The Smaller, the Taller

Now and again as I sit here on my power perch, having just praised some pleasing cinematic trifle with a mot so bon it could singlehandedly vault the producers into new tax brackets, or having characterized some hack with invective withering enough to permanently brand his pathetic career like some Puritan mark of shame, I feel the kind of exhilaration and awesome responsibility usually reserved for prison-camp triage officers and college admissions personnel.

Then, of course, the medication begins to take hold, slowing down my overactive neurotransmitter reuptake. The walls return to their drab perpendicularity and my fantasies of cineastic world dominion gently ebb.

Just as well, I say: The opinion part of criticism -- as opposed to the description, analysis, and context parts, among others -- is a largely individual business that can be affected by personality, class background, experience, mood, hormonal balance, number of hours of sleep, elapsed time since last sexual encounter, quality of said encounter, recent exposure to tainted food products, or simple orneriness.

It's the job of a professional to filter out or compensate for as many of these factors as possible, or at least to flag them for the reader. ("Despite a witty script, incisive direction, and dazzling performances, Purple Like Grapes is sabotaged by uncomfortable seats....")

The greatest factor in trying to assemble a Top 10 list is quite obviously what films one has seen. Nobody, not even Roger and Gene, sees everything. In 1985, my most frenetic year, I saw perhaps 80 percent of what opened; this year there were so many new films that the number amounts only to about 50 percent.

The most noticeable change in my list from 1995 is the proportion of studio films. Last year the big guys were responsible for at least half of my favorites. This year only one studio release, Bottle Rocket, made the cut, and that one, for better or worse, felt like an indie film that got studio backing by accident.

There were a number of solidly entertaining big-deal films, such as Twister and Independence Day (which did, er, rather well) and The Long Kiss Goodnight (which didn't). But this year's best news was a slight upswing in the number of first-rate foreign films to get commercial distribution stateside, particularly from France.

The qualification rules for my list are a liberal version of the academy's rules for Oscar eligibility: Films must have opened in Los Angeles commercially during the calendar year and must have played for a week -- unless there's something I really love that doesn't quite qualify.

The usual cautions apply: These are my choices for best, which generally -- but not always -- coincide with my favorites. The list has shifted several times in the making and is likely to shift (in my head) again.

1. Breaking the Waves. The 160-minute English-language film from Danish director Lars Von Trier is the sort of deep-dish drama I usually loathe. But Von Trier manages to take on such issues as "God: Does He exist? And what does He want with us?" without ever growing oppressively pretentious. Strangely, despite the film's ironic view, which carefully straddles the fence throughout, Von Trier chooses to end it on a simplistic, greeting-card image of faith. Emily Watson, in her film debut, gives an astonishing performance. She is in nearly every scene, mixing elfin appeal and slightly lamebrained good cheer with a sense of doom and insanity.

2. Chungking Express. Wong Kar-Wai's 1994 award-winner, released here this year by Quentin Tarantino's Rolling Thunder division of Miramax, is not only atypical of Hong Kong cinema, it's essentially sui generis: a romance and a comedy but not a romantic comedy, a story about cops and smugglers but not an action film, an art film that doesn't try to bludgeon you with its artiness. It contains two different stories that have only the most tangential plot connection. Still, the two stories fit together thematically; Wong depicts an intense urban world in which people are jammed together so tightly that they are frightfully isolated. An amusing script, dazzling visuals, and an irresistibly winning performance from punkish, gawky Faye Wong.

3. Bottle Rocket. This relatively low-budget story about a group of altogether believable wannabe criminal masterminds was co-written by director Wes Anderson and pal Owen Wilson; Wilson and his brother Luke play the two leads. (Lumi Cavazos, James Caan, and Bob Musgrave costar.) Its tone has elements of Jim Jarmusch and the Coen brothers but without Jarmusch's self-conscious artiness or the Coens' hip snottiness.

4. Three Lives and Only One Death. The films of Chilean expatriate director Raul Ruiz rarely get a theatrical release in the United States. Ruiz's latest -- which was apparently Marcello Mastroianni's last performance -- combines the virtues of Hollywood entertainment while stripping away the barnacles: Playing with our ossified expectations of film narrative, it gives us a fresh sense of the possibilities of the medium.

5. Fargo. It has taken me most of the year to come to terms with Joel and Ethan Coen's story about a dim used car salesman (William H. Macy) who hires two professional thugs (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare) to kidnap his wife for ransom. The film is hysterically funny, operating in a deadpan tone throughout, but I was extremely bothered by what I took to be the Coens' usual contempt for their own characters. The meanness of their approach here seemed relentless (finding endless sport in regional accents, say). But I've come around: The key is the protagonist, small-town police chief Marge (Frances McDormand); she's the most Minnesotan of all, and the filmmakers unquestionably love her.

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