This list, representing a personal top 50 films from the decade of the 1990s (submitted to criterionforum.org) and carrying on from similar lists I’ve done starting with the 1940s, turned out to be far more challenging than originally expected. While making it, I learned how difficult it can be to separate contemporary perceptions from the evolution of opinion. That is, being around and privy to not only watching movies this decade but also seeing them in the light of then-current reactions has made it even more of a struggle to figure out what still fits my current frame of mind. There are films and filmmakers I held up quite high at the time that I’ve had to reevaluate in the course of the past few weeks. The result is still heavily weighted to American movies and critical favorites, but that’s probably just my taste, I’m afraid. While I haven’t deliberately altered the list for diversity purposes, there was an emphasis on expanding beyond the obvious. I’ll say, too, that the next one, for the current decade of the 2000s, should be a little more interesting because I’ll be working from more of a current sensibility whereas here I was backtracking to deal with what I liked as a younger person who still had pretty good taste but nonetheless enjoyed a comparatively narrowed perspective on things.

1.) Unforgiven (Eastwood,1992) - The singular meditation of violence as an inevitable path to be taken despite our own recognition of what bloodshed leads to. I loved the film when I was younger and I love and admire it now. There’s simply no better exploration of our apparent need to exact vengeance both as an excuse to gain justice and a quelling of the internal anger we struggle to control. It’s Eastwood’s masterpiece and my favorite western.

2.) Rushmore (Anderson, 1998) - Some people seem to identify with or like Max Fischer, and I don’t but that doesn’t stop me from absolutely cherishing Wes Anderson’s ode to coming of age. Plainly, I like Rushmore so much because it’s remarkably funny - the opening rundown of Max’s various clubs and activities set to “Making Time” may be my favorite sequence of the decade - while still maintaining the tragic sadness of knowing we’re set for equal parts tragedy and comedy. My love for Anderson’s films knows no bounds (with The Royal Tenenbaums firmly among the all-time favorites), and it’s never because I relate to the characters. I don’t. Instead, the magic rests with how Anderson conveys disappointment masked with ebullient ambition. He’s brilliant at presenting situations where the internal pain conflicts with bright, warm images and poignant pop songs. Rushmore, for me, exists equally for Cat Stevens to croon “The Wind” and for a darkly humorous interlude by The Who.

3.) Eyes Wide Shut (Kubrick, 1999) - Movies are designed to be seen in a darkened room without interruption. The home viewing experience has allowed for great deviations to this formula, but when a film like Eyes Wide Shut comes along we’re reminded of how important mood and atmosphere can be. Stanley Kubrick’s final effort is so heavily dependent on darkness, with much of the picture taking place at night, and unease that I’m skeptical whether those viewing a broadcast on cable or something similar can really take in the full impact. I’ve never forgotten my first viewing - small screen on its initial run complete with elderly walkouts - and while I’ve seen it multiple times since, including another cinema showing in Germany, the hypnotic hold it had on me during that initial screening was like nothing else. Slowly taking in one Kubrick film after another in the years since has proven to be nothing but a disappointment in comparison.

4.) Red (Kieslowski, 1994) - The conversations Irene Jacob has with Jean-Louis Trintignant’s retired judge are simply some of the most fascinating encounters in this decade of film. I find Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy to be ambitious and quite the accomplishment, but it’s only the final part that truly affects me. He was clearly interested in ideas of fate and destiny throughout his career. Where Red stands apart is in its reluctance to completely rely on those concepts above the more traditional cinematic elements. The film uses coincidence without depending on it. There’s an incredibly moving underscore to the character Trintignant plays, allowing Red to be something more than another Kieslowski exercise in fatalistic dualities.

5.) L.A. Confidential (Hanson, 1997) - While I’m not crazy about the Chinatown comparisons that greeted this celebrated adaptation of James Ellroy’s equally brilliant novel, I do think, superficially, it’s the best film of that ilk to come along since the earlier picture. The differences lie with how Curtis Hanson treats his version as a period crime epic, complete with sprawling characters and intricate plotting, while the Polanski-Towne film was more grounded through the singular perspective of J.J. Gittes. L.A. Confidential beat the odds in every way imaginable, proving that pedigree isn’t always essential, and became that woefully rare type of film where you have to absolutely pay attention in order to fully appreciate it. I love movies where the viewer is expected to do a few mental somersaults in the process of putting everything together and I’d say no picture of the decade so skillfully balanced that request with the requisite payoff as this one.

6.) Chungking Express (Wong, 1994) - Not an easy film to attach verbal appreciation to, but still capable of producing the exact sort of feeling one wants to have after the credits roll. Wong Kar-wai uncharacteristically breezed through the production of two story segments, both of which are extraordinary though perhaps the latter is especially poignant, and made what is still his most free and lively picture. You can take into account how vital the theme of time is to the film or you can just enjoy it without asking any questions. The absolute best films tend to invite analysis without requiring it and I think that’s really what Chungking Express does. Nothing here needs to be taken beyond face value while nonetheless sustaining over an hour and a half’s worth of giddy grinning, but it’s hardly a shallow picture.

7.) Goodfellas (Scorsese, 1990) - Possibly too low of a ranking here and maybe we’ve begun taking Scorsese for granted. I shuffled it down a few notches with little guilt because I feel like everyone knows how violently brilliant the film is and how well it will probably age for decades. Certain people bristle at recognizing widely acknowledged masterpieces (with Pulp Fiction suffering the same fate), but as long as you’re not force fed these movies I don’t understand why popularity among a particular segment should reflect poorly on something like Goodfellas. Regardless, it’s the definitive portrayal of that outsider experience and allure of the mob, and Scorsese has rarely, if ever, been in such total control of the material. I’ve read opinions that Casino is really the superior film, but every trap the latter film falls for Goodfellas avoids. The “Layla” sequence may even be Scorsese’s all-time most successful use of popular music.

8.) Pulp Fiction (Tarantino, 1994) - Speak of the devil, and I admittedly struggle with trying to rate a director whose work has lost all inspiration from my point of view. It’s still important to balance what remains an explosive, vibrant film with the near-parody that’s emerged throughout the past several years. Pulp Fiction, while lacking the extreme degree of originality some claimed upon its release, is the perfect mixture of Quentin Tarantino’s internal angel and devil. Portions are thrilling across multiple viewings. The performances are universally on. A degree of cohesion is really sustained throughout the picture. You can still put the film on today and the wide-eyed captivation remains. All of Tarantino’s cinematic tics are effective here instead of overbearing.

9.) Fargo (Coen, 1995) - At least among American filmmakers, this was the decade of the Coens. Each and every one of their five films has substantial merit, with Fargo the critical darling of the time. I really can’t disagree. Watching the film now, there’s little concern as to the procedural aspects of the movie. It doesn’t much matter what genre the Coens are addressing, the particulars really seem to be inconsequential. The characters and, perhaps even more importantly, the situations are what command our attention. In Fargo, the kidnapping and investigation holds little weight against the unraveling of Jerry Lundegaard or the dedication of Marge Gunderson or the bizarrely repulsive acts of the two hitmen.

10.) The Silence of the Lambs (Demme, 1991) - Again, as with Goodfellas, my affection for this film probably doesn’t equal the ranking. Michael Mann’s Manhunter is a fine effort and the subsequent Hannibal directed by Ridley Scott is at least interesting to a point, but something else entirely, something far more brilliant and sinister, is captured by Jonathan Demme here. Lector is given a counterpart in Clarice who is equally interesting, with a contrast that still unnverves. His maniacal genius comes through stronger in this film, by a wide margin, than in the others and the fear is far more pronounced. And even shedding Lector, Demme stages one of the more gripping sequences of the decade when Clarice is in Buffalo Bill’s lair and the viewer is reduced to seeing in night vision. Among the upturned noses, it’s almost a curse to have won the Best Picture award but otherwise that was an amazing accomplishment considering the subject matter.

11.) Show Me Love (Moodysson, 1998) - Also known by the more profane title Fucking Åmål, this is a film which stands alone as being the most painfully true depiction of the teenage crush of anything I’ve ever seen. It happens to concern one girl having feelings for another girl, but that hardly matters. The universality in the situations found here seem undeniable. Every cry is met authentically and the emotional investment couldn’t be more impressive. The material is achingly true while still remaining warm. You might not expect a Swedish film about a teenage misfit girl who harbors a massive crush on a popular female classmate to be so familiar, but it is.

12.) Raise the Red Lantern (Zhang, 1991) - Director Zhang Yimou infuses his first collaboration with Gong Li with rich colors and a troubling plot where the protagonist strains the viewer’s sympathy. She moves, quite deftly, inside the marital dynamic of a Chinese lord but faces resistance from his other wives. The red lantern motif is an unforgettable and striking image, the impact of which changes as the film progresses.

13.) Ed Wood (Burton, 1994) - Burton’s two films just previous to this one (Edward Scissorhands and Batman Returns) are probably more quintessential works, and I’m fond of both, but it’s his black and white tribute to an impassioned, if ineffective, filmmaker that I still consider to be his best. Part of it is the delirious lead performance from Johnny Depp, lovingly coupled with Martin Landau’s Bela Lugosi. Burton finds an almost perfect balance of the reverence for his film’s subjects with the irreverence of what they were doing. You can make a movie with extreme preparation and skill (and money) or you can simply get your hands on some equipment, point and shoot. The results will be different, but the dedication need not be.

14.) Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers (Park, 1993) - My general rule when making these lists is that even though short films and music videos (as well as extremely long films in the miniseries tradition) are eligible, I’m not comfortable trying to weigh the merits of those against the typical feature. Only a special instance would cause me to make an exception, something I did with the ’60s list for Truffaut’s “Antoine and Colette” and a bending of my own rules that I’m repeating here to include what could be my very favorite animated short. All of the Wallace & Gromit shorts and the feature are downright brilliant, but it’s “The Wrong Trousers,” with the villainous Feathers McGraw, that touches perfection.

15.) The Grifters (Frears, 1990) - Having Donald Westlake adapt a Jim Thompson novel was an inspired melding of two great masters of 20th century crime fiction. Letting Anjelica Huston be blonde and chipping Annette Bening out of a Gloria Grahame mold gave the film a cheap grit often absent from the neonoir films. There’s an understanding ingrained in The Grifters of what came before it and how to respect those pictures without overly honoring them. Updating film noir is a tough thing to do with any success, but this is one of the few examples of retaining the spirit and not just resting on the popular artifacts. Frears can be a chameleonic director with few obvious signatures, leaving the bulk of the credit for Westlake’s screenplay and the female leads.

16.) Boogie Nights (Anderson, 1997) - I’m not sure if I placed this too high or low as I haven’t seen it in several years now and I generally haven’t been happy with Anderson’s other films. Even so, a few things can’t help but rattle around when I think about how a movie focused on the adult film industry is as much about the filmmaking process on the whole and the surrounding complications as, for example, Ed Wood. The tragedy of porn shares the same frailties as the more legitimate side of the business. Part of what disappointed me so much about Brian De Palma’s The Black Dahlia from a few years back was how little he cared about, among other things, Elizabeth Short’s failures at selling herself down the line. Boogie Nights seems to understand this idea far more poignantly, and when Anderson isn’t trying to overly stylize the freak show nature of his film its sadness is almost overhwhelming.

17.) Dead Man (Jarmusch, 1995) - Dubbed an “acid western,” this postmodern take on the genre is probably Jim Jarmusch’s most confident and mature work to date. The film sits very much with others by Jarmusch, intent on philosophical underpinnings and the transformative nature of the journey, but nonetheless feels especially realized in a way some of the director’s movies do not. Certainly having the idea of death linger so prominently in the film (from the title to the increasing bounty placed on Blake’s head and on to the ending) allows it to constantly remind the viewer how difficult mortality is to get a handle on. Jarmusch also returns to a couple of his filmmaking strengths in having dry, black and white cinematography (from Robby Muller) and unexpected, somewhat experimental music (courtesy of Neil  Young) to further draw a line underneath an already meditative picture.

18.) Malcolm X (Lee, 1992) - Spike Lee will probably have to completely go mute before the segments that matter take him as seriously as they should. I’m heartened in believing that some day people will rightfully see him as the American director who most matters among his generation. Combining both style and substance in his best work, including Malcolm X, Lee’s message is frustratingly lost on so many that you want to shout it with particular vigor when the opportunity arises. The biopic is one of my least favorite genres but thanks to Lee and Denzel Washington (deserving of the Oscar awarded to Al Pacino, who actually should’ve won for The Godfather or its sequel, and ultimately rewarded almost a decade later for a lesser performance), this film truly does transcend its genre limitations and rise to an enthralling, emotional work which could hardly be less controversial.

19.) The Big Lebowski (Coen, 1998) - The zealous love for this one and a lukewarm initial viewing turned me against it for a few years. I knew at some point it needed another chance, and it wasn’t that difficult to admit the joy found here, which is somewhat atypical for a Coens film. Mean-spirited, winking humor is entirely my cup of tea, but you don’t want that to infect every film. The antidote is easily Lebowski and Jeff Bridges’ wonderfully good-natured protagonist. Our inadvertent Marlowe, and the Coens aren’t even trying to disguise the Chandler influence, is equal parts irresponsible and lovable. I feel like this is the Coens’ happiest medium so far.

20.) The Insider (Mann, 1999) - Odd that this has been Mann’s most critically successful and honored film despite it being perhaps his least characteristic and commercial. That’s not to say we’re out of Mann’s element and, indeed, the director quickly takes to a story of tobacco and media with the professional recognition you’d expect. The reason I favor The Insider over, say, Heat could be a result of the thematic stretching Mann was forced to do here. His strengths translated into an area where bullets are in mailboxes instead of riddled across the screen. The propulsive tension and pacing are still here, more pronounced even than in his crime epics, but the unexpectedness of the whole thing makes for a grander result where immediacy overtakes deliberation.

21.) Kansas City (Altman, 1996) - I can imagine that it’s the somewhat divisive performance of Jennifer Jason Leigh that tends to hold back Robert Altman’s best post-1970s film from the acclaim and reputation it should have. But if you’re tuned to Leigh’s wavelength, and no American actress could hold a candle to her this decade, the film’s generous pleasures tend to reveal themselves with little hesitation. There’s also a fine turn from Harry Belafonte as a gangster you wouldn’t want to cross, and a simultaneous mix of serious and kooky that few directors other than Altman have ever mastered. It’s in that little realm of offbeat cinema where Leigh’s magic resides.

22.) Miller’s Crossing (Coen, 1990) - This is just a bit too opaque in my opinion, and I’m not completely confident in how much I like the film, particularly the storytelling in it. The placement probably could have varied at least ten spots in either direction. Certainly we expect the Coens to have a dryness in their films, but the level of stoicism is more unexpected. Still, while not what I’d consider the most enjoyable of their movies, Miller’s Crossing remains a rich, impressive and unspoiled gangster drama, and a creative leap of a third feature for the brothers. The milieu seems just so, and certain scenes, with one being the realization of Tom Reagan’s dream image of his hat, almost take your breath.

23.) The Truman Show (Weir, 1998) - The story of a man whose life has been broadcast to the world, whose entire existence is manufactured into a reality-style theme park without his knowledge, seemed a little more unrealistic when The Truman Show was dubbed the movie of the decade by Esquire magazine just before its release. Things in that regard have taken a turn for the worse and it’s impossible to not view Andrew Niccol’s script and Peter Weir’s film through a different set of eyes than when it first opened. You can either applaud the prescience or consider the film to already be somewhat dated, but I’m inclined to marvel while keeping the central gimmick at arm’s length. Weir has never made a bad movie and works far too infrequently. It’s true that his pictures tend to capture an immediacy of their times, though Truman exists both as a satire of a stampeding form of media and as an impeccably acted, truly moving story of someone deprived of actual reality.

24.) Naked (Leigh, 1993) - The mesmerizing performance of David Thewlis holds together the vignettes and rants involving his drifting Johnny. Thewlis is good enough here to deserve consideration among the greatest of screen turns, yet he was inexplicably overlooked by the Oscar voters for even a nomination. This is not the type of film I expected from Mike Leigh and I also was surprised by just how much it resonated. Naked commands a relatability that’s in no way obviously inherent from its premise. And unlike many films with a staggering lead performance, the movie itself is an unrelenting force that’s built around that central role without entirely depending on it. “That’s the trouble with everybody - you’re all so bored.”

25.) Jackie Brown (Tarantino, 1997) - Time to make peace with Tarantino again. Jackie Brown is his most assured, mature work and it seemed to spell out encouraging things until the director regressed afterward. It doesn’t have the energy of Pulp Fiction, but the trade-off is this beautiful golden overlay of a character study where Pam Grier’s title heroine and Robert Forster’s bail bondsman enjoy such a rare amount of attention, paid honestly and purely, in relation to what we normally get from movies of this type. Elmore Leonard put some of these things in his novel Rum Punch, but it’s a pleasant surprise to see Tarantino actually retain them so well. This film is the only thing keeping me from giving up on the director entirely. I figure if he’s capable of making a movie like this then it’s always possible he’ll overcome adolescence again and return to similarly strong material.

26.) JFK (Stone, 1991) - Oliver Stone always has the least imaginative titles for his films. Unlike his other pictures focusing on presidents, this one, of course, isn’t a biography of John F. Kennedy and that could be why it’s so successful. There’s no need to dissect a life when you can instead peel apart shadow conspiracies with the aid of some dramatic paranoia. Ultimately, it matters little whether there are facts to be gleaned from Stone’s film because he didn’t make a documentary or even a docudrama. It’s glorious fiction to feed the gullible corner of your brain. Maybe I wish that the events in this film were entirely accurate, that we’d have a definitive coda to the most shocking death of the 20th century, but that would marginalize the power of cinema. Stone made a gripping thriller that runs over three hours and I feel like it’s your own fault if you take it as the truth.

27.) The Double Life of Veronique (Kieslowski, 1991) - We don’t explore metaphysical implications of daily life enough in film. Kieslowski must have been almost obsessed with this idea since it was a recurring theme in his fictional features, none more so than here. The Polish director gets away with providing very little concrete plot and instead opts for a more cinematic language of mood, feeling, ambience, and emotion. It can be intimidating to enter this world initially since he expects the viewer to accept one actress (Irene Jacob) in two roles without clearly delineating which is which. A second viewing, especially when aided by the supplementary materials on Criterion’s release, helps, and I think that Kieslowksi’s message about the whims of fate really does solidify the more you immerse yourself into this world. I’m not fond of the green filters used, but it’s a forgivable effect.

28.) Happy Together (Wong, 1997) - Perhaps risky for a heterosexual director whose films had not previously explored homosexual relationships to dive headfirst into that very subject, but Wong Kar-wai essentially translated his penchant for difficult and doomed love onto a story of two men (Tony Leung and the late Leslie Cheung) who experience a rocky and passionate relationship that takes them to Argentina. The film ended up being a powerful look at love and lust without really limiting itself along the lines of any particular gender or sexuality. Heartbreak and difficulty tend to translate across most any barrier and a filmmaker as accomplished as Wong clearly understands the universality of emotion. Add in the extra feeling of loneliness and the struggles of being an outsider, and there’s simply no limiting factor to this film. It possibly ranks as Wong’s most powerful.

29.) Palms (Aristakisian, 1993) - A deeply troubling faux documentary where the narrator, who’s also the director, speaks across harsh black and white footage about how tortured a certain segment of people are. He’s talking to his unborn child and describing a world of undesirables - the crippled, the homeless, and other lesser beings in society - and just when you’re sure he’s a madman, he says something so utterly profound as to render all of his statements worthwhile. This is the most unique film by far on my list, but after reviewing Second Run’s edition of it for DVD Times, I simply couldn’t ignore such a powerful work. There must be an area between documentary and fiction, and Palms has to exist in that purgatorial nether region.

30.) He Got Game (Lee, 1998) - None of Spike Lee’s films charted on the final version of this list, and I can’t figure why that is. I watch his movies and see a virtuoso of technique and storytelling, a talent virtually unparalleled among the filmmakers of his generation. Yes, Spike Lee is the most consistently interesting and accomplished American director of the past 25 years. And no one else seems to see it. He Got Game is a particularly upsetting casualty of the modest studio success. Because Lee does work for the studios, his films enjoy a certain publicity and budget but rarely do they have much of an impact on the greater public. He Got Game is just such a movie that really could have had a bigger audience, and I don’t know of a better film about the game of basketball. By putting an actual athlete (Ray Allen) as the main character and having a genuine movie star (Denzel Washington) brilliantly play against type, you would have thought that some notice might have resulted, but, again, there’s been little recognition for how impressive the film balances a very real and still relevant predicament for kids who aren’t even close to being men yet with the undeterred business side of things. People care so little about He Got Game that the existing DVD isn’t even enhanced for widescreen televisions.

31.) Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (Lynch, 1992) - David Lynch gets the label of dealing in horror sometimes but it’s only rarely that he actually does make a film where the terror exists beyond the protagonist’s own mind. He generally limits the horror to a psychological manifestation of the internal. Not so here. His prequel to the television series Twin Peaks expands upon some of the episodes Lynch directed, particularly the series finale, and eventually reveals itself to be far more gruesome than anything he’s ever made. We know Laura Palmer’s fate already, and maybe we don’t really want to see, but Lynch is insistent that every scream is necessary. Measuring the film against the television show doesn’t seem particularly helpful as they really are two different entities.

32.) Insomnia (Skjoldbjærg, 1997) - The Hollywood remake by Christopher Nolan was probably both a blessing and a curse since it surely boosted interest in the original while nonetheless proving inferior in dumbing down an incredibly dark character study. None of the changes were beneficial, and anyone who hasn’t seen this version should completely remove Hollywood’s attempt from their mind before settling in with one of the best police dramas of the decade. Stellan Skarsgård, a terrific actor in everything I’ve seen him in, imbues his character with an unsympathetic malevolence that you’d never see from Al Pacino. The result is a richer, far more effective film about a man - and not a case, which is an important distinction - unaware of his limitations. Skarsgård is fearless.

33.) Devil in a Blue Dress (Franklin, 1995) - The spirit of film noir lives on in Carl Franklin’s adaptation of the first of Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins novels. A twist is added by Easy’s race and the subservient reaction he gets at most every turn despite having served honorably in World War II and living in his own house. Those aspects aside, this is really a topnotch noir update, with a commanding performance by Don Cheadle in support. The mood is there. Easy remains defiantly in over his head just like the great noir protagonists. Franklin had previously directed the grittier One False Move to impressive effect, but I find Devil to be the better movie due to its superior source material. Like the films it drew inspiration from, this lets the viewer experience the crumbling decay of postwar America, when no one seemed to be paying attention to the criminals minding the store.

34.) All About My Mother (Almodóvar, 1999) - The trouble with Pedro Almodóvar is that almost every movie he makes is brilliant. Trying to determine what ranks where becomes difficult, and I had to leave off Live Flesh, which I enjoy a great deal, while opting for this safe but moving melodrama and the more adventurous Kika further down the list. The film is safe in the sense that it doesn’t necessarily take extreme chances, aside from, you know, having a tranvestite hooker father both the ill-fated young adult son of Cecilia Roth’s character and the unborn child of HIV-postive nun Penelope Cruz. So maybe all of the critics who slag on Almodóvar for not taking risks and abandoning his former emphasis on the wild and woolly in favor of more palatable efforts are really off the mark. There’s no self-sacrifice to Almodóvar. He’s as uncompromising as ever, and I’d hardly call this particular film overly mainstream. If the greater art house public, which remains a distinct minority of filmgoers across the globe, embraces the director more now than in the eighties, it’s hardly a negative.

35.) La Belle Noiseuse (Rivette, 1991) - A subplot goes in another direction, but the main idea that effectively floors me with this film is the sense of the creation of art. The time, the emotion, the investment, the personal sacrifice, and all the various other ingredients are explored so delicately and with a rawness unexpected from a film of such length. The waited-for lulls never occur, and this is the rare film of extraordinary length where the duration plays virtually no role. If anything, a sense of commitment is reinforced by the substantial runtime. Rivette seems to enjoy these extremely commanding lengths. I sometimes find the results to be hit or miss, but his films can only rarely be called tenuous despite how many minutes they often run. Such deliberation actually seems to work in Rivette’s favor. It definitely does with Noiseuse, and the rhythms it accommodates direct the viewer away from any restlessness.

36.) Un coeur en hiver (Sautet, 1992) - An intentional pairing of Emmanuelle Béart movies here. She’s actually better in this film, I think, than in Noiseuse, though it’s Daniel Auteuil (her real-life love interest and future husband) who makes the largest impact, playing a violin craftsman unable to experience love. This could have easily been a far less effective film had Claude Sautet lacked the delicacy necessary to keep Auteuil’s character both relatable and balanced between his ego and his desire for Béart. There is a tendency to limit this as merely a typical French film with hesitant characters doomed to lovelessness, but that’s a real short-changing of the film as a whole. Beyond plot, Sautet creates a balance of intrigue, of sadness, of regret, and numerous other emotions that inform Auteuil, whose performance fills in the rest of the necessary blanks. Maybe Béart falls too swiftly for his character, but I think it’s his attention and skill with perfecting the violins that inspires her feelings. When he can’t - or won’t - reciprocate, the onus strangely falls on both her and him, but also the viewer, who’s helpless while still floored by Auteuil’s detachment.

37.) Good Will Hunting (Van Sant, 1997) - I highly doubt that Oscar nominations and statues were legitimately on the mind of anyone during the making of this film. That it happened was hardly choreographed or intended. Let’s pare it down a bit then and get past the popularity and starmaking nature that met what’s really an all around exemplary film on the nature of genius and class, among other things. The combination of extreme brilliance and emotional insecurity from a life unloved can be a delicate mix where the lead character here cannot be either too sympathetic or too repulsive. I’m not sure Matt Damon has ever been quite so raw throughout any of his leading roles as he is here. He’s an undeniably compelling actor for a movie star, but the performance in this film lacks vanity and any sense of reducing the character to cliche. The various songs from Elliott Smith, too, add a fragile layer that gently emphasizes each mood no matter how melancholy or sad.

38.) Ratcatcher (Ramsay, 1999) - An unfortunate title for a film that’s so evocative of a specific time and place while still playing to the familiar memories of childhood. Lynne Ramsay’s debut feature is a great movie that probably bubbles under the radar but must have been boosted considerably by the Criterion Collection, taking a rare break from more established fare, releasing it on DVD. I’m not sure I would have heard of, much less seen, the film otherwise, though I’m so glad that I did. It’s the work of a filmmaker willing to take risks, someone promising and youthful enough to capture early adolescence without simply reminiscing about it on film.

39.) Irma Vep (Assayas, 1996) - Returning to some of the same things I mentioned in discussing Ed Wood and Boogie Nights, this film examines yet another facet of the filmmaking process but probably concerns itself less with that idea than the total disorientation of its lead actress working on a tumultous set in a foreign country. That doesn’t really scratch the surface of Irma Vep either, as there are a great deal of more obscure and experimental qualities here, culminating in the blissful freak-out ending. While Assayas is clearly the guiding force of the film, he really owes some of its accessibility and charm to Maggie Cheung, who’s such an engaging presence as to be worth watching even when she’s playing a version of herself.

40.) Husbands and Wives (Allen, 1992) - The deepest, boldest of Woody Allen’s domestic dramas, with much of the film downright painful but still never less than fascinating. Allen literally turns the camera on himself and his turbulent personal life. It never fully feels like we’re watching therapy though, and one has to marvel at the universal nature of relationships Allen captures. Bleak, but oddly entertaining in a voyeuristic way.

41.) Taste of Cherry (Kiarostami, 1997) - A completely involving depiction of a man who’s trying to find a willing stranger to perform a very specific task. Though that description may sound both broad and uninteresting, the film unfolds in such a way as to remind us that the very good and great movies often depend less on what they are about than how they are told (and who is telling them). I’m reluctant to give away any more of the plot to Taste of Cherry, despite it being quite known by this point, because the protagonist’s intentions unfold at a deliberate pace. Still, the film ultimately doesn’t need to be totally unspoiled in order for it to still have a significant impact. Also worth noting is the manner Kiarostami shoots the many driving sequences, which is intimate enough to give the viewer a seemingly vested interest in what happens. I did have a few reservations about why Kiarostami would end his film as he did, and I didn’t really like that decision, but it’s hard to deny that it adds another layer.

42.) Heat (Mann, 1995) - Among Mann’s crime dramas, Heat has never had the impact for me that its reputation would suggest. Some of this is the casting. Pacino and DeNiro both perform effectively, but they take me out of what has become Mann’s style. Both are lacking the stoicism and the pronounced subtlety found in his last few films. If those are some of the reasons why I’m not fully in love with Heat, the rationale behind including it at all is reflected in many of the familiar themes Mann shows interest in here. The professionalism, the dogged intensity in performance of tasks, and the fatalistic insistence on going through with your plan regardless of the consequences are all central parts of these characters. Mann can seem very mechanical in his characterizations, but when you dig deeper there’s a far more interesting sense of commitment which belies emotion without burying it. The Mann principals remain externally devoted and internally conflicted, markedly male traits.

43.) Fight Club (Fincher, 1999) - I really struggled with where to put this film, as well as whether to include Fincher’s Se7en. My feelings about him have somewhat cooled lately, for a number of reasons. I’m very insistent on moving beyond a simple style test, and that makes me question how much substance exists for Fincher’s work. The people who’ve misunderstood Fight Club only to embrace it on some level of shallow admiration also discourage me. I’ve always liked the film, though, from seeing an almost empty screening on its intial release through several subsequent viewings on DVD. It has a power of fleeting revolution and it’s difficult to deny Fincher’s command of the visceral aspects of filmmaking. I’m not turning my nose up at Se7en either, as it too provides a specialized form of entertainment, but it’s Fight Club that remains the more cohesive, affecting work by some margin.

44.) Kika (Almodóvar, 1993) - I’ve really grown to embrace the outrageous part of Almodóvar’s films after seeing that shock value is or was only one of his dimensions. So with Kika, probably the director’s most unapologetic and irreverent movie, the humor of madness becomes both part of the point and, typical of Almodóvar, an offering of odd appeasement. When a rape scene from a feminist-minded director can be shown as comedic - and disturbingly funny at that - I think it’s fair to separate the reality of the film from what’s expected while still recognizing that the implications of the scene remain ripe for consideration. But Kika is hardly defined by that one sequence, and it’s really the entire hysterical insanity, deftly mixed with another of Almodóvar’s macabre plots, that makes the film both fascinating and unforgettable.

45.) The Player (Altman, 1992) - There’s an incestuous quality in seeing Robert Altman gather so many recognizable Hollywood people, often playing themselves, and then use them for a movie in which the tone could hardly be more hostile against the business of making movies. Sure it’s satire done with a heavy dose of cynicism, but much of the inside goings-on (the ridiculously stupid pitches at the beginning that still sound like ideas Hollywood would try if desperate enough) have a real sharpness that Altman refuses to tone down. The director’s next picture, Short Cuts, is now discussed a bit more, but I think my preference is still for The Player.

46.) Dr. Akagi (Imamura, 1998) - Imamura’s Cannes honoree The Eel probably enjoys a slightly higher reputation - and it too should be seen - but I think with Dr. Akagi we see the director’s humor return more fully. The film, about a doctor tirelessly leading the fight against hepatitis in a small village and intent on diagnosing almost any ailment as hepatitis, maintains a serious tone but with a delightfully twisted undercurrent very characteristic of Imamura’s films from the sixties. It’s not hardly as good or as forceful as those pictures, indicative of a clearly mellowed if not entirely softened filmmaker. I still think it carries a lovely weight, of determination in the face of aging and dwindled support, without overselling the case.

47.) The Limey (Soderbergh, 1999) - Style, style, style. Director Steven Soderbergh neatly mashes together a cool collection of songs and unusual editing with a standard revenge plot for a film that ends up standing out particularly for its direction and a frightening central performance from Terence Stamp. There’s not a lot on these bones, but Soderbergh manipulates everything he has to such a degree that the film becomes a joy to watch.

48.) A River Runs Through It (Redford, 1992) - When I first saw this movie I wanted nothing more than to find a stream in Montana and flyfish the rest of my days. That effect, done via Oscar-winning cinematography and the amiable seriousness of the story, is rekindled each time I watch the film and I doubt I’m alone. There’s a simplicity that contrasts well against the inner turmoil of the two brothers, giving the entire thing a welcome quality expected from Redford’s classical style of filmmaking. I couldn’t say whether it’s the setting or the scenery or my own nostalgia, but this is still a movie I’m quite fond of and can watch every so often.

49.) Being John Malkovich (Jonze, 1999) - First, all of Charlie Kaufman’s filmed scripts could benefit from a tad more restraint and some extra refining, I think. He’s undoubtedly the most inventive screenwriter of his generation, but each and every one of the films he’s written so far could stand to be shortened and have a more narrow focus. Being John Malkovich, in particular, gets bogged down in the marital problems of the characters played by John Cusack and Cameron Diaz when there seems to be so much more of interest in the Malkovich portal aspects. Second-guessing makes me feel uncomfortably pompous, but I’m sure both that the premise of the film had the potential to produce an even better movie and that the result as is remains pretty darn impressive.

50.) La cérémonie (Chabrol, 1995) - Claude Chabrol has been making a movie every year or so for decades now, but unlike, for example, Woody Allen, there generally isn’t one or two acknowledged masterpieces that everyone loves more than the rest of a consistently strong output. At times, Chabrol can seem like a victim of his own prolificness. There are some that often stand out more than others, and La cérémonie, a psychological thriller in every sense of the phrase, sits deservingly with the best I’ve seen from the director. The lead performances from an unnerving Isabelle Huppert and the vulnerable Sandrine Bonnaire slowly build a film that always seems to be about something more than just that central relationship of manipulation, until it finally isn’t.