Christopher Lee

I was recently telling a friend (who's a Brit) about some of the English films I'd seen recently: "The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp," "Zulu," "The Meaning of Life," etc. One of them was Richard Lester's 1973 adaptation of "The Three Musketeers." I mentioned that while I found the fight scenes to be a bit dull, I was very much amused by all the comedy in it, and that the cast was terrific. One of the members featured was the towering figure with a deep baritone voice, Christopher Lee, one of my favorite actors. In it, Lee plays Rochefort, the one-eyed henchman of Cardinal Richelieu (played by Charlton Heston), a man whom he despises but ultimately is obedient to. Lee as Rochefort struts around with such confidence that he doesn't even flinch as a bumbling future musketeer (played by Michael York) comes crashing down near him, desperate for a fight with the man we know he can't possibly beat. And if Lee's performances over the years had anything to do with that character's realization, it's understandable: Lee fought 17 sword fights in films (a record), including one of his last, with Yoda, in "Star Wars: Attack of the Clones." Their fight was so entertaining that they won the MTV Movie Award for Best Fight, and Yoda accepted the award and gave a complimentary shout-out to his on-screen adversary Lee (as well as giving thanks to the audience and "your queen...Latifa").

Anyway, I mentioned the words "still kicking" in regards to 93-year-old Christopher Lee to my friend, to which he raised an eyebrow and responded that Lee had died. I told him that wasn't true, that Lee, who was knighted in 2009 and received an honorary Bafta two years later (and who holds the record for the most film appearances--244) was still alive. A quick Google search revealed that I was wrong, that Lee had actually been dead for over a week. What an actor we have lost. This is a man, an actual descendant of Charlemagne and a trained opera singer, who on his 91st birthday released a heavy metal album. According to Rob Bricken, his life featured numerous incredible events, both tragic and impressive: He met the assassins of Rasputin when he was a child, could speak six languages, witnessed the last public execution by guillotine in France, fought the Nazis in North Africa and helped retake Sicily, and worked for the secretive Special Operations Executive (aka "The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Wars"). His bravery earned him commendations from the British, Polish, Czech, and Yugoslavian governments, and all of this was before he was 25. All that triumph meant there were more than enough episodes of disturbances. He claimed to have seen many people die in front of him, some of them blown to pieces. On the DVD commentary of "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King," Peter Jackson described how Lee re-directed the acting of a death scene to show how someone actually dies when being stabbed, but didn't need to elaborate on how he knew.

Like many young people, I first saw Lee in 2001 in "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring," his best film. In it, he plays Sauruman the White, the wizard corrupted by Saron's power. His fight scene with Ian McKellen as Gandalf the Grey is truly spectacular. I don't think I really understood quite who Lee was as an actor until I was introduced to some of the Hammer horror films he first became known for. He appeared in 1957 as the Creature in "The Curse of Frankenstein," a gorier version of the famous story, but despite the gore, Lee appeared to have never judged these characters he played. He once said that he "always felt sorry for them, that they didn't want to be that." The grotesque makeup applied to him and the lack of dialogue do not do much to present an image of the actor's abilities, but the film's follow-up did. That film was in 1958 as Dracula, the elegant count. The Guardian put it this way: "Christopher Lee was Dracula; he had taken over the character as clearly as Sean Connery took over James Bond."

And these two films weren't even his best horror films. The best was what's been called the "'Citizen Kane' of horror movies," the disturbing movie from 1973 called "The Wicker Man" (not to be confused with the one featuring Nicolas Cage and his bees). Here Lee is not disfigured or suave, but fairly normal, as are most of the citizens in the peculiar pagan village. The climax at the conclusion of the film is utterly terrifying, perhaps because, unlike Dracula and Frankenstein, this scenario seemed, for whatever reason, to be quite real.

But the '70s and especially '80s weren't all that glorious for Lee. He was continually being overplayed as Dracula (and even claimed that he was being blackmailed to keep appearing in those films), and aside from "The Wicker Man" and "The Three Musketeers" trilogy, there wasn't anything that truly challenged him. He appeared as a Bond villain against Roger Moore in "The Man With the Golden Gun" (Ian Fleming was a cousin of his), and yet that film comes across as tremendously flat (and Lee's character having three nipples added unnecessary absurdity). But he owes a lot of his renaissance to Tim Burton, who was such a fan of Gothic horror that he cast Lee in a small yet powerful role in "Sleepy Hollow," his 1999 adaptation of the famous story. From there, Lee was used in practically all of Burton's films: "Corpse Bride," "Alice in Wonderland," "Dark Shadows," and best of all in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," playing Willy Wonka's strict dentist father. ("Lollipops. What we call cavities on a stick!") From there, George Lucas cast him as Darth Tyranus in the "Star Wars" prequel trilogy, and then Martin Scorsese picked him for a small but memorable role in "Hugo."

The role he was most proud of was in "Jinnah," playing the founder of modern-day Pakistan. The role he was most ashamed of is unclear, though he clearly grew sick of the Dracula image. There is one film, though, that he perhaps would like not to be remembered for. In 1970, he flew to Spain to shoot a film about the Marquis de Sade for one day's worth of work as the film's narrator. According to an interview with Nigel Farndale of the Telegraph, Lee had a friend who told him there was a dirty theater showing a movie he was in. Heavily disguised in dark glasses and a scarf, he found out that it was indeed true: the movie he had filmed turned out to be a softcore porn film.

The opponent of many of Lee's characters on screen was Peter Cushing, but they were tremendously good friends in life. When asked about Cushing, who died in 1994, Lee sadly said the following:

"I don't want to sound gloomy, but, at some point of your lives, every one of you will notice that you have in your life one person, one friend whom you love and care for very much. That person is so close to you that you are able to share some things only with him. For example, you can call that friend, and from the very first maniacal laugh or some other joke you will know who is at the other end of that line. We used to do that with him so often. And then when that person is gone, there will be nothing like that in your life ever again."

I think the same could be said of Christopher Lee, a man unlike any other in the cinema, and there will be no one else like him in our movie-going lives ever again. Rest in peace, Sir Christopher.

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Steve Martin

I am not a man of too many accomplishments, but there is one achievement that I am very proud of. In college, as a Theatre minor, I got to direct an adaptation of Steve Martin's play "WASP." "WASP" is a clever satire of 1950s American nostalgia, using a family of four as a vehicle to poke fun at the "Leave It to Beaver" traditionalism and "simplicity" of the time. I cast a group of friends and fellow Theatre folks for the project. One of them, a very talented young man who excelled at improv and creating eccentric characters, had a goatee and long, curly red hair; he was cast as the young boy of the family--the goatee remained. It was an introduction for me to theatre of the absurd.

Steve Martin, who was rightfully and humorously described by Steve Carell as an "American treasure," is one of the great masters of absurdism. Consider his stand-up career in the '70s when he would strut around the stage with an arrow through his head, or when he danced majestically with Gilda Radner on "Saturday Night Live." Hell, in his first movie, "The Jerk," he told us he was "born a poor black child" and is stunned to learn that in reality is white. "The Jerk" is not his funniest film--the winner of that title goes to John Hughes' "Planes, Trains & Automobiles." Playing a common man struggling to make it home in time for Thanksgiving, he faces hurdle after Job-like hurdle, and on his journey he is joined by the late, great John Candy. Martin's character clearly despises Candy's, despite how gosh-darn nice the latter is. Perhaps the most famous scene is when the two, forced to share a hotel room, wake up to find themselves a bit too close to each other. But the best scene, the scene where we really connect with him, is his diatribe to the car rental lady, and here it is verbatim:

Car Rental Agent: How may I help you?
Neal: You can start by wiping that fucking dumb-ass smile off your rosey, fucking cheeks. And you can give me a fucking automobile: a fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick! Four fucking wheels and a seat!
Car Rental Agent: I really don't care for the way you're speaking to me.
Neal: And I really don't care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking car that isn't fucking there. And I really didn't care to fucking walk, down a fucking highway, and across a fucking runway to get back here to have you smile in my fucking face. I want a fucking car right fucking now.
Car Rental Agent: May I see your rental agreement?
Neal: I threw it away.
Car Rental Agent: Oh, boy.
Neal: Oh boy what?
Car Rental Agent: You're fucked!

I think we all sort of fantasize about delivering a tirade in that manner when things don't go our way, particularly when we're up against a company, but the result Neal faces is what we truly fear and what ultimately deters us. Incidentally, reading the dialogue makes Neal appear quite psychotic, but watching Martin deliver the lines, slowly and clearly emphasizing all those f-bombs without being bombastic, shows us he's just really, really stressed and really, really thinks (knows) he has been wronged.

The American Film Institute's honor of Steve Martin will air tonight on TBS. Truth be told, the AFI ceremony is usually the best of the year. It's better than the Oscars, the Kennedy Center Honors, and even the Golden Globes. Past ceremonies have included Sean Connery dancing better than any man half his age to Scottish music, Jim Carrey bringing Meryl Streep to tears of laughter, Betty White performing an adaptation of "Hello Dolly" to Morgan Freeman, and William Shatner singing "My Way" to his fellow star voyager, George Lucas. Another highlight was when Bill Clinton showed up to explain to the audience how Warren Beatty single-handedly convinced a woman to vote for George McGovern (who also was in attendance that night). Martin himself is no stranger to the ceremonies, as he attended the one for Jack Lemmon and years later for Tom Hanks, reminding everyone that Hanks has spoken some of the most iconic lines in movie history: "Houston, we have a problem," "life is like a box of chocolates," and of course, "I prefer it my way, Mr. Spielberg."

In recent years, Martin, a legend of American comedy, has rightfully earned a plate of honors, and now the AFI award, which the AFI claims is the highest honor one can receive in American film. In addition to "The Jerk," "Planes, Trains & Automobiles," and the wonderful "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," attention might be given to some of the weaker Martin films, like "Three Amigos," but one way or another, with appearances by Conan O'Brien, Tina Fey, Martin Short and others, the show is likely to be an entertaining one. Steve Martin is one for the ages, a true delight, and one whom America will love for all time.

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The Fifth Star Is Superfluous

I can tell you exactly what a four-star movie is. A four-star movie is one in which you leave the theater thinking about. It's a film you tell your friends they have to see. Sometimes a four-star movie is one that is one of the year's best, but you're not sure if it will ultimately stand the test of time (though you're confident it will). Some recent examples include "Wadjda," "Mother," and "12 Years A Slave." Some might require a second viewing for you to know that, indeed, they are essential films made by master filmmakers; for me, "2001: A Space Odyssey" and "Goodfellas" come to mind. And some, like "The Wizard of Oz," "Modern Times," and "Schindler's List," will live with you forever.

I can tell you exactly what a three-star movie is. While a three-and-a-half star movie is one that is really good (but not quite great), like "To Kill A Mockinbird" or "The Wolf of Wall Street," a three-star movie is good but ultimately forgettable. Some recently three star movies I've seen are "Trees Lounge," "Die Hard With a Vengeance," "The Battleship Potemkin," "About Elly," "Going Clear," and "Withnail and I." Some are guilty pleasures, like "Congo." I hope that the majority of the films made each year achieve at least three stars, for viewers deserve to be inspired and entertained, not irritated and maddened, by their experience with the movies.

But now I come to the movies that do madden us. Two-and-a-half stars go to bad movies that are bad but not awful. Some (like "Spider-Man 3") start off decently but progressively fall apart with each passing minute. Some are betrayed by their ambition (like "The English Patient") and probably would have been better kept in the written word. (Add the injustice of "The English Patient" beating a much more deserving film like "Fargo" for Best Picture, and it fuels the motivation to give it a low ranking.) Some (like "Man of Steel") simply have good elements but too many bad ones. These films have at least some good qualities to them, unlike the dreaded two-star movies, which in reality probably are the majority of movies. It's easy to qualify these films: they are bad. "Westworld," "Waterboy," "The Lost World: Jurassic Park," "License to Kill," and "Shadow Dancer" are all, for various different reasons, bad.

The (fortunately) rare movies that get one star are movies that make your blood boil, like "Grey Gardens," a horribly overrated documentary that made me think it would have been better to spend an-hour-and-a-half listening to cats mate while simultaneously scratching their claws on chaulkboards. Some, though, like "The Tingler" or "The Giant Claw" are, of course, so bad, they're good. Fortuantely, I cannot think of any zero-star movies off the top of my head. It should be noted, however, that viewing these sordid movies is necessary to remind oneself to really appreciate the good ones.

I have no idea what a five-star movie is. No one has ever been able to explain to me what is is. I don't understand why Rotten Tomatoes, Flixster, and others use it (or why IMDB uses a whopping ten). The five-star rating is superfluous; just use four.

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The Incredibly Stupid Ending of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"

Paul Newman's character in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," the 1958 adaption of Tennessee Williams' iconic play, is a disillusioned, depressed drunk. He's borderline abusive towards his wife, played by Elizabeth Taylor, and he cares not for his brother, sister-in-law, nieces and nephews, nor his parents, one of whom is dying. He is childless and has quit his job. Any joy from any other character only seems to exacerbate his misery, and he stays upstairs for as long as he can, drinking himself practically to death, resting his broken leg (which he got from an accident caused by his drunkenness).

He's also clearly a gay man.

LGBT themes are surprisingly somewhat prevalent in 1950s American cinema. Watch "Rebel Without a Cause" and tell me that's not an incredibly gay film. "Suddenly, Last Summer" (also featuring Taylor) and "Ben-Hur" also have gay subtext. So, too, does "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Just about anyone in the modern era watching it would recognize that Newman's character, Brick, is meant to be a gay or bisexual man, almost obtrusively struggling with his sexuality while his wife suffers from a loveless, bitter marriage. But at the conclusion of the film, during the incredibly stupid ending of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," he suddenly becomes straight, I guess. Out of nowhere, he gets his libido back and is about to make love to his wife just as the end credits arrive. But this isn't the only thing irritating about its conclusion. The wife, Maggie (Taylor), is not completely innocent herself; her major flaw is struggling to get the inheritance of her father-in-law's estate, and she'll do practically anything to get it. Her father-in-law, "Big Daddy" (Burl Ives) is a tyrannical mammoth of a titan who is said to have favored his alcoholic son over the more responsible one, is flirtatious with Maggie, and shouts venom at his adoring wife. Big Daddy's other son, Cooper (Jack Carson) and his wife (Madeleine Sherwood) are just as eager to get their hands on that money, so just about every character has some obvious crookedness--even the doctor lies and the deacon, too, wants Big Daddy's money.  

But at the ending, just before Brick and Maggie are about to get funky, suddenly most of these characters are washed of their sins. Cooper gives up the fight, and Big Daddy suddenly is kind towards Big Momma. The only villain still villainous is Sister Woman; she still wants that money, and her children are still monsters.

"I need something to believe in!" This is the line Brick shouts when explaining his melancholy. Did 20th Century Fox really think audiences in the late 1950s were that stupid that they would believe, and enjoy, such a dumb line? That line is essentially the essence of the adaptation's diversion away from the gay theme. Brick in the film apparently isn't depressed because his male lover is dead, and that Maggie may have been the cause. He instead is depressed because when his friend died, he lost something to believe in. I don't quite get that, and I can't imagine anyone--in 1958 or in 2015--buying it. It's as if Ike and Dick themselves got their hands on Williams' play and scrubbed it with moralistic simplicity. Ben Gazzara, the original Brick on Broadway, turned down the role in the adaption, and I imagine that was partly the reason. Ives, who would win the Oscar the following year for "The Big Country" and who was also nominated for his role (a role he originated on Broadway), complained about the changes, as did Newman. (Newman deservedly was nominated for an Oscar.)

This is not to say that "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" is a bad movie--the cast, especially Ives, more than help make up for the deficit. It's a recommendable movie, but one with a stupid yet typical ending, one where all's well that ends well.

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Duck, You Sucker!

A Marxist quote followed by someone urinating on ants is a most peculiar way to begin a film, and I wish "peculiar" was the worst thing I could say about "Duck, You Sucker!" The second (and more commonly forgotten) part to the second trilogy Sergio Leone is most famous for, "Duck, You Sucker" (sometimes known as "A Fistful of Dynamite" and sometimes known as "Once Upon A Time...the Revolution") has pretty terrible acting, dismal dialogue, and overall presents nothing compelling whatsoever. It's a long, at times miserable, mess.

Rod Steiger is Juan, a thief and loyal father of many children. Where we first meet him (it's him, incidentally, who is doing the urinating), he hops on a large stage wagon filled with a grotesque band of racists enjoying copious amounts of food. But soon we find things aren't what they seem--Juan and his many sons are to rob these individuals. This is a shaky start to the movie, but it quickly becomes downright disturbing. After the sabotage, Juan corners the sole female in the party and rapes her. Because there are other examples of rape in Leone's films, like in "Once Upon A Time in the West" and "Once Upon A Time in America," this film is not unique, but as blogger John Bleasdale pointed out, "Duck, You Sucker!" was the first time in his films where the protagonist committed the crime, though it hardly seems that Leone even thought of such acts are criminal. He awkwardly defended the rape scene in "Once Upon A Time in America" by calling it an "act of love." Why is it that there is such violence and mistreatment of women in Leone's films, and why is he rarely criticized for it?

What could have been yet another example of Steiger's ability to be a chameleon of an actor quickly evolves into a horrendously annoying performance. He slaps around his children and spends most of the rest of his time parading about and unleashing a massive barrage of stereotypes. Steiger's performance might be one of the cinema's most irritating portrayals ever, and he's matched by an awful "Lucky Charms" accent by his co-star. The said co-star is James Coburn, who shows up on a motorcycle almost immediately after the raping and pillaging of the opening scene. Coburn plays John, an Irish revolutionary and quite the fan of explosives, so much so that if some of them go off simultaneously, "they'll have to alter the maps." Coburn seems to be going in and out of his attempts at an Irish accent, and even with all the camp, it's difficult to take seriously his frequent use of saying "duck, you sucker." So off they go, John and Juan, not exactly fond of each other and prone to trick one another, but they become revolutionaries together in Mexico in 1913.

At this point (barely a third into the movie), it becomes more than clear that this is one of Leone's weakest movies. There is hardly anything to praise in in; it's a dull, boring misfire in between two stronger films, which makes it such an odd trajectory, since the "Dollars" trilogy might be the only trilogy in cinematic history that gets better with each film. Unlike Leone's "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly," the greatest western in history, "Duck, You Sucker!" is a film you are likely to care less and less about as it progresses, and just about everything in it is uninteresting: its macho duels, its attempts at humor, its use of history (if it can be called that), its technical design. Coburn and Steiger do have their moments, with some instances of genuine chemistry and rivalry, but most of the time, it's flimsy performances from two very talented actors.

"Duck, You Sucker!" has all the big, grand, epic movie-making that is expected, but there are far too many flaws.

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Let It Be

Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney, who today are the two remaining Beatles, dash to a piano and have some fun with it. Even with his beard and long hair, Paul is still the "cute one" (though no one would imply that the other three were ever ugly). They're eventually joined by George Harrison and John Lennon to sing "Don't Let Me Down," before "Maxwell Silver's Hammer." George is still the quiet one; in five minutes, he's hardly uttered anything. Paul seems a bit bossy, which he reportedly had a reputation for being. They all sing a silly version of "Two Of Us" before "I've Got a Feeling," two of their least appreciated songs. This iconic documentary is "Let It Be," which presents for audiences the Beatles recording their album of the same name, and yet it seems to have been forever remembered as the film documenting the breakup of the most iconic, influential, and excellent group of musical individuals in practically all of human history.

But the center of "Let It Be" seems to be focused on Paul. He calls Ringo "Rich" (the latter's real name, as in Richard Starkey) as they have a ball at the piano, sings with John, and annoys George to the point that during their slightly heated argument, George tells him, "I'll play, you know, whatever you want me to play, or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play. Whatever it is that will please you, I'll do it." He's frustrated, and it's more than clear that he's had it with being "pushed around" like a kid brother from his band mate.

It's almost sadistic of me to say so, but I really preferred to see more scenes like this. The back part of my conscious was yearning for something akin to the hysterical fight between the four in India in the film "Dewey Cox: Rock Hard," when Lennon (Paul Rudd) wonders if McCartney's (Jack Black) songs will "still be shit when I'm 64," before telling Ringo (Jason Schwartzman) that he should just feel lucky that they still let him play with his drums. Ringo smiles and says he just likes having fun, then waves his ever-present peace sign, barely opening his eyes. "Beatles," they are told, "stop fighting in India!" But for the most part, in "Let It Be," the four of them appear surprisingly cordial, which is intriguing especially considering all the tension behind the scenes. What's remarkable is that they stayed together for so long; George did, after all, have an affair with Ringo's wife. "No woman was out of bounds," George's ex-wife Pattie Boyd has said. And yet, here George is giving Ringo some tips on "Octopus's Garden," though he's cheekily grinning; perhaps he's teasing Ringo, or something. Everyone knows that despite their divisions, they all collaborated with each other in some form or another post-breakup, and my favorite consortium is an usual choice: "Photograph," which Ringo and George wrote for Ringo's album "Ringo." As Ringo pointed out at the "Concert for George" event Eric Clapton and Jeff Lynne organized in 2002, the song's lyrics, originally about a hopeless lost love, can also be applied to the death of a loved one. And this is a song he co-wrote with someone who had an affair with his wife.

The documentary won Best Original Song ("Let It Be"), but none of the four were present at the Oscars that year to receive the award. It's a shame we never saw them all together -- the closest was during the making of the "Anthology" documentary in the '90s. There are certainly highlights in "Let It Be," among them "Two of Us" and, of course, the rooftop concert. The director, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, caught some almost surreal-looking scenes, such as a closeup profile of Lennon's lips as he sings, and an almost mesmerizing dance with Yoko. Speaking of, she appears, some might say, in an icy state, and fans probably are still under the impression that she broke up the band and will forever remain a terrible person. If you still think she did breakup the band, consider that McCartney has claimed that this isn't true, and if you think she's the real wicked one, consider that she and Lennon once received a letter from McCartney where he called her Lennon's "Jap tart."

Despite this being an essential for rock fans, and definitely Beatles fans, it's a letdown nonetheless. The music is great. The documentary, not so much.

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The Language of Hollywood

Wesleyan College and Coursera offer an exciting MOOC (massive open online course) for film lovers. Titled "The Language of Hollywood: Storytelling, Sound and Color," it's led by Scott Higgins and is a free course examining the history of storytelling with sight, sound and color from the Silent Era to the present day. Here's a look at the films included in the class:

Street Angel
Starring the near-perfect Janet Gaynor and her costar from "7th Heaven," Charles Farrell, this is Frank Borzage's melodramatic love story with a simple plot about a young woman named Angela (Gaynor) who is forced on the street to become a "street angel" in order to pay for a proscription for her ill mother. Angela's run from the law finds her in the loving arms of Gino (Farrell), who is determined to provide for her. One of Higgins' motivation for including the film in the syllabus is Borzage's exuberant visuals, which had the purpose of "externalizing emotions." This is perhaps best demonstrated in the exciting climax in which Gino, bitter about losing his love for reasons he does not understand, lights a match to the face of every woman he encounters; inevitably, he comes across Angela, whose once hopeless face now matches the brightness of the flame. Gino, however, glares back, and the match extinguishes. The film briefly becomes a horror movie. Note the stupidity in such a situation -- we are forced to believe that these two characters happen to both be walking out at night and both happen to be in the same spot in Naples at the same time, and yet we do. Higgins has a theory for this: Silent pictures (especially Borzage's) are emotionalized and abstract, like an opera, whereas sound films have increasingly been grounded in reality. This allows for a heightened sense of melodrama, which critics often complained about. But Borzage's response was that life was melodramatic. This belief guided his rule for movie making: make the audience sentimental, so the players don't have to be.

The Docks of New York
A bit shorter than the previous film and much less melodramatic, "The Docks of New York," from the same year as "Street Angel," takes place in a much smaller, tighter, colder, less romantic, more specific, stronger, and more grounded world. The world is the docks of New York, and more specifically the saloon and hotel. The saloon is not a vast area of lighthearted romance, but a small, degenerate bar with a rowdy group of people searching for sex. The Stoker (George Bancroft) is a big, gruff man, who, despite his affection for one-night stands, falls in love with a woman (Betty Compson) he's rescued from drowning herself. They marry in an orgy of decadence; as Higgins puts it, it's an arena where the saloon patrons find marriage to be a dirty joke. The movie certainly starts with a lot more excitement but bores as it progresses, ending in a similar preposterous manner of "Street Angel." This does not make "The Docks of New York" a bad film, however, it does require a bit more patience.

Applause
Now we're in the era of sound, with "Don Juan" showing the world that film can be accompanied by an orchestral score, "The Jazz Singer" showing us that there can be (a few) audible moments, and "Lights of New York" demonstrating that movies can be all-talking (though Higgins doesn't recommend viewing the film because of the low quality of its content). So we have a 1929 Paramount film called "Applause," by Rouben Mamoulian, and starring Helen Morgan. It cannot be doubted that Mamoulian had a talent for innovation, but the limitations of the technology at the time are too distracting; sound projection and synchronization were tremendous obstacles for early cinema pioneers like Thomas Edison and William Dickson, and yet even by 1929, the sound was so dismal that it seems like barely half of what was being spoken can be interpreted. (Before 1930, there were no blimped cameras, boom mics or sound editing equipment.) Joan Peters as Morgan's daughter looks the part but provides such horribly Transatlantic diction that the annoyance is only surpassed by the awful voice of Fuller Mellish, Jr. as the story's villain. I understand why the acting is so atrocious, but that does not mean I have to like the film, nor does the fact that its technological innovations and feminist viewpoint improve my opinion of it very much. In my mind, it should be stricken from the syllabus.

Monkey Business
The class moves into specific genres, starting with comedy, or more specifically, vaudeville. Set almost entirely on a cruise ship until they have exhausted just about all they could do with the specific situation, Grouch, Chico, and Harpo -- the Marx Brothers -- and their less shticky brother, Zeppo, star in their third film. "Monkey Business," from 1931, has aged a bit; Professor Higgins remarks that the situation comedy is sort of a "law of diminishing returns" with respect to each situation involving less for the brothers to do, but it also features fewer returns in the sense that the over-the-top slapstick hasn't aged so well. Still, it is a humorous change of pace for the course. Grouch's verbal barrage, Chico's piano scene, and Harpo's pantomime and harp scene, all practically self-contained acts that are gag-centered and feature practically no logic, are all delightful (though the racism and anti-women moments are all creepy). It's a very labor-intensive production by these four, particularly the three more recognizable Marx brothers. (Zeppo didn't continue to pursue the vaudeville-style film performances, but eventually became a millionaire through his work in film engineering.) There's such anarchic bursts of energy throughout it all as they run around the ship in a "world of straight men," tearing up the scenery, sometimes literally.

Scarface 
While just about everyone has seen Brian DePalma's 1983 remake, less folks have seen its source: the original, from 1932, produced by Howard Hughes, directed by Howard Hawks, and based on a story by Paul Hecht. Sold as sort of a societal film (that at times comes across as too unnecessarily preachy), it is nevertheless quite stylized with great sound effects and dark expressionistic lighting; just as the oranges in "The Godfather" four decades later, the cinematography in "Scarface" featured at least one letter X whenever a character was about to be killed. Paul Muni, who would go on to win an Oscar and a Tony, puts in a pretty stellar performance of the title character, though he sometimes overdoes it (perhaps influencing the bombastic yet iconic performance of Al Pacino in the remake sixty years later). Also supplying decent performances are George Raft, Karen Morley, Ann Dvorak and Boris Karloff, who a year earlier shot to stardom with Universal's "Frankenstein." Fans of "Some Like It Hot" might recognize Raft poking fun at his coin-flipping image from "Scarface." With all due respect to the remake, I think I might like this one better.

The Ghost Ship
Another genre explored is horror, although Higgins admits immediately that this could hardly be defined as a horror film. It's more of a psychological thriller, produced by the Val Lewton low-budget unit at RKO films. Lewton, whose more famous low-budget horrors include "Cat People," "The Body Snatcher," and "I Walked With a Zombie," and director Mark Robson are more interested in suggestion and utilize a lot of sinister, low lighting. Taking place almost entirely in a claustrophobic ship led by a captain (Richard Dix) suffering from the onset of insanity, "The Ghost Ship" was a hit in 1943, but a lawsuit by two playwrights caused it to be pulled from theaters and not shown for another fifty years, and it wouldn't be discovered again until it entered the public domain. Despite a genuinely eerie start and a thrilling sequence involving a giant hook, "The Ghost Ship" soon becomes a more boring version of "The Caine Mutiny," and at a length of just over an hour, it barely is saved in time. Higgins, though, does an effective job at explaining why the film is important, and he claims that the way it uses sound to create such an unsettling atmosphere for perhaps the first time by a Hollywood film is why "The Ghost Ship" deserves to be studied.

The Trail of the Lonesome Pine
The second three-color film ("Becky Sharp," opening to harsher reviews, was the first), "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine" from 1936 is considered the first to set aesthetic standards for films in color. Despite the limitations the crew had in requiring more lighting than black-and-white films, "Lonesome Pine" is a "film of restraint," filmed with a lot of neutrals (grays and browns) that surprisingly still looks gorgeous. That said, despite its technological advances, this film, while not as torturous as "Applause," bores more often than not. Its cast is mostly sufficient -- Sylvia Sydney, Fred Stone, and Beulah Bondi (James Stewart's mother in four films, including "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" and "It's a Wonderful Life") are pretty good, but its male leads, Fred MacMurray and Henry Fonda, two of the 20th century's most respected actors, mostly disappoint. MacMurray laughs and smiles a lot, while Fonda mostly looks angry; neither of the two provide much else. Just about every viewer, though, will delightfully recognize two actors: George McFarland (Spanky in the "Our Gang"/"Little Rascals" series) and Clara Blandick, who appears in a small role in one scene, and whom most viewers would easily recognize as Aunt Em in "The Wizard of Oz."

The Adventures of Robin Hood
Most likely the most well-known of Higgins' list of films in his syllabus, "The Adventures of Robin Hood" was filmed on a budget of $2 million at a time when the average production cost per film was several hundred thousand dollars. The costs largely paid off, and despite the ostentatious laughter throughout, "The Adventures of Robin Hood" is quite good fun. Originally to star James Cagney, it instead reunites Errol Flynn with his "Captain Blood" co-stars Olivia de Havilland and Basil Rathbone, and it was Disney's "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" that inspired Warner Bros. to film it in Technicolor. Its color palate is much denser, according to Higgins, than "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine," with many more colors, almost like a mosaic. The primary vehicle for this is its extravagant costume designs. Its cast includes Claude Rains, Eugene Pallette, Melville Cooper, Una O'Connor, and Alan Hale, Sr., who appeared here as Little John, and also did so in 1920 alongside Douglas Fairbanks, and then again in the role in 1950, making it one of the longest character spans in Hollywood history. But the real star is Rathbone, who is terrific in every scene.

All That Heaven Allows
Next to "Applause," Douglas Sirk's "All That Heaven Allows" is the worst film included in the course. True, this is a beautiful color design by Sirk and his cinematographer, Russell Metty; to be drained of color, Higgins tells us, is to lose life in a Sirk movie. There are great uses of matte paintings, including the farm scenes. The film's leads, Jayne Wyman and Rock Hudson, do a mostly decent job. But "All That Heaven Allows" is, on the whole, quite boring. Its impressive use of color doesn't erase this fact.

Punch-Drunk Love
Fortunately, Paul Thomas Anderson's "Punch-Drunk Love" from 2002 not only fantastically uses color, but also tells a great story. Calling this Anderson's least presumptuous film (because it's a 90-minute rom-com starring Adam Sandler), it tells the story of a man named Barry, tortured by his many sisters growing up and who probably has some kind of personality disorder. He falls in love with a friend of his sisters, but must protect her from being harmed by a violent group of men hunting him down for blackmail money due to Barry's one-time use of a phone sex operator. "Punch-Drunk Love" is half the length of "Magnolia," Anderson's previous film, and yet "Punch-Drunk Love" has aged so much better than "Magnolia" (which does suffer a bit from presumptuousness). It's one of Anderson's best films, certainly Sandler's best, and is the best film in the class. The best was saved for last.


There isn't too much to complain about this course. I've already mentioned that some of the films are less than impressive, and some of Higgins' lectures get a bit too carried away when discussing color. But Higgins has a plethora of film knowledge, and his course is a recommendable course, one that will likely teach you a lot about movie making.

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His Was the Most Human

To simply call him Spock, the iconic character from one of film and television's most innovative adventures in science fiction, would be a tragedy, one he might not appreciate. Leonard Nimoy, who died yesterday at age 83, was much more than Spock: After "Star Trek" ended after only three seasons, he successfully shifted to "Mission: Impossible" as a master of disguise, then hosted the documentary series "In Search Of..." before eventually having a reoccurring role in "Fringe." He starred on Broadway several times, dabbled in music (if one can call it that), directed the 1987 hit "Three Men and a Baby," and even appeared in the alternative music video of Bruno Mar's "The Lazy Song." His transition to film basically started with the remake of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," the year before he hesitatingly returned with his fellow voyagers in 1979's "Star Trek: The Motion Picture." The film, one of the weaker entries of the series, was at least a box office hit, mostly banking on the science fiction craze of the late '70s and especially the fans of the series who eagerly awaited the return. 

But it was the second film, "The Wrath of Khan," that was not only the greatest of all the "Star Trek" films, but also the one that showcased the best of Nimoy's acting. In that powerful final scene of his, Spock offers the utilitarian intellect of the film, calmly reminding his captain of his viewpoint that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. "The Wrath of Khan" might best be remembered for William Shatner screaming at his nemesis, but its best moment is its climax, where Spock proves that he will walk the philosophical walk. "Don't grieve, Admiral," he tells Kirk with a frighteningly hoarse voice. "It's logical." Director Nicholas Meyer, who had never seen any of the original "Star Trek" episodes, was perplexed at his crew for crying during the scene. Upon later watching the series, it suddenly occurred to him why they wept.

Just about anyone could relate to Spock in at least one way. The most obvious is the fact that the character grew up with a Vulcan father and human mother. "Star Trek," as many know, was at the time exploring societal issues and controversies in a way no other series even dared. One young girl, herself biracial, identified with the character and wrote to Nimoy seeking advice. He wholeheartedly replied, telling her to be true to herself as opposed to simply trying to be popular. The current president has been criticized for being "too Spocky and not enough Rocky," but relying on the former's qualities seems to have served him better. Barack Obama, obviously, is also biracial, and perhaps this is why he told the nation yesterday that he himself "loved Spock." Beyond issues of Spock being biracial were issues of him simply being different; Robert Lloyd of the Los Angeles Times suggested that these days we would simply say Spock is "on the spectrum." Spock is different, no doubt, but he is also undeniably talented, strong, and influential. As Captain Kirk tearfully tells his crew at the conclusion of "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan," Spock's heart was the most human. 

Nimoy was at his best when he played Spock. Watch some of the best episodes of the original series -- "Charlie X," "The Corbonite Manuever," "The Managerie," "The Galileo Seven," "The City on the Edge of Tomorrow," "The Return of the Archons" -- and you will see some of Nimoy's finest work. To call Mr. Spock emotionless would be a mistake, for Nimoy knew that Spock was half-human, not fully Vulcan, thereby requiring the character to be completely the master of his emotions rather than simply devoid of them. Some of the episodes, like "Devil In the Dark," demonstrated that sometimes, frankly, Nimoy hit the wrong mark. He later claimed that his co-star and friend for several decades, Shatner as Captain James Kirk, was away from the set to attend a funeral. When he returned, the scene was explained to him: Nimoy as Spock performed a "mind meld," transferring a bizarre alien's thoughts to his mind. "Pain!" Spock yells. Shatner asked if Nimoy could show him, and Nimoy sort of performed a tame version of his previous performance. Shatner grew frustrated and asked rhetorically if that's how he did it, to which Nimoy said no, before really shouting "pain!" again, eyes completely closed and tense. Shatner didn't miss a beat: "Will someone get this man an aspirin?" Nimoy didn't speak to him for two weeks. But, as mentioned, they remained close. In addition to their three live action seasons and one animated, the two joined their fellow trekkers for a total of six "Stark Trek" films from 1979 to 1991, two of which Nimoy directed ("The Search for Spock" and "The Voyage Home," which is the second best of the original six). Nimoy also directed Shatner in an episode of the latter's TV show "TJ Hooker," and they even lent their voices to two computer games in the '90s, but with the most recent "Star Trek Into Darkness," Nimoy surpassed Shatner's record for the most "Star Trek" appearances. Nimoy, portraying Spock Prime, guiding Zachary Quinto's younger Spock in the alternate timeline, sort of served as an ambassador to the newer fans of the franchise, humbly and appropriately passing the torch in J.J. Abrams' "Star Trek" in 2009. His cameo in the most recent one might have been unnecessary, but it was, in retrospect, a nice final appearance from him.

But by now Nimoy's ambiguous feelings toward the character that made him famous at age 35 and a permanent part of American pop culture even in death are fairly well known. He claimed that when he was walking in an airport, a woman approached him with her young daughter, and excitingly told the girl that before her very eyes was the television character she so very much loved. But the girl looked up and did not see Spock, with his raised eyebrow, pointy ears and overly regulated emotions. Instead she saw a man with shaggy hair and street clothes, and the girl was disappointed. Nimoy's response eventually came in the form of his first autobiography, titled "I Am Not Spock." I have not read the book, but apparently Nimoy meant it to be a discussion of the character and how he performed the role, not a bitter rejection or insult. But there was certainly a negative reaction, and to clarify, he later wrote another autobiography: "I Am Spock."

LLAP

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The 87th Academy Awards

The Oscars, saluting the best and the whitest, as host Neil Patrick Harris said at the beginning of the show, wasn't supposed to be this unpredictable. J.K. Simmons would be expected to follow Javier Bardem, Heath Ledger and Christoph Waltz in their villainous footsteps by easily winning Best Supporting Actor. Patricia Arquette, for her astonishing performance in "Boyhood," would follow with an easy win, as she has been a lock all awards season. Julianne Moore, long overdue for a win, would win without any serious competition for "Still Alice." That would leave three races -- Best Picture, Best Director and Best Actor -- to be the difficult ones to guess. Not so this year, for it was a year of surprises. The big winner was "Birdman," but I'm not entirely sure what the deal with this film is. All I know for certain is this: it's the most overrated Best Picture winner since "Driving Miss Daisy" from 1989, and it only won because "Boyhood," its main competitor, was released in the summer. That's it.

What makes this particularly frustrating is that it's not as if I was madly in love with "Boyhood." But the nominees for Best Picture this year were mediocre ("Selma," "Whiplash," "The Theory of Everything," "The Imitation Game") and the others, like the most culturally significant ("American Sniper") or the winner ("Birdman"), were terribly overrated, and so "Boyhood" was simply the best. I really don't see "Boyhood" going down in the records as the one that lost the battle but won the war in the hearts and minds of moviegoers; that is, it's not the next "Star Wars," "Raging Bull" or "Pulp Fiction," all of them Best Picture losers. But in terms of actual merit, it truly sounds impossible to argue that it deserved to lose to "Birdman." Beyond that, perhaps the biggest shocker of the night was Wes Anderson not being one of the many winners of "The Grand Budapest Hotel" when he lost to the writing team for "Birdman." Adding to my frustration is that the one Oscar "Birdman" actually deserved -- Michael Keaton for Best Actor -- it lost, and with all due respect to the terrific performance by Eddie Redmayne, his win over Keaton proved that if you really want to win an Oscar, your chances are significantly improved if you're a white guy playing a protagonist with a disability.

But I should at least be happy that I got to watch the awards. You see, in my present country, the awards had been broadcast for at least two years on Fox Movies, making it for easy viewing. (They even offered a re-airing later in the day.) The following year, it was available for viewing on channel Dubai One, making it a bit difficult to find at first, but I was successful nonetheless. This year, however, the Oscars aired on OSN, a private channel requiring its own super, special cable box. ABC, which has aired the Academy Awards in the U.S. since the 1970s, allowed for live streaming of the show on its website, but only for those who already had a cable subscription (which would sort of negate the need for viewing it online), and only for those who had a subscription and reside in one of the eight markets that have ABC-owned-and-operated stations. Those living in Detroit, Atlanta, Seattle and other major American cities would be out of luck. (One could, however, watch the red carpet interviews and backstage clips for free online; oh, joy.)

Why all the hassle? As Will Oremus at Slate points out, money. "If this sounds like cruel and arbitrary from the cord-cutter's perspective," he writes, "it is. But ABC has business reasons for limiting its live stream in this way. In short, networks don't make as much money from the ads sold of their telecasts. And, in general, media companies have little interest in catering to cord-cutters, whom they view as undermining a bulwark of their business models. Yes, ABC networks are free to watch over the air, but ABC is owned by Disney, and the company also owns a slew of cable channels." Because of this, I went to bed late Sunday night (my time) prepared to wake in a few hours on my birthday and not be able to view the Oscars. However, at the very last minute, I found the good folks at ustream, where there was a channel with a live stream (illegally) available. That being said, for the last four awards, the Big Rat found us and shut the channel down, leaving two drunk ladies watching the Oscars as the only available channel that was at least somewhat relevant to the Oscars (really) but would be the fastest way of learning who the winners were. These ladies appeared to be engaging in some kind of bizarre drinking act where every time the camera showed Benedict Cumberbatch they took a sip of wine, I think. (The camera focused on them and their drinking, not the screen.) Their howling in approval left me confused for several minutes as to who the actual winner was; how was I to know that they were such huge Eddie Redmayne fans?

Neil Patrick Harris turned out to be a surprisingly awkward (and boring) host, especially considering how much experience he has hosting the Tony and Emmy awards. Despite a fairly entertaining opening number about the magic of movies (or something) with Anna Kendrick and Jack Black, the remainder of his time, save for a fairly clever (and brave) spoof of Michael Keaton's underwear scene in "Birdman," was devoted to lame and certainly uncomfortable jokes. He should have anticipated what kind of a reaction he would get regarding his running gag involving Octavia Spencer guarding his ballot, which at best was this year's "who wants pizza?" and at worst was a message to Oscar-viewers everywhere that if you win an Oscar for playing a black maid in the 1960s, you will one day return to serving white folks at the Oscars.

It's moments like these -- the inability to open up the show for all viewers, its predominantly white male membership shutting out Ava DuVernay for a deserving nomination, the insult of refusing to let the winners actually talk, and the painful yawns throughout -- that make me wonder why I bother watching. But whereas the show was its usual bore, at least the speeches were awesome. Here's a few of them:

Arquette (Best Supporting Actress, "Boyhood"): "To every woman who gave birth to every taxpayer and citizen of this country we have fought for everyone else's rights. It's time to have our wage equality once and for all, and equal rights for women in the United States of America." Two women, in particular, really enjoyed her speech. (It's a bit depressing, though, that she had to say that in 2015, not 1980, the year "Nine to Five" was released.)

Simmons (Best Supporting Actor, "Whiplash"): "Call your mom, call your dad. If you're lucky to have a parent alive on this planet, call them. Don't text, don't email; call them on the phone and talk to them and listen to them as long as they want to talk to you."

Graham Moore (Best Adapted Screenplay, "The Imitation Game"): "Here's the thing: Alan Turing never got to stand on a stage like this and at look out at all these disconcertingly attractive faces. I do, and that's the most unfair thing I've ever heard. When I was 16 years old, I tried to kill myself because I felt weird and different and I felt like I did not belong. And now, I'm standing here. And so, I would like this moment to be for that kid out there who feels like she's weird or she's different and she doesn't fit in anywhere. Yes, you do. I promise you: you do. Stay weird and stay different."

John Legend (Best Original Song, "Selma," shared with Common): "We wrote this song for a film that was based on events that were fifty years ago, but we say that "Selma" is now, because the struggle for justice is right now. We know that the Voting Rights Act that they fought for fifty years ago is being compromised today." He also said that we live in the most incarcerated country in the world, and that there are more black men under correctional control today than there were in slavery in 1850, a claim that was validated by the fact-checking site Politifact.

And aside from the speeches, there was Lady Gaga's wonderful tribute to "The Sound of Music," as well as the Lonely Island teaming up with Tegan and Sara for "Everything Is Awesome," two of the few moments of life for the show. So in sum: memorable speeches, great singing, disappointing-as-usual host, unjustified (for the most part) winners. 364 more days till the next one.

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The Best Movies of 2014

I've already ranted about the dismal slate of movies we were given last year, and how disappointing it was that so many critics were in love with them. Still, there are at least five movies from 2014 that I think you should see, and they are:

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes
A powerful allegory of many of today's societal problems, "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes" might even be better than its predecessor from three years before. The visuals surely look better, and if it weren't for the breathtaking visual effects of Christopher Nolan's "Interstellar," this would certainly land a Best Visual Effects Award at the Oscars.

Leviathan
I like movies that make me think of allegories. The obvious parallel of "Leviathan" is to the story of Job in the Bible; this is where the title comes from, for ancient religious texts refer to sea creatures (or whales) as such. (Director Andrey Zvyaginstev also has described how the real-life situation of Marvin Heemeyer in the United States inspired the story.) But there's another likely inspiration: Thomas Hobbes. His famous philosophical work, calling for an absolute sovereign to rule, shares the title, and the cover features the biblical text from Job: "There is no power to be compared to him." How is that relevant? The film "Leviathan" has been described by Ethan Gates in the New Republic as the movie Hollywood loves but the Russian government hates. There are not so unobtrusive criticisms of Russian corruption, and so it's as if the film makers are saying that there is no power compared to Putin, and that's not necessarily a good thing. (This is a powerful sentiment considering how popular Putin is in Russia.) In "Leviathan," there are also moralistic Orthodox clergymen and moments of sexual violence sprinkled throughout the film. And this all, ultimately, follows the expected path -- the total opposite of American movie's usual trajectory -- that "all's well that ends unwell." This is a dark, depressing movie that, allegory or no allegory, requires a bit of patience, but it's certainly well worth it.

Pride
"Pride" is the reason movies should still exist. This is a film that with ease marries the belief that movies should be about something with the simple requirement that they should entertain. And entertain "Pride" does. I think Dominic West dancing to "Shame Shame Shame" was the best thing I saw in the movies all year. Based on the true story of a queer organization coming to help striking miners in rural Wales, this often does feel like a pretty standard message-film, but it's a lot more than that. It's funny, it's heartfelt, it's smart, it has terrific acting. It embraces cliches, but who cares? Messages about friendship and acceptance can sometimes be forgiven for this. One of the best moments in when the group, Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners, drags the leader of the local striking miners to a gay bar in London, and practically pushes him on stage to thank them for their support. While the crowd isn't exactly thrilled to see him, he eventually, like a natural, gives a genuine moment of thanks: "What I'd really like to say to you tonight is thank you. If you're one of the people that's put money in these buckets, if you've supported LGSM, then thank you, because what you've given us is much stronger than money. It's friendship. When you're in a battle against an enemy so much bigger, so much stronger than you, well, to find out you had a friend you never knew existed, well, that's the best feeling in the world. So, thank you."

The Babadook
"The Babadook" isn't necessarily scary because it features some kind of demon-ghost haunting a mother and her son; it's scary because of what it represents. Even the most amateur film historian will recognize the tribute to early cinema German expressionism, but it's deeper than that; consider what one blogger has said about expressionism, that it is "at its bare essence taking the internal and making it external. Expressionists seek to express meaning and emotional experiences -- often radically to reflect mood and tone -- rather than physical reality." Sure, the monster (or whatever the hell it is) is terrifying, as is the poem that accompanies him (where, "if it's in a rhyme or it's in a book, you can't get rid of the Babadook..."). But what's more horrifying is (slight spoiler alert) the way this movie demonstrates, primarily through Essie Davis' character, that the fall into madness is one of the true horrors of life, that real demons are what's inside us, what often can only be put at bay rather than defeated outright. Understanding this will potentially help viewers understand the ambiguous ending a bit more clearly.

(Another good movie from 2014 about mental health is "Two Days, One Night" from France.)

Life Itself
"Life Itself" was by far the best film of the year, and yet this year's Academy Awards would certainly never give you that impression. I wasn't demanding a Best Picture nomination, which it definitely deserved, but Best Documentary is obvious, and yet, now the overrated "Citizenfour" will go home with the win. Why the film was ignored is something I don't understand, though the film's summer release probably didn't help, as the Academy has a terribly short memory. As I wrote back in July, "Life Itself," the documentary tribute to Roger Ebert, is of course a story largely exploiting our love of nostalgia, for there is a lot of footage of Ebert and his partner Gene Siskel dueling over movies. But "Life Itself" is also the best romance of the year and a truly heartfelt homage to the man who most would agree was the film critic of his time.

Honorable Mentions: "Guardians of the Galaxy," "The Overnighters," "In Bloom," "Snowpiercer"

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