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It still remains my favorite Woody Allen film. After twenty years, "Crimes and Misdemeanors" still holds up as a deeply funny and courageously thought-provoking infliction toward the human condition, the human soul and the human experience. The main narrative thread of the film follows the comedic misanthropy of Cliff Stern (Woody Allen) while also juxtaposing him against the curdling malice--and later, deep regret--of Judah Rosenthal (Martin Landau). It is with Rosenthal's story that one of the film's many great scenes comes into profound focus.

The scene: Judah (Landau), while trying to register a horrific crime he just participated in, revisits his old childhood home to find some comfort. The house, now occupied by new tenants, remains more or less a picturesque mirror of his memory. It is when Judah actually hears forks clinking and voices from the dining room does a bizarre flashback scene begin; Judah stands inside his own flashback at one of his family's past Seder (passover) dinners. He also breaks timeline logic by participating in the discussion (an act that yells "Marty McFly!"). Inside the flashback, the dialogue at the dinner table copes with the possibility of a universe with no God. An argument is made between Judah's father and Judah's aunt. The father believes in his biblical teachings and insists that evil will always go punished (even in the afterlife). The aunt says there is no afterlife: "I say if he can do it and get away with it, and he chooses not to be bothered by the ethics, then he’s home free. Remember, history is written by the winners. And if the Nazis had won, future generations would understand the story of World War II quite differently." In the end, this information is both puzzling and promising for Judah.

Why we love it: As viewers, we know Judah's secret crime: he arranged for the murder of his mistress in order to avoid wrecking his own public image within his community. In the film, Judah is always looking for a rational pardon from outside authority. Ironically enough, he asks a Rabbi early in the film for moral guidance--only to later learn that the same Rabbi has gone blind. There is potency in that. If the Rabbi represents a higher authority (therefore one that can punish a crime) and that higher authority can no longer see crimes, well then in this universe CRIME CAN AND WILL GO UNPUNISHED. This provocative idea is beautifully articulated in this flashback dinner scene. What Woody Allen, as the writer and filmmaker of "Crimes and Misdemeanors," is suggesting, is that we are essentially alone in the universe. There is no one watching us. So what is the significance of religion or an institution that encourages a rigid set of beliefs? This is what Allen is fascinated with. In the flashback, after the aunt renders Judah's father's case of 'evil always going punished' to in fact be wrong, the father answers, “Then I’ll still have a better life than all those that doubt.” Judah's aunt then asks, “Do you mean that you prefer God to the truth?”  “If necessary," Judah's father begins, "I will always choose God over truth.” In a film known for its cosmic cynicism, this is the moment that pounds the audience down. Allen acknowledges the scary realization of a human existence without purpose--and points out the even scarier idea of choosing to ignore that.

You can watch this terrific scene by clicking HERE.

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Aside from being voted the best film of the 1990s (that's right, it even beat "Goodfellas" and "JFK") by the great Roger Ebert, Steve James' "Hoop Dreams" is essential viewing for anyone who is serious about filmmaking. If there's one word that comes to mind with this film it's this: dedication. Dedication on the part of the two young individuals we meet--Arthur Agee and William Gates--and their marriage to their NBA dreams, dedication on the part of their families who suffer equally if not more at times & the dedication of Mr. James and his filmmaking team who followed both subjects for more than 5 years with an unblinking eye.

The scene: After witnessing several unexpected developments--including William Gates becoming a father during his Junior year of high school--throughout most of "Hoop Dreams," we are met with this touching surprise: Arthur Agee's mother Sheila, has completed a nurse's assistant class from a local community center. On paper, this doesn't scream "staggering achievement" to the naked eye, but viewers of "Dreams" can appreciate and relish at such a scene. Especially after having seen some of Sheila Agee's struggles, including being abandoned by her drug-addled husband, having to go on welfare for months--and even having her electricity cut off in her apartment, thus leaving her and her kids literally in the dark. Structurally, the scene fits in between a crucial game for William Gates and an upcoming, defining game for Arthur. Only clocking in at a handful of minutes, we see Sheila Agee becoming informed of her high test scores, her emotional reaction and then a modest nurse's assistant graduation at the Bethel Employment Services Center.  After the short ceremony concludes, the documentary pummels ahead to Arthur's important basketball game.

Why we love it: Because this scene doesn't come near the end of "Hoop Dreams," we don't see Sheila's graduation as a conclusive victory but rather as a tragic foil to the bigger picture of the culture's obsession with the mostly elusive basketball dream.  Notice the closing shot of Sheila's graduation: the camera is almost outside of the room, showing rows upon empty rows of vacant seats. Sheila Agee's certification will guarantee the ailing Agee family some sort of supplemental income that wasn't there the day before.  Also, her commitment to completing her nursing class will send a direct message to Arthur and his siblings about staying in school and the importance of receiving their high school diploma.  These are all valid and vital effects of such a moment in all of their lives. But where are the fans? Where is the support?  It's such a subtle stroke of visual commentary that most viewers miss out on it during initial viewings. All through "Hoop Dreams" is this unspoken undercurrent of a changing America, where dreams are replaced with name brand shoes and sports jackets. In another scene, Arthur even admits that local drug dealers give the neighborhood basketball players money strictly for buying new sports apparel, so they can wear it and show off. In the dire city slums, it seems that most tangible goals morph into fruitless channels of exploitation.  What's worse is the crooked value system.  When the environment around you is deteriorating on both a social and economic level, doesn't the image and lifestyle of the poster celebrity figure seem more valuable than say, your mother's affirmation of personal goals? The scary answer: yes.  Which is why in a sprawling documentary that shows all the red tape of chasing the American NBA dream, a scene like Sheila's graduation (and believe me there are scenes similar to this wisely sprayed over the running time) is a tender, treasure of a moment.  And the fact that perhaps some of the people living in that moment may not realize it, makes it all the more heartbreaking. And human.

Watch Sheila graduate and then the contrasting game atmosphere that follows HERE.

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What was originally perceived as a cover song of his previous "Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels," Writer/Director Guy Ritchie's "Snatch" opened to a mildly receptive audience. Pretty much, everyone felt that they had already heard this song already--just played before with different instruments: an ensemble of criminal and social misfits, all connected through an accidentally complex tapestry of fate, fuck-ups and possible divine intervention.  Almost ten years later, it's hard to run into a film lover who doesn't have this DVD laying on their coffee table as the stay-in-for-the-night-entertainment everyone can agree on.

The scene: Skipping ahead of its colorful opening segments, in which we're introduced to a character actor roster only the cinema gods can grant (including the untouchable Dennis Farina--watch out for his cross-section spew out on what "London" is), this particular scene has Stephen Graham (most recently Baby Face Nelson in Mann's "Public Enemies") in a shady cash purchase of a Caravan from a band of Gypsies.  Aided by the physical presence of the large Gorgeous George (an underground boxer he co-manages), Graham's Tommy character tries to comprehend the jibber-jabber-dialect of Mickey O'Neill (Brad Pitt, in an against-type supporting turn) who seems to be the alpha Gypsy of the clan (although here the term "Pikey" sometimes gets tossed around in place of Gypsy).  When Mickey and his buddies sell Tommy and Gorgeous George a defective Caravan, the pair of groups decide to settle the matter in a bare knuckle boxing match between Mickey and the gargantuan Gorgeous George (Adam Fogerty).  Of course, things go exactly wrong during the fight, as Mickey turns out to be a bare knuckle boxing champion and unbelievably knocks out Gorgeous George.  Plus, this impressive sequence ends with The Strangler's "Golden Brown" song rising on the film's soundtrack.

Why we love it: Watching the film on DVD now, gives us a sort of revived appreciation for Ritchie's unsung caper (and I'll admit it now, it's sort of a modest masterpiece in the lurid place of crime films) so there are really countless "great" scenes.  If we take the context of this scene into thought, we know that Gorgeous George is only days away from an important rigged fight for the notorious crime lord Brick Top (one of the great crime figures in film history, yes I said it) so the fact that he will essentially be bed ridden leaves Tommy (and his partner played by Jason Statham) in a really fucked situation.  The added dilemma of Tommy actually being killed by the angry Pikeys on the spot doesn't really help either.  If anything, the scene is a microcosm of the entire film in general: What always begins as a simple transaction slyly turns into a proposition and then ends fatal.  If anything, "Snatch" is Ritchie's term paper on the crime genre turned on its head.  In American crime films, theses murderistic figures are usually glorified to an almost untouchable status, leaving us longing to secretly live a life of crime.  With "Snatch" [and also "Lock, Stock" as well as the recent "RocknRolla"] Ritchie chooses to embody the cinematic criminal as an outsider who yearns to be accepted through an unpopular channel (the breaking the law one) and constantly has other independent agents of the same nature crashing into one other.  What we then see is a herd of lost souls all looking to piss on each other in order to, well, in a sense, get a better Caravan.

Watch how "Golden Brown" wraps up this scene here.

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Say what you will about the artist Vincent Gallo but the guy has style. Sure he made fun of then 17 year old Christina Ricci's (his co-star in "Buffalo 66") weight. Sure he refuses to explain his work when asked. Sure he is a self-obsessed creator. Sure he is outspoken and has said things like, "I stopped painting in 1990 at the peak of my success just to deny people my beautiful paintings; and I did it out of spite." But like I said: the guy has style.

The scene: First off, "Buffalo 66" is showered with great scenes and moments. If you don't think so, stop reading here.  Okay, those of you still with it, you can understand why I would choose the strip club scene. It's where the whole film is headed, with all its obscurities and self pity, and it is in the strip club where we get tangible action that could inspire its own spin off chase flick. In simple terms, the scene has Gallo walk in, look around at strippers, find Wood, and then shoots him. The twist is that right after, Gallo puts the gun to his own temple and pulls the trigger. Of course, the double twist is that we soon discover all of it isn't real. Gallo never shoots Wood; by this point he rediscovers himself and life and decides first degree murder may not be a smart thing to do days out of the slammer. Though nothing about this scene in these simple terms is daring or fresh, it's in the execution (primarily through the work of visionary DP Lance Acord) of the images.

Why we love it: Again, the images. Gallo is an artist. Acord is a master of the lighting and focus craft. Together, there' s an orgy of ideas and bravura. Consider first the music, "Heart of the Sunrise" by Yes. And then look at the arrangment of shots. We see a stage with three strippers. Each of them does a "get down" dance with a single light color beaming up from the floor. Red. The other white. Once all three dance in unison, it's a patriotic visual of red, white and blue. The whores of America. Or is the America the whore? No matter. When we get to Scott Wood, there is some comedy, because he is fat and is dressed as a Chippendale. When Gallo pulls the gun on him and fires, we dip to white and then come back to a fascinating arrangmenet of images. A full year before the original "The Matrix" was released, Gallo broke visual barriers with these images. Pretty much, the camera would move but the individual(s) would remain frozen. Sort of like walking around a model in a wax museum. I especially like the frozen/static blood squirt effect out the back of Wood's head. Yeah, people might ask "How can this be a 'favorite scene'?" It's just one of those moments in indie cinema where you feel with that all the $100 million dollar budget projects in the world couldn't come close to the effect this scene has. Simple as that.

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Before the Coen Brothers were wrongly robbing prizes from Paul Thomas Anderson (read here), they were winning thoroughly deserved prizes for their best film to date with "Barton Fink." "Barton" made headlines in 1991 after winning an unanswered three top prizes at the Cannes Film Festival: Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor. The Cannes Film Festival has rules of awarding a film a maximum of one prize. Well, "Barton Fink" made quite the impression.

The scene: As our title character Fink (John Turturro) is getting arrested by a couple of detectives, for crimes he is not responsible for, the hotel elevator rings. Charlie is here. Charlie Meadows, of course is played by John Goodman, in a performance that deserves to be studied. Up until this climatic moment, Barton and Charlie have grown very amiable with each other; hotel neighbors who couldn't be anymore dissimilar (both in physical and mental stature). Barton, we know, has serious writer's block. Charlie, that mysterious, large man next door, goes on travels for periods of times, and well--heads start to roll. Literally. The homicidal angle isn't the kicker though. The Coens really weird things out by making the physical and metaphysical world fuck each other silly. As Charlie runs down the hallway, the walls catch fire. "I'll show you the life of the mind!" Charlie yells as he shoots at the detectives. After the first detective is dead, and the second injured, Charlie slows to a steady march to deliver the killing shot to the second detective. This image, is one of the most iconic of the last twenty years. Photographed from the inside of Barton's room, where he is handcuffed to the bedpost, we see a side profile view of Charlie march by the open door, sweaty, rifle in hand, with brilliant colors of the fire from the wall on the other side of him. Charlie lowers the rifle to the second detective's head. "Heil Hitler!" he declares. Boom.

Why we love it: There is tremendous power in this scene. For a film that for many viewers is quite frustrating, comes this wholly organic and visceral few moments that transcend logical explanation or categorization. It goes to a level that no one can label. "I'll show you the life the mind! I'll show you the life of the mind! I WILL SHOW YOU THE LIFE OF THE MIND!!!" Charlie bellows. The rawness of the performance, mixed with the uneasiness from the bluntness of the violence creates this dizzying effect for viewers. The Hitler remark usually throws some viewers off too. That's if you read it off of a page. But listen to Charlie say it. There's a frankness to his voice while delivering that salute. Don't forget that "Barton Fink" takes place in 1930s Hollywood--a locale serene and picture perfect place and one that is far, far away from the eve of the second world war. Though on a timeline America is on the cusp of WWII, the entertainment industry couldn't be more detached in its own absurdness. Still, in a general plot outline of the struggles of writer's block and the search for creativity, to work in this post-modern aesthetic portrayal of madness is quite utterly divine. Here the Coens deserved every award handed to them.

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"Yeah, you know what love is right?"

Al Pacino.  One of the greats.  Who gives a shit if he was in "Simone" (aka "S1m0ne").  "Dog Day Afternoon," Sydney Lumet's staggering masterpiece, is still one of my handful of all-time favorites.

The scene:  After a tumultuous afternoon, and a heavily faulted attempted bank robbery, Sonny Wortzik (Pacino) decides to call both of his wives.  The first is Leon Shermer (an Oscar nominated Chris Sarandon), a male trying to get a sex change operation.  Leon is across the street, in the barbershop overrun with cops and negotiators.  There's is a conversation about hopes, dreams and and a cloudy future.  Is there a Johnson's in Algeria?  Sonny's next call is to his wife Angie Wortzik (Susan Peretz), the robust mother of his children.  Here we see the nucleus of Sonny's turmoil as Sonny can barely nest his feelings into Angie without having to scream at her, in a desperate attempt to dilute her crying and teary-eyed demands.  Once all is said, the camera holds on Sonny as he collapses his head onto the desk he's sitting at, weeping in defeat.

Why we love it:  Pacino is a marvel to study.  Look at his eyeballs; it's almost like they're sweating in nervousness.  The phone calls themselves happen in two orchestral movements.  With Leon, the conversation is calm, almost at ease, at least in tone.  But the camera is alive.  In fact the shot of Leon getting on the phone happens in a way that makes the audience feel like a wild predator, as the camera slowly inches around a barbershop chair, through police and toward an immobile Leon.  Theirs is a conversation of star-crossed lovers (at least they used to be) but the camera is restless--almost violent.  With Angie, Lumet has the camera on a tripod, half looking down an apartment corridor and half-exposing a living room.  We wait for Angie to come into our depth of view, toward us, and it's our own eyes doing most of the work.  The camera stays put.  But the conversation between Sonny and Angie is like hot lava; it's violent.  Just watch how Sonny presses that white towel against his head at one point--it might as well be a pistol.  Lumet creates a dynamic stasis by executing these two phone conversations,  and the effect is emotionally overwhelming.

Note: It's said that while shooting, Lumet himself started to weep behind the camera once Pacino finally broke down after his phone calls. 

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The film Steven Spielberg will ultimately be remembered for, "Schindler's List" is essential viewing for any aspiring filmmaker or film scholar.  As Hollywood offers one Holocaust film after the other, from Tim Blake Nelson's "The Grey Zone" to Roman Polanski's "The Pianist," none can ever seem to match the emotional greatness of Spielberg's 1993 masterpiece, which was mostly shot in black and white.

The scene: Straddled on a horse, amidst a hilltop with a female companion, Nazi party affiliate Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson) looks down at the liquidation of a ghetto.  The horrific site of Nazi soldiers dividing and swarming through the streets is only more terrifying when the sight of a lone young girl, no older than ten, can be seen walking through the chaos.  We can make her out because Spielberg decided to emulate the red color of her coat.  As the camera pans across the streets, from the hilltop view, we can see a line of male Jews executed in front of a wall, and others forced onto the backs of trucks which are gearing to go toward concentration camps.  And still, when the little girl comes even into the corner of the frame, our eyes wander to her, quietly hoping she makes it out.

Why we love it: Coupled with the heartbreaking music, this imagery of innocence threatened (the girl in the red coat) is perhaps the most potent and memorable scene of a film already heavily laced with tremendous, iconic imagery and cinematography.  The girl in red has taken on many meanings, but the most basic is perhaps the most powerful: she isn't saved.  If you study the cover or poster of "Schindler's List" it is easy to see that the hand reaching down from above is of an adult's and the child hand reaching from below comes out from a red coat sleeve.  That visual is shattering when a later scene in the film is considered: as Schindler follows the smoke of a nearby burning, he notices the burnt red coat being hauled toward the pile of human ash.  A life not saved.  Filmmaking in its highest regard.

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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.

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Oh man.  "Dumb and Dumber," probably one of the most cherished comedies of all time, has reached such an elusive cult status of screwball genius, that each time I watch it, I find myself picking and choosing different scenes for why I consider it great.  Yeah, yeah, I'll get emails spewing me out for saying an ultimately flawed comedy is 'great,' but this mid-90s gem is something of a miracle.

The scene: Harry (Jeff Daniels) and Lloyd (Jim Carrey) are at a roadside diner enjoying some afternoon burgers.  Lloyd's "Hey Flo" remark is priceless.  Then, after an attempt to reverse a superstitious curse goes haywire (Harry throws the entire saltshaker over his shoulder, rather than just the proposed pinch), Harry is stuck with a snot-filled burger courtesy of an angry truck driver.  Lloyd then enthusiastically urges Harry to follow his lead: they're going to get even.  Lloyd employs a tactic he saw in a film, where the unsuspecting neighboring table picks up their huge tab.

Why we love it: There's the initial chuckle Harry draws from literally throwing the entire salt shaker.  More striking, is the manic, childlike reaction Carrey lends to Lloyd: As the angry truck driver looms toward their table, Lloyd shrouds in the corner of his end of the booth, pointing a trembling arm and hand toward Harry.  The double take Harry gives to Lloyd is all the more cherished because it is cut short by the short depiction of the truck driver blowing his snot into Harry's freshly-cooked burger.  Then, in a remarkable coup of development, Lloyd's plan to get even actually works.  Both the cashier and table of truck drivers fall to Lloyd's scheme.  There is justice in the universe of movies!

That is until Lloyd brings up the fact, down the road in the van, that the characters in a film who performed the same trick had their throats slit shortly after. "It's a good one!"

Oh man. 

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