is a film of great comedic performances, starting at the top with Nino Manfredi. He plays José Luís Rodriguez as an affable man who is ambitious to move out of his brother’s apartment and make it in the world on his own. It’s easy to feel sorry for his outcast status and easy to understand why the high pay of the executioner’s job is enticing. He comes across as something of an everyman, which is why it’s funny to see him squirm at the prospect of following through on his job. It’s easy to understand how he is reacting, because he seems so normal. Arguably even funnier is José Isbert as the aging executioner Amadeo. It is impossible not to laugh when he shows off his copy of “Public Garroting” to José Luís or when he uses his hands to measuring the neck size of his new son-in-law. Amadeo discusses methods of execution as you or I would discuss the weather, and such matter-of-fact tone is what puts the comedy over. Other performances are just as funny. The exchanges between José Luís and his sister-in-law, who he lives with before marrying Carmen, are priceless. They clearly do not care for each other and make it well known in their interaction. José Luís is constantly taunting her about being a poor parent, while she responds by declaring that his mother would drop dead if she saw the state of her son. Whenever the two of them are on screen together it is hysterical. The dialogue is fast and furious, with subtitles coming at a pace that is neary too difficult to keep up with. It’s like trying to read the dialogue in a Howard Hawks screwball comedy. Still, if you stay on your toes, you are rewarded for following every word.

One scene in particular sticks out in my mind as comic and cinematic brilliance. When José Luís is summoned to the prison for the execution, he tries desperately to explain that he took the job only so his father-in-law could maintain his apartment. The warden is determined to carry out the execution as scheduled and will hear nothing of it, prodding José Luís to do his job. When it finally reaches the point of no return, José Luís still cannot go through with it. The warden’s response is to have his staff forcibly carry José Luís, in the same fashion as the guards are carrying the soon-to-be victim just steps ahead. Berlanga films it like a death march, which it is, but the one struggling not to be led to the execution chamber is José Luís. At times, the inmate and his entourage even stop and turn around to watch the ruckus that José Luís is creating. It’s a wonderful sequence that requires no dialogue whatsoever to be funny.

The film evidently is considered to be the pinnacle of Spanish cinema, making it even more shocking how underappreciated it is. Many hypothesize that it has been so unknown due to the fact that it was released during the Franco reign and thus was not promoted as much as would be a major film in other European nations. Still, even to this day it always places at or near the top of any major film polls in Spain. If it were to get proper exposure, it very well could begin to place near the top of major film polls throughout the world.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1963: Had I not been able to see El Verdugo, the choice for me in 1963 would have been obvious: Luchino Visconti’s The Leopard. Going through cinema year by year has shown me that Burt Lancaster might very well be my favorite actor. The Leopard shows how versatile he could be in acting ability and role selection. For me, it seems that El Verdugo and The Leopard stand out ahead of the rest of the films released in this year.

Some other favorites of the year include: High and Low (Akira Kurosawa), The Great Escape (John Sturges), The Birds (Alfred Hitchcock), Charade (Stanley Donen), and The Servant (Joseph Losey). I should also say a word for Federico Fellini’s 8 ½, as it is film that I don’t think I was ready for when I first watched it. In subsequent viewings I’ve enjoyed it more and more and have slowly moved toward the point of being able to simply sit back and enjoy watching it unfold rather than worrying about the story.

Jean-Luc Godard’s Contempt is another highly-acclaimed film that is completely lost on me. The entire relationship felt very contrived and I simply did not enjoy myself watching the film.

And one 1963 film that I really want to see but once again have been unsuccessful in tracking down is Elia Kazan’s America, America. I’d love to hear thoughts from anyone who has seen this one or tips on how to acquire a copy.

1962: Mafioso (Alberto Lattuada)

Released: October 25, 1962

Director: Alberto Lattuada; Screenplay: Rafael Azcona, Bruno Caruso, Marco Ferreri, Agenore Incrocci, Furio Scarpelli; Cinematography: Armando Nannuzzi; Studio: Zenith International Films, Rialto Pictures; Producers: Tonino Cervi and Dino De Laurentis

Cast: Alberto Sordi (Antonio “Nino” Badalamenti), Norma Bengell (Marta Badalamenti), Gabriella Conti (Rosalia), Ugo Attanasio (Don Vincenzo), Cinzia Bruno (Donatella), Katiusca Piretti (Patrizia), Armando Tine (Dr. Zanchi), Lilly Bistrattin (Dr. Zanchi’s Secretary), Michele Bailly (Young Baroness), Francesco Lo Briglio (Don Calogero), Carmelo Oliviero (Don Liborio)

My discovery of Alberto Lattuada’s neglected masterpiece Mafioso is funny as I look back on it now. It was essentially a blind buy, as the spine of the Criterion Collection release happened to catch my eye one day as I was perusing the shelves at Borders. Criterion had just released this entry in their excellent series, but not yet being a devout follower of their work, I was completely unfamiliar with the film. As I’ve said many times on the blog, I have a longstanding interest bordering on obsession with organized crime and its history, so coming upon a film titled Mafioso that was released by the very reputable folks at Criterion instantly grabbed my attention. The thing that struck me was that it was shelved in the “comedy” section of the store. While not exactly the best news to receive when craving an interesting gangster or crime film, I bought it anyway, expecting something along the lines of Divorce Italian Style or other similar Italian comedies of the era. And for the first hour or so of the film, this is what I watched as the movie poked fun at Italian stereotypes and riffed on jokes highlighting the differences between northern and southern Italians. In fact, I found it funnier even than Divorce Italian Style.

Then, a little over midway through the film, it is like a switch is flipped and things begin to change. The humorous, cheery atmosphere and the beautiful Sicilian landscape are cast aside as dark late-night rendezvous and secretive plotting become the focus of the film. What had once been working marvelously as a light social satire is transformed into an intense moral dilemma as the lead character’s loyalties are put to the ultimate test. I have never experienced another movie that was able to make such a leap while maintaining such cohesiveness. It underscores Lattuada’s skill as a director that these two halves of the film, with two completely different tones, are fit together seamlessly, never once feeling like they have been unnaturally stitched together.

Internationally, Alberto Lattuada is a director that is commonly overshadowed by the staggering reputations of his contemporaries in Italian cinema – Fellini, Visconti, De Sica, Rossellini, and Pasolini to name but a few of the giants working in the same era. In his time, however, Lattuada was a prominent director within his home country, earning the reputation as a leader in popular comedies. If his films were not as analyzed and examined by the intelligentsia at the same level as those of his colleagues, they were nevertheless successful. Even this film, which was all but forgotten outside of Italy until its recent restoration and release, was a box office hit in 1963. How it was never discovered and revered in the United States – whose film industry has a fascination with (often to the point of glorification) of gangsters and crime – is a mystery to me. I would venture to say that there are many people like me who consider themselves to be relatively well-versed movie fans but had never heard of or given a thought to this film before Criterion released it. Perhaps that is why this movie bowled me over as it did after just one viewing. The fact that a movie that just a few hours earlier I had virtually no knowledge of was this amazing was an absolute delight. It’s the kind of event that gives a movie fan hope that there are reels and reels of other such masterpieces waiting to be acquired and enjoyed.

Alberto Sordi stars as Nino Badalamenti, a Sicilian who has moved to Milan and become an efficiency expert at a local car plant. Nino is planning a two week vacation back to his homeland, which will be his first trip back since moving north and also the first time that he will be able to introduce his wife and two children to the rest of his family. His wife (Norma Bengell), a gorgeous blond and native northerner, is unenthusiastic about the trip, nervous that the Badalamenti clan will not accept her. Nino sings the praises of the island in order to excite his wife about the trip, and Lattuada uses breathtaking shots to emphasize to the audience that Nino is not at all exaggerating about the beauty of Sicily.


Once in Sicily, the fears of Nino’s wife are at least somewhat borne out. Much of the comedy throughout these early parts of the film result from the tension created between the old world values of the Badalamentis and the new age, liberated personality of his wife Marta. Things get off to a rocky start early on when Marta is distributing gifts to family members and realizes that she has naively bought Nino’s father a pair of gloves, not realizing that he lost his a hand through a gun accident. Further friction arises from things that appear innocuous to viewers now, and obviously were assumed to be innocuous by Marta in the story itself – things such as her lighting a cigarette in public after a large meal. The indignation of the Badalamenti family is quite funny, only outdone by the squirming and uncomfortable look of Nino who is caught in the middle. Much of the comedy also arises from poking fun at many Italian stereotypes, such as Nino’s sister being plagued by a dark mustache, but they never come across to me as demeaning. Instead, it just feels like one being able to poke fun at himself and his countrymen.

Nino relishes the opportunity to reunite with old friends, but in the process is drawn back into a society and subculture that he hoped had been left to his past. While traveling around the city to say hello to acquaintances and friends, Nino insists that his family go and pay their respects to the local Mafia don, Don Vincenzo (Ugo Attanasio). Over the course of several meetings and conversations, it becomes clear that Don Vincenzo played a key role in Nino landing his lucrative job in the Milan factory. When Don Vincenzo does him another favor by smoothing out a land dispute between Nino’s father and a local townsman, Nino realizes that he is further indebted to the boss. This fact is driven home further when Don Vincenzo’s nephew visits and reminds him of the fact that he is considered a piciotto d'onore (translated, this would the equivalent of a low-level soldier or associate in American crime families). This sets the stage for one final memorable face-to-face with Don Vincenzo, shot in ink black darkness and with chilling effect by Lattuada. It is here that the mood of the film shifts dramatically. Nino is understandably hesitant, no longer wishing to be caught up in the violence he had grown up in. Yet he understands that he must follow through on this favor or be completely ostracized by his hometown as has happened to so many others. Thus, Nino agrees. The sequences that follow in Nino’s journey to New York and his amazement at riding through the bustling city streets are visual ecstasy. Still, realizing the flip-flops being done by Nino’s conscience manage to dampen the overall tone.


Reading a description of the sudden leap from light comedy to dark tragedy simply does not do justice to how well it works. I don’t want to overly praise Lattuada, as this is the only film of his that I have seen, but it’s impossible not to applaud the mastery it takes to make this happen and feel natural. Much of this is also the result of the dexterity of Alberto Sordi’s performance, as the dark overtones taken on in the film are the result of the moral wrestling being done in Nino’s mind. When offered the contract, he at first balks, arguing that he left all of this gunplay and honored society behind when he moved north. But it quickly becomes obvious to Nino that refusing the job would mean more than simply disappointing his benefactor. Earlier in the film, many stories were told of Sicilians who had some degree of success and were shunned for “forgetting where they came from.” This turning of one’s back on friends and family is clearly the worst offense that can be committed in Calamo. Refusing the request from Don Vincenzo would result in similar repercussions for Nino, and could quite possibly mean danger for his family as well. All it takes is reminders of past loyalties and displays of longstanding Sicilian traditions. The fact that all of this is enough to ultimately convince him to do something he does not want to do is clear: maybe such mores can be too much for any one man to rebel against. Sordi is equally adept at playing the comic factory worker or the coldblooded expert marksman. While this is not his most lauded performance, just one viewing of Mafioso is enough to realize why he is considered to be among the finest Italian actors of all time.


On repeat viewings, the thing that most impresses me about Lattuada is how the film actually hints at the sinister events that are to come. He does it through subtle allusions that will mean nothing to a first-time viewer, but that in retrospect are obviously building momentum toward the fated conclusion. Little things, such as his boss at the factory asking him to deliver a package to a well-known citizen in Calamo. Or, even more pointedly, Nino’s virtuoso performance at a shooting gallery can make one understand why he would be chosen for such a task. Lattuada is never so bold as to throw these things into the viewer’s face, but in looking back they are slight hints of what Nino might be capable of. Equally as stunning is the photography, which is as diverse as the jumps in the storyline. The outdoor shots of Sicily are bright and dazzling, showing off the natural landscape that has attracted visitors for centuries. It could be argued that it does not take a genius to film a location this beautiful, but Lattuada still has an eye for capturing just the right shot – as an example, I offer the shots of Nino and his family sailing away from the mainland and into the island. When things become serious, such as when Don Vincenzo is imploring Nino to carry out the contract, Lattuada and cinematographer Armando Nannuzzi alter the atmosphere in turn. Many of the scenes begin to take place at night, in darkness that at times is all-encompassing. The meeting between Nino and Don Vincenzo in the backseat of the don’s car is among my favorite scenes in all of cinema and is intense no matter how many times I watch it. It looks magnificent in its darkness and serves as the perfect lever to propel the film toward its finale.


This is a movie that resists conventional classifications. Labeling it a comedy, as is often done, makes the film seem much more lighthearted than it ultimately is. To say that it is an out-and-out gangster film would also be misleading, because for the first forty minutes it is nothing of the sort. In my own final estimation, I suppose that I group it more along the lines of great gangster films like the Godfather trilogy as opposed to the Italian comedies of Germi or Monicelli. My own opinion of it is that it is among the best crime dramas that I have seen and it remains the greatest “discovery” that I’ve ever made in my own movie watching. Not only is this my #1 film of 1963, it is my personal #1 in the storied history of Italian cinema. It is a pity that this movie is not more well-known and remains unseen by so many.

[As a side note, the Criterion disc looks amazing and has an absolutely crisp transfer.]

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1962: A number of great films in 1962. At one time, I probably would have listed The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance as my favorite John Ford film. While it doesn’t hold that status anymore, it’s still among his best. Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Doulos is great at capturing the atmosphere of the noirs that Melville loved. It contains stunning black and white photography. I have also always been a fan of The Manchurian Candidate, directed by John Frankenheimer. While some may consider it dated, I find the entire thing interesting and fascinating. It’s a great political thriller. And finally, I love the epic scope of David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia. It’s a rightly lauded film and I without question consider it to be the best of Lean’s career.

Here are some other movies that I really like, but didn’t really contend for the top spot: Experiment in Terror (Blake Edwards), Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (Robert Aldrich), Ride the High Country (Sam Peckinpah), To Kill a Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan), Knife in the Water (Roman Polanski).

As I said in my 1961 choice, regardless of which year you go with for Truffaut’s Jules and Jim, it won’t make a favorites list for me. I have never been able to get into it.