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Paul Thomas Anderson, the best living modern American Director, won the Best Director Prize in 2002 at Cannes for his work on "Punch Drunk Love," an absurdist and morbidly dark comedy on finding love.  The film, in an unusual casting move, starred Adam Sandler, a one-time Box Office God ("Big Daddy," "Anger Management").  At less than 90 minutes in running time, Anderson ironically doesn't really on quick jump cuts to propel his narrative; he trusts his camera--photographed by the great Robert Elswit--to observe its subjects and to pull in and out of its depth of view for prolonged periods of time.  The result is pure movie escapism at its best.

The scene: There are no titlecards. No recognizable rock tune.  Just the sound of a vacant lot garage, and Barry Egan's (Adam Sandler) quiet voice on the phone.  We see, from an angle on the far side of the garage, Barry sitting at his desk.  He's on the phone with a customer assistance rep for Health Choice.  They're discussing the possible loophole in a free flyer miles promotion.  After the conversation Barry looks toward the garage entrance, as if something dangerous is approaching.  Nothing happens.  He leaves the garage, walks across the lot, toward the main road.  The colors in the sky suggest that it's very early in the morning.  Toward screen left, we see small headlights approaching fast.  A car is coming.  Just about when the car is at center screen it inexplicably jumps off the ground and does some terribly violent sideway spins, crashing forward.  Amidst the confusion, an unmarked van pulls directly in front of the camera, blocking the entire field of view, thus covering the car accident, and some unknown hands drop off a small wooden harmonium in screen center.  It also must be noted that once the approach to the main road begins, all of this happens in one long, dreary-like take.

Why we love it: It's art.  As simple as that.  The fact that Anderson could make the harmonium--as Ebert said--"at once the most innocent and ominous of objects," is geniune story telling, and thus superior filmmaking.  Plus, for Sandler fans in the audience thinking they're going to get another "Mr. Deeds," this dark and mysterious opening knocks that assumption away and sets up the mood and unpredictable nature of the entire film.  More importantly, it's a scene that exemplifies what can happen when you just watch.  Movies like the "Bourne" trilogy have so many quick takes, and jump cuts, that it's dizzying at times to process such boatloads of information (much of it useless too).  Anderson believes in showing--not telling.  And just by simply observing environment, he exercises what is so great about the art of celluloid: sight and sound.  We have visceral, gut reactions when he hear the car crash.  When we listen to Barry's conversation, we're just as lost or uninterested as the customer rep on the other line.  And when that harmonium is dumped on our nose, we know we're in for a totally unique moviegoing experience.