Widely considered one of the greatest films ever made, Seven Samurai was both the apex of Akira Kurosawa's long career and the high-water mark of the Japanese period drama. The film's action rivets the viewer in spite of the three-hour-plus running time: the battle sequences, among the best ever filmed, are immediate and visceral; and the characters are complex and so well-rendered that the viewer grieves when one dies. Like few other historical films, it captures not only the physical look of the time but also its essence. Like Jean Renoir's masterpieces Grand Illusion (1937) and Rules of the Game (1939), Seven Samurai illustrates the collapse of social distinctions and the growing irrelevance of old traditions in dangerous and chaotic times. Kambei shaves his much-prized topknot--the symbol of a samurai--to save the kidnapped child, while master swordsman Kyuzo is gunned down by an anonymous bandit with a musket. Kurosawa questions the division between samurai and bandit, between good and evil. In one scene, peasant-born Kikuchiyo heatedly argues that the samurai have been abusing and exploiting the peasants for centuries. In this framework, the samurais' acts of bravery, selflessness, and honor seem absurd, if not pointless. The peasants' choice of the samurai over the bandits is merely one of a lesser evil. Once the bandits are gone, the samurai will no longer be needed. This is underscored in the film's poignant end, when the surviving three samurai leave the village, receiving neither acclaim nor reward, as the villagers plant rice. American audiences were so impressed with Kurosawa's epic masterpiece that it was remade into John Sturges's Magnificent Seven (1960).

by Jonathan crow.

 

Conjure up your bleakest vision of the world fallen into an uncontrollable spiral of chaos, add in a grim speculative sci-fi twist, and then watch as those images burn to vivid life in a striking, affecting, and viciously beautiful tale of glimmering hope in a land of terminal despair. The concept may be as thin as a razor, yet it cuts to our most basic fears for the future: humankind has lost the ability to procreate, and when a pregnant London immigrant is discovered by a group of "terrorists," the group takes it upon themselves to smuggle her into the care of a secretive organization working against the government's will to save the human race. A jarring intro effectively pulls the safety net out from under the audience and lets us know how ugly a place the world has truly become, offering an explosive introduction to London circa 2027. A glance at the news shows that the major cities of every nation have all become Baghdad. "The World Has Collapsed" trumpets the television newscast as a sickening flood of death and destruction washes across the screen, and anyone who felt their heart skip a beat on 9/11 will most certainly feel the emotional impact of such a sensationalistic -- but in this fictional universe, entirely valid -- claim.

The race is on to ensure that the first baby to be born in 18 years isn't subjected to the harsh glare of the media circus or the cruel scrutiny of government scientists, and though he may seem a most unlikely hero, dejected alcoholic bureaucrat Theodore Faron (Clive Owen) dutifully assumes the responsibility of escorting the frightened mother-to-be to the mythical "Human Project" in hopes that the scientists there will be able to solve mankind's darkest mystery. Seldom has an onscreen hero been more identifiably human than as portrayed by Owen, and as Theodore takes a shot from the bottle to numb the pain, argues with his activist ex-wife about their tragic past, or shelters his frightened charge as the pair makes their way through a gauntlet of crumbling concrete and gunfire, it's easy for the viewer to identify with his pain as well as his determination. Theo isn't a self-righteous savior, but an honest and broken man who simply knows what's at stake with the birth of this "miracle" child. Likewise, the supporting players all turn in exceptional performances -- from Julianne Moore's damaged do-gooder to Chiwetel Ejiofor's misguided "terrorist" leader, and the virtually unrecognizable Charlie Hunnam's dreadlocked, trigger-happy gunman, it's obvious that the cast members have truly invested themselves in their onscreen counterparts. Despite his relative lack of screen time, however, it's screen veteran Michael Caine who truly steals the show as off-the-grid, strawberry-ganja-smoking weed-slinger Jasper Palmer -- an aging neo-hippie who, as Theo's trusted confidante, injects just the right amount of humor and gravity into the proceedings.

While for many filmmakers and screenwriters it can be a daunting task to paint a realistic vision of the future, Alfonso Cuarón works well with his team of scribes to keep things grounded in a reality that is both recognizable and relatable -- no flying cars here, though there are some fancy computer monitors and the automobiles feel just advanced and unreliable enough to make them believable. Despite these minor advances, it truly does feel as if society and technological innovation grinded to a halt when humankind discovered that their days on the planet were numbered. Emmanuel Lubezki's exceptional use of fluid, handheld photography places the viewer in the backseat of a car being attacked by terrorists and in the war-torn streets of a refugee camp under attack from the military with documentary-like believability. Lubezki's filming techniques, combined with the smart editing of director Cuarón and Alex Rodriguez, offer a haunting fluidity to the proceedings that serve well to compliment the intensity of the powerful, and sometimes jarring, material. Subtle but strikingly effective use of computer-generated effects compliments the story well by remaining largely understated, while the affecting use of sound in one key third-act scene provides a moving auditory accompaniment to a pivotal event. The impressive soundtrack features selections from such diverse musical artists as John Lennon, King Crimson, the Kills, and the Libertines, lending the film a timeless urgency that will equally affect viewers both young and old. Still, the commendable technical achievements of the film wouldn't really matter if Children of Men didn't have something truly compelling to say. In addition to challenging the audience's perception of our current reality (what truly constitutes a "terrorist"?) and offering a cautionary glance into a dark future of last-grasp authoritarianism run rampant, Children of Men presents a truly thought-provoking tale told in a remarkably absorbing manner. While some viewers may be put off by the unrelenting despair at the surface level, those with some degree of optimism about humankind's uncertain fate on this planet will discover a remarkably powerful film: one in which darkness belies delicate hope for -- and ultimately in -- humanity.

By Jason Buchanan.

An open-ended metaphor with the tone of a nightmare, David Lynch's debut feature combines disturbing visuals with what may be an even more disturbing sound design to create an unforgettable film that's affecting on a visceral level. A Cronenberg-ian discomfort with the simple fact of physical existence courses through Eraserhead, beginning with, but not limited to, matters of sexuality and reproduction. In an early scene, Lynch turns even a family dinner into a horrific affair, emphasizing the inherent grotesqueness of the mere act of eating. The later introduction of a deformed, extremely vocal child seems not the least bit out of place in a world in which even the most mundane aspect (a radiator not the least among them) is notable for its ability to disturb. While Lynch would rarely return to the outright fantasy worlds he explores here, Eraserhead nonetheless sets up the obsessions that would follow him through his career, particularly the ability of the seemingly ordinary to unsettle upon closer observation. That the dystopia Jack Nance inhabits resembles reality tilted at 45 degrees owes more to Lynch's unique vision than his film's low-budget origins. Everything from John Merrick to a field with a severed ear falls into place after seeing Eraserhead.

By Keith Phipps

When Montreal's Arcade Fire released Funeral in 2004, it received the kind of critical and commercial acclaim that most bands spend their entire careers trying to attain. Within a year the group was headlining major festivals and sharing the stage with U2 and New York City's "two Davids" (Bowie and Byrne), all the while amassing a devoted following that descended upon shows like sinners at a tent revival, engaging in the kind of artist appreciation that can easily turn to a false sense of ownership. On their alternately wrecked and defiant follow-up, Neon Bible, one can sense a bit of a Wall being erected (Win Butler's Roger Waters/Bruce Springsteen/Garrison Keillor-style vocal delivery notwithstanding) around the group. If Funeral was the goodbye kiss on the coffin of youth, then Bible is the bitter pint (or pints) after a long day's work. The brooding opener, "Black Mirror," with its sinister "Suffragette City"-inspired groove and murky refrain of "Mirror, Mirror on the wall/Show me where them bombs will fall," sets an immediate world-weary tone that permeates that majority of Neon Bible's Technicolor pages. As expected, those sentiments are amplified with all of the majestic and overwrought power that has divided listeners since the group's ascension to indie rock royalty, but despite a tendency toward midtempo balladry and post-fame cynicism, they're anything but dull. It's the triumphant orchestral remake of live staple "No Cars Go" and the infectious "Keep the Car Running" — the latter sounds like a 21st century update of John Cafferty & the Beaver Brown Band's "On the Dark Side" — that will most appeal to Funeral fans, and when the bottom drops out a minute and a half into the pipe organ-led "Intervention" and Butler wails "Who's gonna reset the bone," it's hard not get caught up in all of the dystopian fervor. "Black Wave/Bad Vibrations" and "The Well and the Lighthouse" continue the band's explorations into progressive song structures and lush mini-suites, the thunder-filled "Ocean of Noise" is reminiscent of Bossanova-era Pixies, and the stark (at first) closer "My Body Is a Cage" straddles the sawhorse of earnest desperation and classic rock & roll self-absorption so effortlessly that it demands to be either turned off or all the way up. Neon Bible takes a few spins to digest properly, and like all rich foods (orchestra, harps, and gospel choirs abound), it's as decadent as it is tasty — theatricality has never been a practice that the collective has shied away from — but there's no denying the Arcade Fire's singular vision, even when it blurs a little.