Lost in Criterion

Criterion once again brings us a boxset of avant-garde film, this time from American filmmaker Hollis Frampton. A Hollis Frampton Odyssey contains 20 or so shorts of varying length, adding up to 266 minutes of material that we'll be covering over the next three weeks.

In this week's episode we cover what Criterion deems Frampton's "Early Films", all made between 1966 and 1970. Included here are some early musings with light and color, some interesting installation pieces, and one epic alphabet. It's a lot to cover, but we try to keep an open mind, even as Frampton's manner of speaking gives us both a visceral reaction to the man, if not his work.

Films covered:
Manual of Arms (1966 • 17 minutes, 10 seconds • Black & White • Silent)
Process Red (1966 • 3 minutes, 37 seconds • Color • Silent)
Maxwell’s Demon (1968 • 3 minutes, 44 seconds • Color • Mono)
Surface Tension (1968 • 9 minutes, 30 seconds • Color • Mono)
Carrots & Peas (1969 • 5 minutes, 21 seconds • Color • Mono)
Lemon (1969 • 7 minutes, 17 seconds • Color • Silent)
Zorns Lemma (1970 • 59 minutes, 51 seconds • Color • Mono)

Ronald Neames says that after This Happy Breed he and the rest of Cineguild were tired of making war-time films, and were pretty sure audiences were tired of propaganda. But they weren't tired of working with Noel Coward, despite the fact that with each movie in Criterion's David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset we get new stories of Coward disagreeing with their choices in filming his work.

Blithe Spirit is the final film we'll be covering in the boxset - Brief Encounter, the Lean and Coward masterpiece, is in here too, but we talked about it 11 years ago. A delightful romp about murdering your loved ones, accidentally murdering your loved ones' loved ones, hating your dead wives, and not being too fond of your living wives, Coward told Lean to "just shoot the play" and thankfully Lean didn't totally listen. The film gets worse the more faithful it is to the original, but thankfully Lean and company still have some flourishes to add (that Coward reportedly hated). The most bewildering part of Blithe Spirit is that they still came back together to make another movie afterward.

The second film in the David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset, This Happy Breed is the story of a British Middle Class TM family between the wars. Acting as a sort of "remember when" for British of a certain class, it's also an examination of the rigid structure and code of ethics of this particular pocket of social class which while not the Upper Crust still seems to considers itself above the working people.

This "story of a ship" kicks off the David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset. Lean was an in-demand film editor (and had previously done some uncredited co-direction), and Noel Coward wanted to make a war propaganda film based on his friend Lord Mountbatten's naval exploits. Thus we get In Which We Serve (1942), a biography of the crew of a doomed destroyer told in flashback after the ship sinks in the Battle of Crete. Ronald Neame acts as cinematographer and the film is produced by Anthony Havelock-Allan, who would stick with Lean to form the powerhouse Cineguild Productions by the time they made next week's film This Happy Breed.

Every time we watch a documentary, we end up talking a lot about the nature of documentary. With Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker's The War Room (1993), much of that end of the conversation is focused on how Direct Cinema is not a journalistic endeavor, and how the material covered - Bill Clinton's 1992 US Presidential campaign - could have used a journalistic approach. Instead what we get is a collection of some of the worst people in US politics for the last 30 years given free reign to lie to the camera. America: it may not be a perfect system, but it sure is bad.

Mikhail Kalatozov makes some beautiful films, particularly in his work with Sergey Urusevsky, who may just be our favorite cinematographer. Many, many years ago (Spine 146!) we watched their film The Cranes are Flying (1957), and images from that film still grace my dreams. Many, many years from now (Spine 1214!) we will watch I am Cuba (1964), their final collaboration, and we can't wait.

But thankfully between these two masterpieces we get Letter Never Sent (1960), a tale of Soviet vs Nature, a story of love, lust, science, sacrifice, and lots of fire. Raising not only the normal "how did they shoot this?!" questions associated with Urusevsky's work, but new and adjacent "how did they shoot this?!" questions about the special effects.

Otto Preminger's ripped-from-the-headlines courtroom drama Anatomy of a Murder (1959) stars a delightful mix of young and old Hollywood, is a big middle finger to the Production Code, and is an ode to manipulating the US legal system. And if that weren't enough, we've got a soundtrack by Duke Ellington and titles by Saul Bass.

Louis Malle reunites with the stars of My Dinner with Andre, Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn, for a production of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya in a an abandoned theater just off Time Square. Not just a delightful production of Uncle Vanya, but also a look at theater for the sake of theater, squatting and otherwise unmoored from financial obligations.

Rainer Werner Fassbinder's only sci-fi work, World on a Wire asks the important questions: what if we asked an AI to simulate the Matrix as a 1970s German television miniseries, and then scrapped that garbage and just had a great screenwriter, fantastic cinematographer, and masterful director make it instead. While dealing with the same questions of humanity and existentialism that many tales of virtual prisons do, World on a Wire also gives us a jumping off point to talk about tech innovation, forced consumer trend, treating algorithms like gods, and how cars are bad. It's a pretty amazing production, which is unsurprising from Fassbinder and his phenomenal team behind and in front of the camera.

Lena Dunham has a tendency to say dumb things, and she's garnered quite a backlash during her short career. Because of that the inclusion of her 2010 film Tiny Furniture in the Criterion Collection appears to be often mentioned in the same breath as the likes of Bay's Armageddon and Fincher's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: that is, with Criterion aficionados asking "why is this here?"

But Lost in Criterion has long held that the Collection seems to have had a particular interest in festival darling interpersonal family dramas in the early 2000s -- of a wide variety! like Lee's bleakly hopeful Secret Sunshine or Assayas' bourgeoisie Summer Hours -- and I'm not convinced Tiny Furniture doesn't fit into that mold.

In any case, this story of a young woman our age graduating college when we did and attempting to feel like an adult and an artist during the Great Recession hits home, and gives us a lot to talk about.

Our friend and samurai-film-fiend Donovan joins us to talk about Hideo Gosha's Three Outlaw Samurai (1964). This origin story for a long-running tv show that seems like it was Gosha's version of the A-Team plays like a more cynical version of a Kurosawa tale. It's also got some fantastic camera work thanks to Tadashi Sakai.

Following the festival successes but domestic box office failures of Salvatore Giuliano (1962) and Hands over the City (1963), Francesco Rosi decided an international picture would fix his money problem, and decided to make a documentary on the Festival of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain. He didn't end up making exactly that, as The Moment of Truth (1965) is a narrative film with a neo-realist bent, and if you can get over all the ritualistic animal abuse it's probably the best bull fighting movie there is.

We've got sympathy for the Godzilla as guest Jason W. returns to talk with us about the Ishiro Honda's original Godzilla and the American recut of it, Godzilla, King of the Monsters!, the original film's anti-war metaphor (and what gets lost in the Americanization), as well as the media inspired by the film. We've got a lot to cover so save this one for long evening walk.

We here at Lost in Criterion love Luis Buñuel, and (currently) this is the last one we have in the Criterion Collection. Belle de Jour (1967) is the story of a middle class woman, wife of a surgeon, who becomes a sex worker in the afternoons. Or it's about a middle class woman who imagines that she's become a sex worker in the afternoons. Buñuel takes a lot of liberties with the source material and imagines a film that is perhaps 100% a character's fantasies, but even if it's not, it's still at least 50% a character's fantasies. And yet, somehow, it's also one of the director's most subdued films.

Noel Coward's Design for Living premiered in Cleveland, Ohio -- apparently the world's bastion of progressive and transgressive theater at the time -- on January 2, 1933. By the end of the month it would be on Broadway, by the end of the year Ernst Lubitsch and Ben Hecht would adapt it into the sexiest film of 1933. Meanwhile, Coward wouldn't stage the play in his native England for nearly another decade. Why? Well, one there's the scandal of even portraying a polyamorous relationship, but then Coward's play, like Truffaut's Jules et Jim (1962), portrays polyamory only to show it not working. That's one of the major changes in Lubitsch's version, and the film is all the more scandalous for it: here the relationship is rocky but in the end works out, maybe. No wonder the Production Code Administration hated it.

Somehow Sidney Lumet is our most watched director on our Patreon bonus episodes, but the actual Criterion Collection has a distinct lack. We get one of his best this week with 12 Angry Men (1957), a film adaptation of a teleplay from the Golden Age of Television (though not from Spine 495: The Golden Age of Television boxset). Our friend Stephen G. joins us to talk about how this is a great movie whose politics are not as great as we'd like and whose understanding of the legal system is going to lead to a mistrial.

The final film in Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colors trilogy, and the final film of the director's life, is the capstone to the set and, perhaps, a capstone to his entire career. A story of connection, coupled with the others in the trilogy, we're reminded that without Fraternity - the guiding theme of this film - life is hell. You gotta care. You deserve to be cared about.

D.H. Lawrence once said "Never trust the teller, trust the tale" and we fully embrace that as we struggle to step around the obvious political metaphor of a rocky relationship between a French woman and a Polish man in Krzysztof Kieślowski's anti-romantic comedy "Equality" movie Three Colors: White. Kieślowski is rather insistent that these are not political movies, though his collaborator and co-screenwriter Krzysztof Piesiewicz is perhaps less insistent. In either case though, the tale does the talking.

This week we kick off Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colors trilogy with Blue. Each of the three colors, drawn from the colors of the French flag, are also used in the films to represent one of the ideals of the French Revolution: Blue is associated with Liberty, White with Equality, and Red with Fraternity. Ultimately, as we'll discuss in the coming weeks, the films make an argument that without Fraternity, Liberty and Equality are meaningless and even hellish. In Blue we see a woman who has embraced solitude in response to grief.  She believes solitude is liberation from pain, but the film shows that to heal she needs human connection. It's a beautiful and brilliant film, and a masterpiece of synthesizing message and form.

Erle C. Kenton's The Island of Lost Souls is a pre-code adaptation of H.G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau, and the Criterion release contains quite possibly the most seemingly erratic and certainly esoteric collection of bonus features to ever be put on one of their discs. The movie itself is a wonder of early make-up effects, but among other things the additional materials bring us commentary from someone involved with a famously bad different adaptation of the work, a band loosely inspired by the film (but not the other band), and a two minute clip of a certain Northern Ohio television goofball interviewing himself.

Listen, we don't get Michelangelo Antonioni. We admit it. Maybe someday we'll watch Blow-Up and kinda like it, but for now we're not there yet. This week we get Identification of a Woman (1982), Antonioni's entry into one of our most hated genres: male film director directs a movie about a male film director's search for a new lover/star/muse. This one is even arguably - and we do! - more self-aware and less misogynistic than others in that genre. It's certainly no less elliptical and enigmatic than previous films of Antonioni we've seen.

Years after watching the fantastic Onibaba, we once again get an atmospheric horror film from Kaneto Shindo with Kuroneko (1968). Shindo continues to impress with this tale of feline and feminine justice. I just wish we didn't have to wait so long for his next film in the collection.

With their 1939 adaptation of The Four Feathers Zoltan Korda seems to have wanted to make a movie critical of British imperialism, while his brother, the film's producer Alexander Korda, seems to have wanted to make a movie in praise of their adopted British homeland. What we end up with is a beautifully shot film that is sometimes biting satire and sometimes unironic Islamophobic white saviorism.

We finish up Olivier Assayas' Carlos with the final episode of the 3-part miniseries. While the original idea for a film about Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was to focus on his ultimate arrest and life just before that, Carlos Part 3 covers that time period with what amounts to a montage of scenes that end in ellipses. Our bonus features this week also reveal some surprises about Assayas' sources, and show that at least Edgar Ramírez understands he's playing a character even as Assayas continues to equivocate whether or not this work is historically accurate.

Our second episode on Olivier Assayas' Carlos (2010) finds the film in overdrive trying to strip away any ideological motivation from its main character and paint him as moving toward purely profit-driven, which is probably the worst thing a Marxist could be. While Disc 2's additional features have our first behind the scenes look with Assayas insisting that he is being true to reality as much as possible, there's already been a lot of speculation that seemingly serves to only depoliticize Carlos' actions. But at least the music is very, very good.

The only work we've seen from Olivier Assayas before is Summer Hours, part of the Criterion Collections sub-collection of getting 21st century cinema into their purview by releasing seemingly every non-US family drama produced in the first decade of the new millennium. Like all those films (Yi Yi, Secert Sunshine, etc) we enjoyed Summer Hours.

We return to Assayas in the Collection this week with a very different film, well the first of three, actually. Carlos (2010) is a sort of biopic (though with plenty of editorializing, supposition, and fictionalization) of the life of freedom fighter or terrorist Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, popularly known as Carlos the Jackal. The work is a 3-part miniseries of feature length tv films, and we'll be tackling each in its own episode, sprinkling in Criterion's ample supplements, in order to give the total 339 minute runtime of Carlos its proper due.

This week we see Carlos as a fledgling freedom fighter, aligning with the Popular Front for Palestinian Liberation and deciding that means blowing stuff up in France. Episode one (and this week's supplements) lay the foundation for what I hope does not prove to be the main thesis of the film: that Carlos is a hypocritical womanizer ultimately more interested in bourgeois comforts than in Palestinian liberation. We also cover disc 4 of the set, which contains what seems to be a good chunk of Assayas's sources: two tv documentaries on Carlos and an interview with then-on-the-run former Carlos associate Hans-Joachim Klein.

Our second Claude Chabrol film is his second film, Les Cousins (1959) which came out a month before Truffaut's The 400 Blows and as a piece of "French New Wave" meets almost none of the criteria we've come to associate with the movement. It's visually nice at times, but we just don't care about any of these characters or their conflicts.

Claude Chabrol's Le Beau Serge (1958) is, by some definitions, the first film of the French New Wave. I feel like I've said that before. Chabrol clearly has a preternatural eye for the visual language of film. If only he had a similar talent for writing. Le Beau Serge is beautiful, but it's bland.

We kick off 2024 with a New Year's Eve carol. Victor Sjöström's The Phantom Carriage (1921) exists in the same genre as A Christmas Carol or It's a Wonderful Life, but unfortunately its only social message is one of temperance from alcohol. But what The Phantom Carriage lacks in intriguing plot it more than makes up for in innovative special effects, with its ghostly characters fully inhabiting a three dimensional world. With the technical limitations of cameras at the time, this movie is all the more amazing. No wonder Bergman loved it so much.

We finish up the Complete Jean Vigo boxset and the year 2023 this week, covering Vigo's final film L'Atalante. Vigo pressed himself for his first feature length, and perhaps too hard, dying of complications of tuberculosis before the premier. The studio took the opportunity of his demise to re-cut the movie, add different music, and try desperately to make it a pop culture smash in an era where France was obsessed with stories of barges. Despite the studio's efforts, a slightly restored L'Atalante and the other works of Vigo went on to be a major influence on the French New Wave, namely Truffaut who speaks with Eric Rohmer about L'Atalante in one of this boxset's special features.

We've all been there, the trepidation of introducing a new partner to your family. And why do we always seem to do it at the holidays? Maybe we're hoping that all the tinsel and the trash will distract the family just enough to make them welcoming. The family in Blood Beat (1983) has your normal family problems when new girlfriend Sarah arrives, and things get worse immediately as mom's psychic abilities put Sarah on edge and celebrations take a backseat to a ghost samurai murdering the neighbors.

This winter we're gathering together on the longest night of the year, well in the northern hemisphere at least, and watching a holiday horror film. Well, holiday enough. Like each of our holiday specials, the end of year holidays are rather incidental to the plot of Blood Beat. Our dear friend Stephen G. joins us for a film he was, inexplicably enough, already planning to watch this year for the first time.

As any review of Blood Beat will tell you, it's a deeply weird film, but it's maybe not even the weirdest movie we've seen this year? I mean, we watched House and Head and Crumb this year. Truly, from Antichrist to Zazie dans le Metro, the tenth year of Lost in Criterion brought us some brilliant films that are more than a bit out of the ordinary. Blood Beat isn't actually too far off from some movies we've seen this year, and even closer to some of the lower budget independently produced horror films we've seen as part of the collection in the past. Maybe we'll get a Criterion release of it before we're done.

This week we're covering the first part of Criterion's The Complete Jean Vigo set. There's just enough material in this set that we felt like we should do two episodes on it to give Jean Vigo his due. And what due this director deserves! Before dying of complication of tuberculosis at the age of 29 in 1934, Vigo produced only four works but they are each innovative and influential.

This week we cover his first three works: a newsreel/travelogue look at class distinctions in a port town in À propos de Nice (1930), a "Tokyo Olympiad" style look at a swimming star in Taris (1931), and a narrative about schoolboy revolution in Zéro de conduite (1933). And it's a good thing we decided to split this up because just covering these three shorter works led to a nearly 2 hour episode.

Next week is our annual holiday special, so we'll finish up the Jean Vigo set with L'Atalante (1934) in two weeks.

8 years ago this week our episode on Roman Polanski's Knife in the Water posted and we had a discussion about the director's misogyny. Two years ago this month, we talked about Roman Polanski's Repulsion and had a discussion about the director's misogyny. Now our third of his movies, Cul-de-sac (1966), offers us a chance to armchair psychoanalyze the man once again, as it becomes clear that his misogyny stems from his understanding all human relationships as power-struggles that someone must win.

It is the most interesting to us Polanski movie we've seen so far, certainly, resting mostly on the atmosphere of it's setting and the fact that this crime thriller maybe started life as a backdoor adaptation of Waiting for Godot.

But also, what malevolent coincidence have we encountered that we talk about Polanski films during the holidays.

Lee Chang-dong's story of incredible loss and grief, of where community can be found and where it cannot, Secret Sunshine (2007) shows the failings of a religion designed to solve status quo middle class problems under capitalism, but reminds us that there is still hope. Hirokazu Kore-eda (director of Spine 554: Still Walking) called this the best film of the 21st century so far, and he may be right, but while Secret Sunshine is a must see, it's hard to imagine having the emotional fortitude to watch it twice.

We get two early Stanley Kubrick films this week, not just The Killing (1956) but also Killer's Kiss (1955). While both are New York noirs, each offers a different view of the famed director. Killer's Kiss is the last film in which Kubrick did almost everything himself: directing, shooting, producing, and writing the story from scratch. The Killing is a Hollywood production, with  Lucien Ballard behind the lens (albeit to Kubrick's chagrin), James B. Harris producing his first of several collaborations with Kubrick, and Jim Thompson adapting a Lionel White novel (albeit with Kubrick still taking the credit). The Killing has the more compelling story and experimental structure, but Killer's Kiss has the more experimental (and guerrilla) camerawork and an axe fight in a mannequin factory.

Your hosts of Lost in Criterion were juniors in high school on September 11, 2001, and that certainly colors our opinion of Todd Solondz's Life During Wartime (2010). And so do current events. Solondz is also 25 years older than us, and while I agree, as Solondz says in one of the bonus features on this release, that the suburbs of New Jersey (where he grew up) and the suburbs of Ohio (where we lived in 2001) are not so different, I think that difference in generations is perhaps insurmountable. The gulf may keep us from fulling "getting" Solondz. I guess my point is that we spend a lot of time this week talking about how we would approach the metaphorical use of child abuse differently in a post-9/11 story, as we were 16 year old children on 9/11. And as is often the case, getting bogged down in what we wanted to see may keep us from fully seeing what Solondz is up to.

It took far too long for the Criterion Collection to show us anything from Bengali director Satyajit Ray, but we're finally here with the singular and beautiful The Music Room (1958). Ray's attempt at a more popular movie after his first two films (the first two of the Apu trilogy) failed to connect with an audience, The Music Room integrates classical Indian music into a story of decayed aristocracy, how holding onto power destroys everything you love.

Jean-Pierre Melville's Léon Morin, Priest (1961) is the story of a hot priest and a hot communist having banal religious conversations that rarely rise to a level that we can even pretend they are theological or philosophical. That these conversations also take place in a French town occupied by Nazis should raise the stakes, but the whole thing largely seems flat. It's a love story, and any depth beyond that didn't connect with us. But in retrospect maybe that is the point, maybe Melville is saying something particular about how even liberal-leaning organized religion is nice looking but empty.

Anyway, at least we got to talk about Liberation Theology and communism for a bit.

Our second in this pair of Louis Malle at his weirdest, Black Moon (1975) is an Alice in Wonderland-ish coming of age story during a literal battle of the sexes. We were concerned about a French male director making such a movie at the height of second-wave feminism, but Malle is nothing if not surprising. Malle claims he wrote the film on a sort of automatic writing while also changing course whenever a plot line looked like it might be emerging, which leaves us with a film quite widely open to interpretation. Black Moon's surreal nature also gets a big help by being shot by longtime Bergman cinematographer Sven Nykvist.

With the Louis Malle films we've seen so far it was clear the man was willing to reinvent his style, but I had sort of assumed he had eras at least. This week we start off a pair of his more out there films, one from very early in his career and one from the height of his career in the 80s.

This week it's Zazie dans le Metro, an adaptation of a popular French book that borders on Finnegans Wake-level nonsense made into a live action cartoon that borders on Playtime-level nonsense. It's a real curveball as Malle's third film, coming after The Lovers and Elevator to the Gallows which are both certainly not this. It's also probably the funniest movie about a little girl running away from a child molester that you'd ever watch. It's a weird one.

In 1930 a group that would soon be the who's who of young German filmmakers, including the Siodmak brothers and Billy Wilder, released People on Sunday, a semi-narrative semi-documentary look at how to spend a weekend in late-Weimar Republic Berlin. Also on the Criterion release is Eugen Schüfftan's Ins Blaue hinein (1931), a narrative short about hustling during the Depression. Both offer a fascinating look at these soon-to-be-greats' early careers and at everyday life in Germany before Hitler's rise.

What happens when a writer and a director who despise the best-selling reactionary violence of private detective Mike Hammer decide to make a Mike Hammer movie? And then the government tells them it's too violent so they cut out the entire mafia plot and replace it with a radioactive macguffin (that screams and melts your face)? Well, you get Robert Aldrich's highly influential Kiss Me Deadly (1955).

Kon Ichikawa's 1985 adaptation of the Jun'ichiro Tanizaki novel (serialized from 1943-48) is seemingly a new leaf for our experience with Ichiwaka's work. We've had his avant-garde sports documentary. We've had his strong anti-war films - perhaps the best anti-war films in the Criterion Collection. And now we get a pre-War tale of four sisters in a merchant family, a family epic shot on a television budget. It's also a topic that Pat has interest in and insight into since his day job is, in part, teaching Japanese history. Well, I'm glad one of us was engaged by it.

Insignificance, Nicholas Roeg's 1985 adaptation of Terry Johnson's play of the same name, is a study of fame and guilt, womanhood and the bomb. If the concept of "Barbieheimer" were a single film, it may look something like this.

In 1940, Charlie Chaplin determined that the only way he had to stop the fascists march around the world was to use his voice, literally, and produce his first true sound film with The Great Dictator. Inarguably, this film did not stop the war, but it did give us one of the most enduring calls to humanism ever put to celluloid.

Returning guest Adam S. joins us to talk about this marvelous movie that mocks fascists, which is always a worthwhile cause.

If Pale Flower were just composer Toru Takemitsu's Musique concrète score and sound design it would be worth talking about.

If Pale Flower were just director Masahiro Shinoda's avant garde deconstruction of a Shintaro Ishihara story and yakuza films in general, a New York Noir but Japanese, it would be worth talking about.

But Pale Flower (1964) is both, and more for the sum of it's parts.

Jonathan Demme's Something Wild (1986) is a fun, sexy, if a little weird Manic Pixie Dream Girl road movie. That is until about the halfway point, when the music and lighting suddenly both get darker, and Ray Liotta walks in to change this movie into something like an action thriller. In less steady hands, this could have felt more like two separate movies, but Demme and screenwriter E. Max Frye stick to their guns and stick the landing.

Brian De Palma's Blow Out (1981) is a political thriller for the dawn of the Reagan Era which is, not coincidentally, a political thriller for the Trump Era, which is, really, a political thriller for any USA age post the assassinations of the MLK, Malcolm X, and, primarily to Blow Out, the Kennedies. Like the Trinity Test, JFK's assassination was a genie released, and while high-profile USA political assassinations have fallen off in recent years, I think we can all agree they don't seem that far away.

Ken Loach's 1969 film Kes is like a British 400 Blows, but Loach takes seriously the political reality of the working class characters he portrays in a way I just don't find in Truffaut. Maybe I'm being less than gracious to the French New Wave pioneer, but maybe also Loach just knocks it out of the park in such a way that it sets a new standard.

Since it's an additional feature on the Criterion release, we also get to talk about Loach's 1966 teleplay Cathy Come Home, which is positively Godardian in style, though politically harder-hitting than Godard would get outside his work with Jean-Pierre Gorin.

In both films Loach appears to intuitively understand that the critique of traditional forms of art that the French New Wave was doing is an inherently political exercise, and Loach embraces its political nature without sacrificing the artistic form.

Our first Claire Denis film (well, unless you count all the work she did for Wim Wenders and Jim Jarmusch), 2009's White Material is the story of a white French coffee farmer trying to hold on to normalcy as the African country she lives in decolonizes. The crux of the problem of course being that while "normal" may mean "I can harvest and sell my coffee" it also means "the French army maintains an oppressive stranglehold over an entire nation." While colonialist forces wring every resource possible out of the country on their way out the door, unfortunately for Maria the coffee farmer, that doesn't include her coffee.

Victor Schertzinger's 1939 adaptation of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado is the first film adaptation of a Gilbert and Sullivan work, the only one to include members of the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company, and the first Technicolor picture put out by Universal.

But let's face it, it's only in the Collection because of Mike Leigh's Topsy-Turvy. Should have been a bonus feature, though I suppose if it had the Topsy-Turvy release would have been bloated. Instead we get a standalone episode dedicated to this piece of 19th century British Orientalism. Great.

Before this I'd only ever seen one film by Mike Leigh, Spine 307: Naked (1993) which we watched like five years ago. I remember it being fairly dour. So when I found out we were watching a Mike Leigh musical period biopic about Gilbert and Sullivan writing an orientalist light opera, I was concerned and confused.

Gilbert and Sullivan is not for me. Topsy-Turvy is for me. A story about art and capital, authenticity and caricature.

Rob Epstein's The Times of Harvey Milk (1984) is a poignant look at the assassination of the San Francisco Supervisor, his assassin, and his organizing paradigm. Not just fighting for gay rights, but helping to build a coalition for liberation, Milk's life as shown in the movie is an important lesson on movement building. Even if it were just that, I would recommend it to everyone. But beyond the 90 minute film, the Criterion release provides 3 hours of additional materials diving deeper into Milk's impact and legacy, making this release absolutely indispensable.

After years we finally get another Luchino Visconti film and it does not disappoint. Like The Leopard, Senso is set against the backdrop of the struggles of Italian unification, an idea that Visconti seems to have seen as analogous to the struggle to implement communism in his own time. Unlike The Leopard, Visconti takes a melodramatic love story and just shoves all that political stuff in there until it's about to burst.

It's a beautiful film, thanks in no small part to the film's 3rd cinematographer, promoted cameraman Giuseppe Rotunno kicking off his illustrious career.

Every so often the Criterion Collection shows us exactly one movie from a director and will apparently never show us another. With very few exceptions we've loved these one-and-dones, and Alexander Mackendrick's Sweet Smell of Succcess is no outlier.

It's very dark, it's very entertaining, and we'll never see anything from Mackendrick again.

Hirokazu Kore-eda's 2008 drama looks at a day in the life of a Japanese family, a day that just so happens to be the anniversary of the eldest son's death by drowning. It's a little bit Ozu, it's a little bit Naruse, and it's a wonderful exploration of the ways trauma and grief linger in family relationships.

Andrea Arnold's Fish Tank is, refreshingly, a "this is how the poor people live" movie from someone who actually grew up in similarly impoverished situations to the protagonists of their film. Criterion also provides us with 3 of Arnold's short films, each dealing with a similar theme to those that show up in the main film: young womanhood, single motherhood, and grief.

First a note: Sorry to have missed last week, but Adam was in the hospital after a bicycle accident left him with a fractured elbow. He's on the mend, and we should be back to the regular schedule.

This week we're talking James L. Brooks office rom-com set against the changing background of 1980's newsrooms. 1987's Broadcast News is a fun movie, indicative in many ways of Brooks' decades writing cutting edge sitcoms. Unfortunately, he doesn't take the opportunity of a larger story to punch any harder.

Guillermo del Toro's first film, Cronos (1993), is flat out just a really great vampire flick, with an eye toward how the machinations of adults effect the children in their lives, like many of his best films. But that bit of family-focus isn't the only way Cronos rises above simple genre film, as del Toro uses the vampire to tell a story of capitalism and colonialism, and the particular evil that is created when Christianity unites with those powers and principalities.

We finish up the America Lost and Found: The BBS Story boxset with one more film from producer, director, and one of the B's in BBS Bob Rafelson. The King of Marvin Gardens may have our favorite Jack Nicholson role of the bunch, and is a strong finish in a boxset that really ebbed and flowed for us. "It's Monopoly out there" is going to enter my lexicon.

America Lost and Found: The BBS Story has been really up and down for us, but Peter Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show (1971) is definitely toward the top. Stylistically and homage to John Ford (and, to a lesser extent, Howard Hawks), this coming of age story is set in the 50s but still manages to engage in the politics of the early 70s better than a lot of the other movies we've watched this last month.

The BBS films we've been watching are culturally important for telling new types of stories within major studio-released films, but for the most part, outside of Head, the form of the stories hasn't been that different. The sex is more explicit, the drug use is forefront, but the actual structure of the film is more familiar, I think. Maybe that's just because we're 50 years on and it's less new.

Head was out there structurally, of course, and second to Head comes Henry Jaglom's A Safe Place, a film I cannot believe Columbia put out. It's structure has more in common with Chris Marker's Le Jetee (1962) than Easy Rider, and it feels more daring than anything we've seen in weeks of the BBS set. Jaglom is trying to chase Cassevetes, but unfortunately lacks Cassevetes' abilities. But at least he's got Orson Welles in his picture.

For us, this is honestly the nadir of the BBS boxset. Drive, He Said is a movie that can't even take it's own political moment seriously, hamstringing the "revolutionary" at the center of the film into a lone man driven insane by "free love" with no reference even to the draft, even as the very campus Jack Nicholson was shooting on was literally being set on fire in organized anti-war protests possibly DURING production. And the filmmakers even made the ultimate revolutionary act in the film much, much less revolutionary than their source material had it, so they have no excuse as far as we're concerned.

But maybe as Ohio boys we're just mad that Drive, He Said is set in Ohio but not filmed there.

It's well acted though! Despite the poorly drawn character, Michael Margotta is fantastic as Gabriel, and Karen Black's performances continue to be the highlights of these films.

What Easy Rider does for hippie-adjacent drug dealers, Five Easy Pieces (1970) does for upper class piano prodigies? It's becoming increasingly clear that the ideas the BBS guys and their associates have about "freedom" are very much at odds with Lost in Criterion's ideas about liberation.

We think Carole Eastman's script was probably a lot more interesting than Bob Rafelson's movie, but who can say.

The second movie in the America Lost and Found: The BBS Story boxset is the one that artistically put them on the map. It was the Monkees' money that got the movies made, but it was Easy Rider (1969) that got them legitimacy.

Dennis Hopper directs this classic tale of...freedom? People tell me this movie is about freedom. I'll be honest, given the cultural hold this film seems to have I was surprised at how bleak it is.

This week we kick off one of our longest boxsets yet, America Lost and Found: The BBS Story. In it we'll see some of the most well known early New Hollywood films of the late 60s and early 70s produced by Bob Rafelson, Bert Schneider, and Stephen Blauner.

We start off with perhaps the most out there of the set. Rafelson and Schneider are the creators of the Monkees, and much of BBS's success can be attributed to the just tons of money they made from that show. Our first film, directed by Rafelson, is Head (1968), the psychedelic swan song for the prefab four.

Our good friend Jonathan Hape, a long-time Monkees fan who'd never seen Head before, joins us for a rollicking conversation about the film and the band.

Modern Times is our first proper Charlie Chaplin film in the Criterion Collection - though The Immigrant (1917) was a bonus feature on Spine 330, Louis Malle's Au revoir les enfants (1987).

Modern Times is just such a classic film, and a perfect fit for us as it's Chaplin's first excursion into what could be considered political film. We'll get more of that from Charlie in a few months with The Great Dictator, and really cannot wait for that! For now his heart is in the right place even if he's doing a lot that Rene Clair already did in A Nous la Liberte with a better political message but no Chaplin set pieces so it's really hard to rank them against each other. Clair's production company actually sued over Modern Times, but settled out of court and Clair himself was horrified that they sued his friend Chaplin. In the end, we get two great films about the hellish nature of technology in the hands of capital.

Since we first encountered Lars von Trier with The Element of Crime way back at Spine 80, he is a director who we - Pat especially - look forward to as the Criterion Collection trickles out his work. Antichrist, however, was a film we were both cautious about, knowing what little we did about it.

Ultimately, the film is sort of a mix between Salo and Haxan, and like Salo it is a film that I am glad I watched but will never recommend to anyone. Like Salo, Antichrist is steeped in sexual and gender-based violence, some of it graphically self-inflicted. You should not watch the film without knowing that is coming.

But still, it is a fascinating look at depression and grief. And this is one of my favorite episodes as of late, and we've watched a lot of good movies lately.

Charles Laughton's The Night of the Hunter has been so vindicated in the decades after its release that it really is quite a shame that the man not only never made another movie but died before he got his due respect.

The Darjeeling Limited is possibly Wes Anderson at his most self-aware, but sometimes its still difficult to tell the difference between deeper symbolism and the director's stream-of-consciousness aesthetic styling, particularly when it comes to the religious elements.

Speaking of religious elements, a note: this episode we spend some time talking about the [Anglo] Latin Catholic influence in India since that is the Christianity we see in the movie (and it gives us a chance to reference Black Narcissus). While the colonialism of more modern waves of Christianity into India cannot be sidestepped, we should point out that Christianity has a 2000 year history in parts of India, particularly the south, and it’s not all the rather austere Latin Catholicism that we see in the movie and talk about in this episode.

Casey Hape joins us once again as the person we know who has been into Anderson the longest, and we got her husband Jonathan to sit in as well.

Nobuhiko Obayashi's sole film in the Criterion Collection (so far!) is the 1978 avant garde horror comedy House, a movie co-written by his 8 year old daughter.

After nearly nine years we finally get a second Stanley Kubrick film from the Collection with Paths of Glory (1960), his first collaboration with Kirk Douglas made just before Spartacus. This is our third "anti-war" film in the last month or so, and the second American one. With Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line we discussed whether or not an American film made after WW2 could truly be "anti-war", but I think Paths of Glory comes closer than any other we've seen.

Big thanks to Adam S. for joining us, because it's always nice to have someone who may actually know what they're talking about on the podcast.

Statistically speaking, I think we're more likely to be watching an Ingmar Bergman film in the Criterion Collection than not, which is why it's surprising that The Magician is the first one we've seen in like 2 years. This time Bergman brings us a tale of conmen in unbelievable costumes and bad audiences that don't know how to have fun.

Terrence Malick makes spiritual humanist films. He also decided to make this war film.

OK, "anti" war film. Whenever we watch an anti-war film the comment attributed to Truffaut comes up: "there's no such thing as an anti-war film". We don't entirely think that's true. We've seen spiritual and humanist anti-war films as recently as last week's episode that I would say achieve their goal. Unfortunately, as we discuss this week, American culture, particularly post WW2, may be so steeped in war that an American cannot make an anti-war film.

Still, Malick tries, and if the production stories are to be believed, it took quite a toll on him.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983) is positively chaste compared to the other Nagisa Oshima films we've seen, as the sex here is always boiling just below the surface. This experiment in stunt casting pays off as one of the best anti-war movies we've seen, digging into the humanity and inhumanities of a Japanese prisoner of war camp, and their Allied prisoners, and leaving us to think about who gets punished and why.

Our second experience with Maurice Pialat does not help us beg down the man's politics. This time we have L'enfance nue, a film that owes a lot to Truffaut, both because it's in the vein of The 400 Blows and because Truffaut produced it.A semi-documentarian look at the state of French Social Service's treatment of abandoned children, Pialat tries not to get too judgemental while showing us a system that is patently broken and clearly failing the children it's meant to "protect".

Our second of the pair of Terry Zwigoff documentaries is one that initially no one wanted to touch, despite the success of Louie Bluie. Was it just that all that good will had evaporated over the course of a decade? Or was it that this time around Zwigoff turned his camera on his friends: gonzo cartoonist R. Crumb and Crumb's even more eccentric brothers. Eccentric is a good word here.

We kick off a pair of documentaries by Terry Zwigoff, starting this week with Louie Bluie, his 1985 look at musician and artist Howard Armstrong. Start to finish just an absolute delight of a documentary.

We finish up the Three Silent Classics by Josef von Sternberg set this week with the best of the bunch, really, The Docks of New York (1928), a melodrama about a himbo of a steamship furnace stoker who thinks himself unlovable and absolutely refuses to believe in private property. He's the best.

Lost in Criterion is 10 years old! Does that make us the longest running Criterion podcast? Who cares.

We started this podcast as an excuse to talk after Pat moved to Japan. While Pat and I were far from cinephiles, we enjoyed the conversations we'd have leaving the cinema after a movie, and wanted to continue having those talks even though we weren't going to the same cinema anymore. So we, pretty arbitrarily to be honest, picked a list of movies to talk about, and happened to pick one that now grows faster than we release episodes. We will never be done! So look forward to more decade anniversaries in the future!

To celebrate this anniversary, we decided to revisit one of the first 100 films we talked about. This is a redemption thing. While we moved to podbean so that our entire catalogue of episodes would be more easily available, we do not recommend the first 100 (or more!). They're rough. They're evidence of two idiots getting film education by fire. I like to think we've gotten better over the years, but our iTunes reviews disagree.

So Pat and I made a list of films we particularly wanted to revisit from those first 100 Criterion Spines. Over the last few weeks, our Patreon supporters have voted on which film they'd like to hear us re-examine. The winner is a movie I loved, but was only going to watch again if I was forced to because it is so long.

Andrei Rublev (1966) is the first Andrei Tarkovsky film Pat and I saw and we were not prepared. The original episode finds Pat calling everything but the bell making sequence "boring" and "confusing" and me finding the film hard to defend because I liked it on vibes alone. Have our opinions changed? Well, they'd have to have, but you'll have to listen to this episode to be sure.

Thanks to everyone who voted! Thanks to everyone who's listened to and supported us over the years! Maybe someday we'll be done!

After a series of setbacks, including changing the film we were going to do twice and rescheduling with a different slate of guests (one of whom then had to drop out because we took too long working out technical problems), we finally caught the metaphorical polka band tour van and made it home for the holidays for this year's special: the Coen brothers' fifth film, The Hudsucker Proxy.

While one end of year holiday - New Year's - is symbolically important to the film's time motif, every gift-giving holiday of the winter season takes place uncommented on in the background of this movie that is explicitly about a best-selling toy. And that's not the silliest aspect of this silly film!

The last week notwithstanding, we had a good year this year! We kicked off 2022 with Jeanne Dielman, a film that by the end of the year was declared the best movie ever or something. Well, it's certainly up there. We were introduced to the wonderful works of Mira Nair this year, and took a way too long working through the second By Brakhage Anthology, sorry! We talked Z and Hunger and Che and we sure do love it when Criterion gives us a political film to sink our teeth into, even when the director claims their obviously political film isn't political at all (looking at you Pedro Costa and Josef von Sternberg!) Oh, and we got to watch another Antonioni film we didn't like, but at least we enjoyed talking about it this time!

Hope your year's been as good as ours! We've been doing this podcast for a full decade now! Wow. Next week we're going to have a special retrospective episode, looking back at a film from the first 100 Spines of the Criterion Collection that our Patreon supporters voted for us to revisit. Can't wait to share that with you!

For now though, happy all the holidays!

The second film of the 3 Silent Classics by Josef von Sternberg boxset, The Last Command is a story of revenge and patriotism during the Russian revolution and, you know what, it's actually just best to ignore the story.

We kick off the 3 Silent Classics by Josef von Sternberg boxset with Underworld (1927), a film that defined a lot of gangster movie aesthetics, and went way beyond that as well with some of the most visually striking matte work we've seen outside of Black Narcissus.

Abdellatif Kerchiche's The Secret of the Grain (2007) hits a lot of the right notes for us, but once again we encounter a director aggressively claiming their film is apolitical when their film is obviously political.

The second of our pair of Ozu films finds the director between World War II deployments bringing to screen a script he'd been working on for nearly a decade about loyalty to one's father, and by extension -- perhaps at least to the Japanese censor board that celebrated the film -- loyalty to one's emperor. This is the closest thing to a propaganda film we've seen from Ozu, but we're not convinced that was Ozu's intention.

We kick off a pair of early Yasujirō Ozu sound films this week, and first up is his earliest. The Only Son (1936) comes out during a time period in Japan that we have yet to see represented in films from the country: directly pre-war as the right-wing imperialists are cementing their rule. Against that backdrop, and just months before Ozu himself would be drafted, The Only Son looks at the sacrifices of made by women for the promise of success for their sons and brothers in the modernizing Japan, success that remained out of grasp for many as the Great Depression reached its height.

Carol Reed helms a film that suggests screenwriters Sidney Gilliat and Frank Launder only had one plot. Night Train to Munich shares a lot of bones with the pairs' previously penned film, Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes, functioning as something between remake and sequel as well as being the second entry in the multimedia Charters and Caldicott Cinematic Universe. It's silly, it's fun, and the models are endearingly terrible.

Visually, aurally, and plot-wise this is a movie that is absolutely about the choking hellscape extractive capitalism forces us to live in, and the alienating spiritual sickness such a system causes. That is, unless you take the director's word on what that movie is actually about. Red Desert (1964) is Michelangelo Antonioni's ode to "progress" in which climate anxiety sounds like a you problem.

We joke this week that Swedish dramas are the bread and butter of the Criterion Collection, but Everlasting Moments is set apart from the rest through not being directed by Ingmar Bergman. Jan Troell's biopic of his wife's great aunt shows us a unique picture of a woman's life in early 20th century Sweden and the freedom found in artistic pursuit.

Abbas Kiarostami's Close-up (1990) explores a real-life incident of celebrity impersonation in late '80s Iran through a mixture of documentary, recreation, and the director guiding the narrative as events still unfold. Because of that last element, exactly what mix of reality and fiction exists is up for debate, and in the end, much of what really happened only happened because of Kiarostami's influence. But beyond all the questions of manipulation, there's also a picture of class relations in Iran at the time.

Our experiment of walking through Stan Brakhage, An Anthology Volume Two at a reasonable pace comes to an end this week. After our rush through Volume One years ago we had liked Brakhage, and now after spending so much more time with him, well...we definitely still love his work, but here's hoping it's another few years before Criterion puts out Volume Three.

This week we cover films from the last years of Brakhage's life, including what he was working on when he passed away. And we finally get a behind-the-scenes look at Brakhage filming in "For Stan", a bonus feature short film from Brakhage's wife (and editor of this anthology) Marilyn Brakhage.

This week's selection of Stan Brakhage films has works from 1982, 1992, and 1994, all multi-media, mixing many of the Brakhage "genres": painted frames, manipulated photographic images, layering. We also get another with a soundtrack from Rick Corrigan, and one with probably the most on-screen (and almost legible!) text of any Brakhage film at all.

By Brakhage Volume Two Program 4 is totally dedicated to Stan Brakhage's 1989-90 four film cycle Visions in Meditation. Inspired by Gertrude Stein's Stanzas in Meditation, the films take us on a journey into a meditative state, working better as a complete work than as four individual pieces. This is the only complete cycle of Brakhage's work in the Criterion sets, despite other films drawn from cycles being included in Volume Two.

We continue our journey through By Brakhage, An Anthology Volume Two with a collection of works from 1972-1982 including the remix-y mashup of violence that is Murder Psalm and a few others that are less intense than that.

For By Brakhage: An Anthology, Volume One many years ago we tried to do the whole set in a single episode like we were trying to get the new world record for getting through the Louvre the fastest. These are art films, so for Volume Two we're taking our time to appreciate them and dedicating an individual episode to each of the six "Programs" that Criterion breaks the set down into. This is episode two, covering Program 2 including Stan Brakhage's Scenes from Under Childhood, Section One (1967), Machine of Eden (1970), Star Garden (1974), and Desert (1976).

Many years ago Criterion served us up By Brakhage: An Anthology collecting a nice cross section, or so we thought, of the works of experimental American filmmaker Stan Brakhage. We're back with Volume Two and a much wider cross section of the man's work, including styles of piece completely missing from Volume One.

Back then we tried to talk about 26 Brakhage films in a single episode. It was a foolish thing to attempt. This time we're swinging the pendulum the other way and taking the set week by week with Criterion's "Program" subdivisions of the 30 total films. It means only covering about 4 films and about 1 hour of material each week for six weeks, but it also means maybe actually intelligently talking about any individual Brakhage work.

This week we're joined by Adam Spieckermann to talk the stunt work, beautiful setting, and class politics of John Ford's Stagecoach (1939), the star-making role for John Wayne.

Somehow The Fugitive Kind (1960) is our first Sidney Lumet film for the proper podcast despite having done three Sidney Lumet films for our Patreon bonus episodes. Based on a Tennessee Williams play (in turn based on the Orpheus myth), we spend most of this episode trying to put our fingers on what doesn't quite work about it.

I don't know if we ultimately got what Ang Lee wanted us to get out of Ride with the Devil (1999) but we still got something. An interesting, though perhaps too neo-liberal, look at how young men turn to (and from) extremism in extreme times. Still, it's a pretty movie with Jeffrey Wright and Jewel turning in phenomenal performances.

Olivier Assayas' look at what we inherit from our parents was sponsored by the Paris Musee D'orsay for their 20th anniversary and from that partnership came a movie with a satisfyingly over-ambitious art direction in any modern film we've seen.

Like much of the early work of Jean-Luc Godard (and the rest of the young directors of the French New Wave), Vivre sa Vie (1962) wears its American influences on its sleeves. Perhaps better than our experiences with other pre-1968 Godard work, we can see the seeds of the more explicitly Marxist ideology that will bubble up in his work later in the decade. And that's probably not the only way this is prototypical Godard.

This week we finish up the Pedro Costa boxset Letters from Fontainhas with Colossal Youth which is a beautiful and affecting piece of art, despite the fact that we are still left a bit suspicious of Costa's politics.

We continue through the Letters from Fontainhas boxset this week. The story goes that one of the co-stars of Pedro Costa's Ossos, Vanda Duarte, invited Costa to see what her life was really like, and Costa decided to strip the artifice of film down to its essentials or something and make a "docufiction" film about Vanda and Fontainhas with just his subjects, himself, and a handheld DV camera.

We start a box set from director Pedro Costa this week. "Letters from Fontainhas" contains three of Costa's films set in the impoverished Lisbon neighborhood of Fontainhas. Ossos (1997) is our first, and the closest to a traditional film. While "closest" is doing a lot of work in that sentence, the others move from outright narrative fiction to something more accurately labeled "docufiction" or even "ethnofiction", a fictionalized ethnography. We'll talk more about that aspect in the rest of the series, but for now we have Ossos which is a beautiful film.

Last week we had a long conversation about the nature of ennui today and this week Nicholas Ray swings in with a movie from 1956 reminding us that middle class ideals lead to fascism. I love it when the Criterion Collection gives us unmarked ideological sets.

Marco Ferreri's 1969 film Dillinger is Dead takes a look out how being a victim of alienation under capitalism makes committing oppressive violence feel like liberation. Or at least I hope so, because otherwise it's a bad movie.

Make Way for Tomorrow is one of the most subtly political films we've seen, particularly from America. Leo McCarey's masterpiece tells the story of an older couple forced apart by economic forces, having lost their income and their home in a world were their children cannot financially or emotionally care for them. It stands as a beautifully made depressing drama, but it shines as an example of the state of things and the need for change as the New Deal and, particularly, Social Security were bringing a much needed safety net to Americans in similar situations.

Long time supporter of the show Jason Westhaver joins us to talk about this wonderful film.

Director Steve McQueen's feature debut, Hunger is a historical drama about the mistreatment of IRA political prisoners by the British government, particularly centered on Bobby Sands' part in the 1981 hunger strike that led to his death. McQueen and his cast all insist this movie is meant to be apolitical and show that wrong was done on both sides. If that is true, this brilliant film failed its makers' intentions.

Our fourth and currently final Max Ophuls movie in the Collection is his final film, a historic romance that takes a lot of liberties and is maybe kinda about taking liberties? Capitalist patriarchy is a circus in Lola Montes.

Götz Spielmann's 2008 film Revanche feints at being a crime drama, and has a title suggesting it's a revenge thriller, but settles into being a study on loss and grief.

After we watched Wings of Desire a few months ago we were greatly anticipating another Wim Wenders film and Paris, Texas (1984) does not disappoint. The term "modern western" is usually applied to cowboyish action films, but I think it's fitting here for a story of the southwest US that doubles as a parable on the lack of community and connection when living in places built for cars not people.

We finish up the Roberto Rossellini War Trilogy boxset with our least favorite of the bunch. Germany Year Zero (1948) is a deeply impactful film, but it also gets us thinking about the nature of Rossellini's commitment to "realism".

We continue through the Roberto Rossellini War Trilogy boxset with 1946's episodic Paisan. This week we get six separate stories with various amounts of tragic endings and the lasting reminder that Italy would like America to be its friend now.

This week we kick off Robert Rossellini's War Trilogy, a boxset of the Italian director's films from the end of World War 2 and the beginning of the Neo-realist movement. First up is Rome, Open City, a movie that codifies Rossellini's neo-realist style out of necessity instead of ideology.

This episode is a bit late because the laptop I have recorded Lost in Criterion since 2013 on died. RIP the macbook I promised myself I would keep for a full decade in order to justify the cost. You almost made it.

Steven Soderbergh's Che (2008) is surprisingly pro-Che (and unsurprisingly anti-Castro) telling the story of the revolutionary's rise in Cuba and fall in Bolivia. Most of the bonus features on the Criterion dvd though are dedicated to the fact that this epic film is shot on a RED digital camera and isn't that neat?

We finish up the Golden Age of Television boxset with two Playhouse 90 episodes both directed by John Frankenheimer, who averaged directing about one live television broadcast every other week during his early career. This week it's The Comedian, Rod Serling's stinging look at a caustic comedian, and Days of Wine and Roses, a melodramatic very special episode in association with Alcoholic's Anonymous.

We continue through The Golden Age of Television boxset with the three teleplays from disc 2: the perfectly comedic and tragic Bang the Drum Slowly, the ambitious and poignant Requiem for a Heavyweight, and the why-is-this-in-the-set A Wind from the South.

This week we start a boxset of teleplays from various 1950s live dramatic anthology series. Criterion here is releasing a PBS retrospective from the early 80s showcasing the teleplays that mostly hadn't been seen since then, and really weren't publicly available until Criterion's release.
We'll be taking this set over the course of three weeks, focusing on each separate disc in the box. Criterion front-loaded the set with three bangers straight out of the gate. Adam S. joins us to talk about Marty (written by Paddy Chayefsky), Patterns (written by Rod Serling), and No Time for Sergeants (starring Andy Griffith).

Michael Ritchie's directorial debut is one of the greatest sports films to ever come out of Hollywood, second only to Ritchie's later Bad News Bears.

A spiritual successor to the works of Francesco Rosi, in content if not style, Matteo Garrone's 2008 film Gomorrah takes a look at the modern state of organized crime in Naples. Filmed on location in the real life places the portrayed crimes take place, and with non-professional actors who would go on to serve prison time for their involvement in real life crimes, Gomorrah shows us the all-too-common story of those ground up and left behind by capitalism.

Arnaud Desplechin's 2008 A Christmas Tale wears its influences on its sleeve and meshes them into a cohesive whole, but perhaps an overly-full whole. There's a lot going on here, and clearly the version we're seeing was meant to have even more going on.

We loved the last Costa-Gavras film we saw, and we love this one. Z (1969) is a story pulled from the headlines of the director’s homeland of Greece that takes a hard look at police alignment with far-right politics and the disastrous results oh letting that power go unchecked.

Wim Wenders Wings of Desire is one of the most arthousey arthouse films we've seen since our last Jean Cocteau, but this one has Peter Falk and is thus much more accessible.

We finish up the "And Seven Short Films" included on the Monsoon Wedding release with the four fiction shorts included: The Day the Mercedes Became a Hat (1993), her section of the 11'09'01 anthology (2002), Migration (2007), and How Can it Be? (2008).
They are an interesting mix of Nair's work made under a variety of political impetuses. 

According to the cover, the title of Criterion Spine 489 is Monsoon Wedding and Seven Short Films, and we're being extra completionist by dedicating two episodes for covering the Seven Short Films. This week it's the three documentary shorts: So Far from India (1983), India Cabaret (1985), and The Laughing Club of India (2002).

Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding is a fantastic look at family at a few crossroads in an India at a few national crossroads of its own. And as if the movie itself weren’t enough, the Criterion Collection packs this release with seven other shorter pieces from Nair, which we’ll be covering in the coming weeks.

James Ivory’s adaptation o the E. M. Forster novel, Howard’s End is a star-studded, period-accurate recreation of a Britain in transition from patriarchal colonialism to kindler, gentler, female-inclusive neoliberal colonialism. It actually doesn’t deal with the colonialism all that directly, but we still see the failings of the new order in regards to class equality, how a even a little power can corrupt and how charity isn’t justice.

Alexander Korda’s 1941 biopic of Emma Hamilton and her love affair with Horatio Nelson doubles as an attempt to convince the US to enter World War 2. Korda almost faced a Congressional inquiry for this act of propaganda, but Pearl Harbor happened five days before he was to appear. As far as pro-war propaganda goes, this is possibly the worst we’ve encountered in the Collection, which would explain why it’s Winston Churchill’s favorite movie.

The Criterion Collection was kind enough to give us a David Mamet film previously so that we could establish our distaste for him before diving into the complicated and delicate political and racial identity issues at the heart of Homicide. I doubt we threaded the needle we were trying to thread here.

Honestly, it's hard to remember that Whit Stillman's ode to the yuppies who killed disco is a period piece. One because there's very little in the main characters that feel of the time period the movie is set in, but also because the moneyed class gentrifying neighborhoods and cultural movements out of existence is a perennial problem.

New Year New You

In Chantal Akerman’s 1975 meticulous look at domestic life, Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, her protagonist makes some changes. Maybe we all should.

After many years we finally see another Roman Polanski film and maybe moving forward it would be best if we don't watch the bonus features that contain interviews with Roman Polanski, who always seems to come off as a misogynistic jerk. Repulsion itself is a pretty good thriller, technically, though it would be better if we felt that the filmmaker wanted us to be sympathetic to the main character at all.

For this year's Holiday Special we come to the saint of "movies that incidentally take place at Christmas" Shane Black. Black wrote The Long Kiss Goodnight before taking a long break from screenwriting. Renny Harlin directs, and he's no stranger to holiday-adjacent action fare having also directed Die Harder.

Joining us this year are Stephen G. and Ben JW, and Ben makes a compelling argument that this is Shane Black's most actual Christmas movie. Whether or not that's true, it's ridiculous.

In 1967 Jean-Luc Godard was like any modern young Marxist: blaming all of life’s ills on consumerism, blaming consumerism on America, yelling at his old friends for being bourgeoisie, getting into public debates with people who know his side better than he does, dating teenagers…but those young Marxists are usually college sophomores and Godard was 37. But like any good leftist unwilling to read theory, he eventually got a friend who wasn’t and could explain it to him, his in the form of Jean-Pierre Gorin. But before he and Gorin started working together, Godard had a few more things to work out and he decided to do so publicly. 2 0r 3 Things I Know About Her is just one of the half dozen or so films he made while in this ideological flux, all of which are more interesting for the meta-commentary they offer us on Godard’s mind than for being good movies.

In the mid 1960's Jean-Luc Godard was going through a lot: his politics were changing, his marriage to Anna Karina was ending, and he was becoming more and more disillusioned with US cultural hegemony. So he made a lot of movies about it, and this is the most scattershot one: Made in USA .

We finish up Masaki Koboyashi's The Human Condition and need some extra time to talk about both the third movie and the work as a whole. After nearly 2 hours talking it out we're left unconvinced that this is an anti-war movie let alone the best Japanese anti-war movie, unless you thinly define "anti-war" as "anti-the WW2 Japanese war machine". How disheartening.

In part two of Masaki Koboyashi's epic The Human Condition our main character for some reason decides that being a good soldier who sticks to the word of the regulations will somehow make things better for him in a war he claims he fundamentally disagrees with. That's right, the politics get even murkier in Road to Eternity.

We start into Masaki Koboyashi's epically faithful adaptation of Junpei Gomikawa's six volume examination of Japan in World War 2 through the lens of a man who generally opposes war, or at least militarism, played by the great Tatsuya Nakadai.

The Human Condition is, in total, just shy of 10 hours long. But it's helpfully broken up into three films (each containing two sections) released between January 1959 and January 1961. We'll be similarly breaking down Spine 480 into three episodes.

We've seen a lot of great Louis Malle films in the Collection, and now we get one more. A very long conversation about art or something, and while it is itself quite good, we're very interested in the peripherals film about class.

Alain Resnais's Last Year at Marienbad is an obviously influential movie that's nearly impossible to describe. Adam thinks it's a ghost story. Pat thinks it's an examination of the epistemological crisis. Both or neither are probably true. Truth is a game, and the game is rigged against you.

First released in 2004 as a series of television episodes, then recut into a feature length film for 2006, Marie Nyreröd’s Bergman Island is an intimate portrait of director Ingmar Bergman looking back on his life just after his final retirement from film making, and just a few years before his death.

It's our first David Fincher film in the Collection and what a choice. A tour du force of special effects that do not hold up, Benjamin Button updates and elongates the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story into whatever this is.

Nothing like a gangster movie to get us talking about the alienation and the lack of community under capitalism. But beside (and because of) that, this is just such a fantastically bleak movie. Peter Yates directs Robert Mitchum and Peter Boyle in The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973).

We close out the "Pigs, Pimps, and Prostitutes" boxset of Shohei Imamura films with Intentions of Murder, a tale in which Imamura apparently wants us to laugh an abused woman because she's fat. Hilarious! This is our last Imamura film in the Collection right now, and we're not mad about that.

We continue through the Imamura "Pigs, Pimps, and Prostitutes" boxset and continue to take issue with Imamura calling himself an anthropologist.  When we started this Criterion journey nearly a decade ago I had no idea it would lead to me ponder the question: can breastfeeding be an incestual act?

This week we kick off a boxset called "Pigs, Pimps, and Prostitutes" and ain't that something. It's three films by Shohei Imamura, the last three he made before leaving Nikkatsu for his own studio. The whole set really exemplifies Imamura's goal of making "messy films" with a self-described "cultural anthropologist" lens.
We start off with Pigs and Battleships from 1962, a story of bad criminals, American imperialism, and feminism I guess?

Seemingly always up to adapt a challenging text, John Huston directs this adaptation of a Flannery O'Connor novel. While Huston and O'Connor have dramatically opposite views on religion, but Huston himself has begrudgingly said that "Jesus wins" in the end of his movie. We're not so sure that's accurate.

Stephen Frears 1984 film The Hit combines a British gangster film with a road movie and honestly it's nice to just have a movie we enjoy and don't have to think too much about after the string we've been on.

Jean Painlevé (1902-1989) was not the first person to make scientific documentaries for a general audience, but he was certainly very influential on nature documentarians real and otherwise from Attenborough to Zissou. Criterion serves us a collection of many, though not quite all, of his 5-30 minute films which fuse underwater and microscopic filmography with an eye toward surrealist humor and, if you can read it right, a mind toward social change.

Nagisa Ōshima's follow-up to last week's In the Realm of the Senses is less sexually explicit and harder to pin down politically than that work, but Empire of Passion is still an interesting tale of greed and ghosts.

There was a moment in Nagisa Ōshima's obscenity trial for the printed script edition of In the Realm of the Sense where the director apologizes to the judges and police, saying, essentially, "I showed the script to all my colleagues and none of them found it titillating, so I'm sorry you guys got turned on." And I don't think he's just having a laugh at their expense. The film is certainly full, nearly wall to wall, of sex, unsimulated even, but being full of sex and being sexy are different things, and Ōshima has a different goal.

Apparently considered one of Akira Kurosawa's worst films, Dodes'ka-den started life as a joint project between the top four directors in Japan calling themselves the Four Horsemen but ended up being one of the lowest points of Kurosawa's life. We explore a theory on why Japan didn't connect with the subject matter as we talk class and caste in Japanese history and a depressing and visually stunning movie.

Andrzej Wajda's Danton explores the French revolution through the Polish director's own experience under Soviet rule, a rule he saw as anti-worker and therefore anti-progress. Using the titular Danton and Robespierre, the film presents the tension of revolution, or perhaps violent revolution, if Wajda makes such a distinction, and particularly a revolution that seeks only to rotate who is in power instead of upturning power hierarchies.

Revolutions that promise equality without upheaving power structures aren't revolutions. Equality must always broaden.

Vittorio De Sica stars in Roberto Rossellini's Il Generale Della Rovere, the story of a conman coerced into impersonating an Italian resistance general, but really it's two stories: the first half is De Sica's character's everyday life promising to rescue people's family members from Nazi imprisonment if they can raise the money and his arrest and trial for doing that, then the second half is a war prison film of the same man on the inside doing his new con job. A fascinating and great movie, but like many others, would have been better if more people making it were communists instead of just nationalists.

A very different François Truffaut film to any we've seen before, The Last Metro draws on the director's memories of a childhood during Occupation to craft a story that is not autobiographical by any means, but instead tells the story of the community around a theater and the various ways people persevered.

David Lean's adaptation of Hobson's Choice brings the atmospheric panache that made his Great Expectations so amazing but putting it into a comedy about a guy who doesn't want his adult daughters to get married in a situation that seems like a dark parody of an Ozu plot. Ultimately, though, it's a pretty light story about a woman who exercises her own self-determination by forcing a man to be more assertive.

Our second of back-to-back Luis Buñuel films brings us more of the director's critique of organized religion and Christianity in particular. In particular with Simon of the Desert Buñuel takes aim at performative deprecation, the inherent arrogance of claiming to be the lowest of the low (particularly when you're also literally putting yourself on a pedestal). This is maybe the most Pat has enjoyed Buñuel's religious work, but also it's just hard not to be delighted by Silvia Pinal's portrayal of the devil.

Luis Buñuel was a man who absolutely loved a metaphorical dinner party. I believe The Exterminating Angel is our fourth encounter with one in one of the man's films, and it may be one of my favorites, though they are all amazing in their own right. This week Criterion also provides us with some bonus biographical material on Buñuel that includes a story about ruining a Christmas dinner at Charlie Chaplins house and calling it "praxis".

This week is also the first of a one-two punch of Buñuel's final Mexican films. While this week focuses on the aristocracy (and a little on religion), next week swings hard at organized Christianity and I can't wait to share that episode with you as well.

Gregory Nava's El Norte is a gut-wrenching tale of indigenous teen siblings escaping violence in Guatemala. It tells a story that really hadn't been told before, centering characters whose stories often go ignored even today.
But Nava seems reluctant to tell the whole story, to show where the blame lies, to make the connections between the violence Enrique and Rosa are fleeing and the history of colonialism and US foreign policy that put and kept those perpetrating the violence in power. Roger Ebert praised the film for not being political. Ebert is wrong. The film is inherently political, and even if it means to only show the story through the eyes of the siblings experiencing it, those siblings have a political life -- they are fleeing because their father was beheaded for being a labor organizer! -- meaning that Nava's apolitical approach removes a dimension of not just the story, but the people.

For Douglas Sirk's adaptation of Lloyd C. Douglas's "liberal Christianity x pop psychology" novel the director makes the right choice to instead just remake the earlier 1935 John M. Stahl directed adaptation, which Criterion helpfully provides as a bonus feature on this release. While the 1935 version tries to show the absurdity of the melodrama with a slapstick-y comedy style, Sirk just ratchets up the melodrama to even more absurd levels. 

Is Roberto Rossellini's French television biopic of Louis XIV an attack on the aristocracy or a treatise of the loneliness of being king? Is it an examination of the excesses that led to the Revolution or a celebration of the founding of modern France? It's a little complicated, possibly because Rossellini came to the project late into pre-production and did what he could with material he didn't really agree with. Of course whatever its intended message, applying the techniques of Italian neorealism to a period piece makes for a fascinating and interesting film.

Sam Fuller was hired to adapt a novel that was written by a French diplomat friend of his as an attack on that man's ex-wife Jean Seberg and her anti-racist activism. Sam Fuller attempted to remake this book into an anti-racist movie. This was a fool's errand, and as the NAACP said at the time there were better books from Black authors that took a more nuanced look at racism that could be adapted into a better movie. But Sam Fuller wasn't hired to make that movie, he was hired to make this one. And he made the heck out of it.

Years ago we watched Lars von Trier's The Element of Crime and Pat loved it. At Spine 80 it was the first time in our journey that Pat's reaction to a movie genuinely surprised me.

I'm happy to report that von Trier is 2 for 2 with Pat. Europa is an ambitious and weird movie that wears its pedigree and influences on its sleeve. And it's got trains! AND it's about the failings of American foreign policy! What's not to love?

Long time friend of the show Jason Westhaver makes his main podcast debut talking about one of his favorite movies: Wong Kar-Wai's Chungking Express (1994). Jason's been on a few of our Patreon bonus episodes before (www.patreon.com/LostInCriterion), so we're very happy to have him join us for a proper episode to talk about this beautiful film.

Friend of the show Donovan H often shows up for our episodes on samurai films as he’s been a life-long fan of the genre. His other big obsession isn’t covered as often but we finally get one: the spy fiction of John le Carré. Martin Ritt’s 1965 adaptation of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold is among the best le Carrê films and stars Richard Burton at nearly his Richard Burtonest. We’re happy to have Donovan join us to talk about the film and give him room to talk about le Carré in general and other adaptations of his work.

Christian-Jaque's Fanfan la Tulipe was, apparently, an incredibly popular film across Europe in 1952, despite the fact that it cannot decide if it wants to be a satire of the French war machine or a silly, sexy swashbuckler. A movie could, theoretically, be both, but this one doesn't seem interested in that prospect either? 

Casey Hape is probably the person we know who has liked Wes Anderson the longest. Her husband Jonathan is also an Anderson fan (and composed our theme song). They’ve been on every Wes Anderson episode we’ve done so far, so while this one isn’t quite as full of guests as previous Anderson episodes have been, we wanted to be sure to have these two dear friends. Plus it's a special occasion! Spine 450! Halfway to the Olympics Boxset!

Bottle Rocket was Anderson’s first feature length, based on a short that had played well at Sundance. The festival did not want the feature length, which bombed, but important people were interested, so Anderson and the Wilson brothers who helped marched on.

Costa-Gavras' first film in America is "not political" according to the director, and he is wrong. Missing, the story of the wife and father of an American journalist killed in a US-backed South American coup searching for him and getting the runaround from a complicit US government is patently a political film. And a very good one.

This is the first time we've watched two Jean-Pierre Melville films in a row. After last week's very good Le doulos we were excited to see what Melville had to offer us this time. After watching it we are significantly less excited, in light of last week and the conversation there we once again dig deeper into our relationship with the man's catalogue.

A very fun Jean-Pierre Melville film causes us to reconsider how we’ve viewed the director and his works in the past. Le doulos is a comedy. It must be. Did we make a mistake in not interacting with Le Samourai as parody? Probably not.

Adam Spieckermann joins us to talk about Ozu's final film, An Autumn Afternoon from 1962. Between Adam S.'s and Pat's areas of expertise and study we have a sprawling talk about Ozu's style and post-war Japanese culture. Also, thanks to a bonus feature on the Criterion DVD we get to indulge in that most joyous of pastimes: complaining about 20th century France's racist exoticism of Asia.

We finish up a trio of Max Ophüls films with The Earrings of Madame De... costarring Vittorio De Sica who apparently acted much more often than he directed, and did both quite well, leading Ophüls to be rather embarrassed at having to direct the famed director.

Our second in a series of Max Ophüls' films adapts a selection of short stories by Guy de Maupassant, climaxing in the third part with one of the most amazing continuous takes I've ever seen. And this is the Criterion Collection! We've seen a lot of amazing continuous takes!

We kick off a string of Max Ophüls films with a sex comedy starring a narrator who may or may not be a metaphor for syphilis? La Ronde is based on an 1897 play by Arthur Schnitzler that was actively suppressed first because it was just too sexy for the general public, and then by the author himself once political backlash against the play morphed into antisemitism because everything is bad. Except this movie. This movie is pretty dang fun.

Keisuke Kinoshita's Twenty-Four Eyes is the story of a Marxist-leaning school teacher in rural Japan who enters her profession during the Depression, teaches through World War 2, and sees nationalism, patriarchy, and capitalism destroy her students her family to the point that she has to quit teaching until she can find hope again. It's anti-war in much the same way The Cranes are Flying is, and it's just as beautiful of a film.

Powell and Pressburger make (often) beautiful movies but their work during and about World War II leaves us wanting. The Small Back Room is no exception to either of those statements.

Guy Madden describes Brand Upon the Brain! as one of his most biographical films and I hope that's not true even in a weird metaphorical sense. There's a lot going on here, and all of it is good. Too bad its 6 years before we get to watch another Madden movie.

We revisit the world of Jaques Tati and his Mr. Hulot for one last time with Trafic, in which Mr. Hulot invents a very good car and has an adventure trying to get it to the autoshow. Along the way we talk about car culture, the proper collective name for a group of hippies, and whether or not Tati is a reactionary.

We reach a boiling point today as the Collection serves us another coming of age story about a white boy. Claude Jutra’s Mon Oncle Antoine isn’t a bad movie! It’s extremely well regarded in it’s native Canada, and for good reason. But there are more stories to tell, and we’re kinda tired of this same old one.

We finally return to the work of Carl Th. Dreyer with a dreamy horror film on the edge of the silent/sound divide. Stephen G. brings some research on vampire film history as we talk the beautiful, surprising Vampyr (1932).

Milcho Manchevski's 1994 Before the Rain is a circular look at ethnic violence in Macedonia and a reminder to other countries that may view themselves as more "civilized" that violence is their daily life as well. Nationalism: it's bad!

Stephen G. joins us for a rootin’ tootin’ good time as we discuss our first proper western! Though discussion of course turns to other movies we’ve covered that are western-adjacent and also the fact that this may not be the sort of movie most people think of when they think of westerns. But there’s one shootout! And horses! And even a saloon! Anthony Mann’s The Furies (1950) has, according to wikipedia, a “reputation” as a “Freudian western” and we even have to explore the caveats needed to call this Freudian.

"Consider the risks" is the title of Claude Sautet's adaptation of the "José Giovanni" novel. Giovanni, real name Joseph Damiani, made a post-death row career of writing novels fictionalizing his own and others criminal exploits. On the one hand you love to see a man get out of prison and into a better life. On the other he and the men whose stories he draws from were all collaborators, leading Pat and I to interrogate if we have a double standard.
In any case the story of a man on the run trying to get his children into a better life is a good story no matter if the man deserves to have been chased or not, because his children don't deserve to be punished for his crimes. This is a universal truth.

Lost in Criterion posted its first episode on January 1, 2013. In the 8 years since, we have never looked been less enthused for a movie than we are for this week's film, Yukio Mishima's Patriotism. At worst this should have been an extra on the DVD for Schrader's Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters. At best, this shoddy, self-aggrandizing, dry run for the man's sexual suicide should never have been put in our view.

Happy New Year. It can only go up from here.

Gather ‘round your screens and join Pat and Adam with old friends Stephen G. and Ben JW to talk about the Charles Band “classic” Trancers starring Tim Thomerson as a cop from the future come to kill a mall Santa and fall in love with helper-elf Helen Hunt. Spoilers? Can you spoil a movie like Trancers?

We’ve seen a lot of good movies this year, even through our last Criterion (and first of the year next week) are real low points as far as our opinions of the Collection. But the Varda boxset was certainly a highlight, and the Teshigahara set as well. When we started this project we joked that it would take us a dozen or so years. It’s been 8 and we’re barely closer to the end now than we were then. Time and Criterions march on.

Merry whichever holiday you may celebrate this time of year, and a very happy new year to us all. May we continue the first steps we’re taking out of the long dark.

Paul Schrader makes a visually lovely movie about a man we do not care about whose politics we find abhorrent, and who Schrader seems to have far more empathy for than we can muster.

Alex Korda leads a cadre of directors in this tour du force of visual effects and casual racism. Come for the children's adventure film, stay for the killer six-armed sexbot.

Louis Malle takes his turn at the classic genre of alcoholic and suicidal writer wanders around a large city for a day or so, and really just knocks it out of the park by remembering the key to these tales that so many creators forget: the protagonist is a narcissistic jerk who surrounds himself with narcissistic jerks.

We return to the well of Louis Malle’s films with one that was famously banned in Ohio, so much so that it led to a landmark US Supreme Court case. I think the last movie we saw that led to trials in Ohio was Salo. The Lovers is very much not Salo.

As we enter a holiday season of increased isolation -- please, please let it be a holiday season of increased isolation -- we take a look at a film about a man who spends Christmas failing to connect with old friends, and failing to make new ones who he's not trying to kill or aren't trying to kill him.

We love when we get to watch an unapologetically leftist film, and even better when it's just a very well-crafted movie. Juan Antonio Bardem's Death of a Cyclist swings at the upper class in Franco's Spain with a wildly creative use of cuts and transitions showcasing a nation of dichotomies, and a college professor caught in the middle.

Ang Lee's story of two families trying to make sense of life during the Nixon impeachment came out on the cusp of the Clinton impeachment and maybe this week just has impeachment on my mind because the movie doesn't really have that much to do with either of them.

Hiroshi Teshigahara went on a trip to Spain with his dad and made a short, silent vacation movie during it. Years later, after his father’s death, Teshigahara essentially reshot it, elongated it, and focused it on the Barcelona-area works of architect Antonio Gaudi. It is, arguably, unlike any other movie we’ve seen in the Collection in good and bad ways.

Alberto Lattuada’s Mafioso is a black comedy about a dumb man who makes a bad promise while in the background his wife has a very sweet fish out of water story. It’s also about the people who progress leaves behind, and perhaps continues to leave behind. We also spend a little time talking about bridges, in particular the nearly inscrutable comparison image on the wikipedia page for the Akashi Kaikyō Bridge in Japan. Check it out: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akashi_Kaiky%C5%8D_Bridge

Alex Cox went to Sandinista Nicaragua to film a biography of an 18th century American colonialist while the US was pretending to take the Iran-Contra scandal seriously. No wonder American critics hated the movie.

Despite my false belief that Last Tango in Paris is in the Criterion Collection, The Last Emperor proves to be our last Bernardo Bertolucci movie for the foreseeable future. The tale of Puyi, crowned emperor of China at the age of 3, just before a half century of political revolution, and eventually dying of old age while working as a gardener at the Beijing Botanical Gardens. Bertolucci and the Chinese government may have different views of what that life trajectory means.

Over the years it's become rather apparent that a lot of folks do not appreciate our opinions on Godard. Like Fellini we will not let our awareness of the issue lead us to change.

We finish off the Agnès Varda boxset with a talk on the short films packaged as bonus features: L'opéra-mouffe (1958), Du côté de la côte (1958), and the short narrative film contained within Cleo from 5 to 7, Les fiancés du pont Mac Donald.

We couldn't be happier than to have guest Adam Spieckermann bring his insight to our discussion of Agnès Varda's Le Bonheur, a brightly colored relationship horror film.

We start the 4 by Agnès Varda boxset in medias res, or at the beginning after seeing the middle? This week we’re talking about La Pointe Courte, Varda’s first film but the third in the boxset. Why not talk about the first two? Because we have. This boxset contains two films, Vagabond and Cleo from 5 to 7, which we watched in much earlier episodes of Lost in Criterion in the times we don’t talk about except in apologetic tones of shame.

Some of the best tragedy narratives indict a whole society for creating the system and the path that keep the tragic character imprisoned in his journey toward loss. There's a bit of that in This Sporting Life but the tragedy is focused on the main character's inability to court the woman he can't stop harassing, herself an even starker victim of the local political and economic system.

What Alf Slöberg’s 1951 film adaptation adds to August Strindberg’s 1888 play makes the film both more interesting and quite probably more infuriating. How fun.

Who amongst us hasn't decided to solve a problem maybe without talking to anyone actually affected by the problem or even understanding what the problem is, so you just ended up doing something that adds to the problem in a different way?
The Naked Prey wants to solve racism. It does not.

An experiment in what constitutes a movie finds James Taylor and Dennis Wilson partnered in a cross country race that resolves (or doesn't) sometime after the last reel burns up.

Frequent guest Donovan H. joins us again, and he's maybe become more of an accelerationist than the last time he was on. We're talking Kurosawa's Drunken Angel, the famed director's first work with Toshiro Mifune.

The earliest Bergman we've seen yet is the story of circus performers humiliated at every turn, and apparently something about the battle of the sexes.

Another week, another adaptation of a stream-of-consciousness novel about a perpetually drunk man, this time Fassbinder’s epic mini-series adaptation of Berlin Alexanderplatz. Taking place (and originally written) in Germany between the wars, it’s got some lessons for us.

I finally actually counted and figured out this is episode 400. Too bad it's the story of a drunk white guy.

We get our first taste of Terrence Malick in the collection with his tenuously Biblically-inspired period story of poor farm workers and a series of cons that don't really make sense.

I promise you there are Godard films we actually like.

Gus van Zant adapts an “autobiographical work” by Portland poet Walt Curtis, though also on the DVD is a documentary on Curtis by Bill Plympton which, to be honest, we’d probably rather talk about.

It’s another Criterion curveball as we get a short inside-the-studio documentary on pioneering dancer Martha Graham and then two recordings of her pieces, all produced for PBS by Nathan Kroll.

The argument of The Threepenny Opera is that under capitalism crime and legitimate business are indistinguishable in their exploitation.
As time marches on we can see that this is wrong. The system of exploitation perpetrated by “legitimate business”, protected by the police, and whose transactionary nature is thrust upon every aspect of society is the much worse crime.

I think probably the most important thing I can share with you before going into this episode is that on the Criterion dvd is a Criterion-produced music video in which one of the films co-stars sings the plot synopsis.

Ana Torrent is back playing a weird little girl named Ana whose family is dealing with Francoist Spain in Carlos Saura's Cría Cuervos, a film that maybe pales in comparison to Spirit of the Beehive but also maybe stands on its own.

This week Pat and Adam get very lost in Luis Buñuel's The Milky Way (1969), wondering mostly who Buñuel was making the film for, as its philosophical elements are so esoteric as to be off-putting. The sword fight is pretty neat, though.

Jim Jarmusch explores humanity through the connections of taxi drivers and riders and emulating the film history of various places on "earth", which is to say New York, LA, Paris, Rome, and Helsinki.

Friend of the show and theme song composer Jonathan Hape joins us to celebrate Spine 400! Someday we may finish this!

The plot of David Mamet's House of Games is right up our alleys, even if Pat thinks it would be more appropriate to a USA channel original program. But there are certainly problems here.

Jean-Pierre Melville adapts a novel written by fellow French director Jean Cocteau, and Melville believes Cocteau, who was on set everyday, was trying to undermine him at every turn. Melville's all but disowned the film, which makes this possibly the first time our opinion on a Melville film matches the director's.

We've talked before about how it may be impossible to truly make an anti-war war film, but in showing the human toll on both sides of the fight Andrei Tarkovsky's entry into the seminal Soviet genre of post-WWII war films may come pretty close. 

This week I feel like Pat does his best to keep me from being blackpilled about journalism and I do my best to remind Pat that everything is stupid. Let’s strike the delicate balance between trusting experts and recognizing that manufactured consent, racist underpinnings in news spin, and yellow journalism are alive and well, and even plutacratized, as anyone with enough financial backing can create the right bias-confirmed headline and get a million shares.

We finish up the 3 Films by Teshigahara boxset with four more films. Aside from the three collaborations with surrealist novelist Kobo Abe on the Criterion release are four shorts, three documentaries on a variety of subjects, and Teshigahara’s portion of an international anthology on the lives of teenage girls:
Hokusai (1953)
Ikebana (1956)
Tokyo 1958 (1958)
Ako (1965)

The Face of Another seems to distill the political identity aspects we loved in the previous two films into a discussion on personal identity, and that’s disappointing. We really liked the political identity stuff, so we spend this week trying to come to a more political understanding of this film. This is one of those films where its hard to say what we think of it, as aside from the confused messaging in the context of the other films, it’s a beautiful and inventive movie, incredibly stylistically interesting.

This is the final film in the 3 Films by Hiroshi Teshigahara boxset, though we will spend one more week with the set as next week we discuss the four short films also included.

The second of our Hiroshi Teshigahara films, his 1964 masterpiece The Woman in the Dunes gets even more into our wheelhouse than Pitfall did. This week we talk Japanese society and “friendly authoritarianism”, societal structure in general, the plight of lower classes, an anthropological study of friendship, and a movie that makes Adam a bit nervous about his planned trip to visit Japan and what might happen if he visits the wrong small town.

We kick off a month-worth of films from filmmaker and flower artist Hiroshi Teshigahara this week with Pitfall. The boxset Three Films by Hiroshi Teshigahara doesn’t just contain three films, but also four shorts which we’ll cover in their own episode at the end, but this week we get started with Pitfall (1962) a movie that seems made for us? Surrealist drama about labor politics in a Japan with an absurd eschatology? Yeah, it checks a lot of our boxes.

I’m sure that Lindsay Anderson’s if…. was a completely different film in a pre-Columbine world. Obviously there were other school shootings before Columbine, but Pat and I came of age in a time where school shootings are a norm, at least in the US, and the psychology (and pseudo-psychology) that’s popped up to explain them has bombarded us for over half our lives. We generally reject the view that a film needs to be judged in it’s own time, but this time around it’s clear that our times are the more broken ones, much more in this case than Anderson’s, and we hope to make an attempt to read if…. outside of our own issues.

That is not true of our response to Anderson’s short Thursday’s Children that is also included in the Criterion release. An Oscar-winning documentary short on a School for the Death, Thursday’s Children shows us a world that Pat and I, both trained in how to teach, react incredibly negatively to.

Who could have guessed the WR: Mysteries of the Organism was the saner of the two Dušan Makavejev films we’d watch? It did give us a better base by which to discuss Sweet Movie, and I think we come to a better understanding of Makavejev as a person. Not a more respecting position, but a more informed one.

We get a pair of films from Serbian director Dušan Makavejev this and next week and they are nearly impossible to describe. This week we have a combination documentary on pseudo-scientific research of psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich. shorts documentaries on artists who use sexuality in their work, and a narrative portion about the struggles between Sovietism and a more libertine version of communism.

Claude Berri’s The Two of Us is steeped in Berri’s own experience during the occupation of France during World War 2. It’s a story that reminds us that someone can have deeply held racist beliefs and still seem nice, especially if they don’t realize their new friend belongs to the group they hate, it’s a jokey inter-generational buddy film about the banal absurdity of prejudice with the looming threat of the Holocaust in the background. It’s among the clear inspirations for Jojo Rabbit, so feel free to imagine the backlash if it came out today.

We get a series of films from French multimedia artist Chris Marker this week of varying genius. First up is the absolutely brilliant and clearly influential sci-fi short La Jetée from 1962. Our other major conversation is on the significantly more controversial to Pat and me Sans Soleil, a sort of travelogue essay from 1983. We also briefly discuss his 1981 short documentary on found sculpture in the California mudflats with 1981’s Junkopia and (much more briefly) his venture into cd-rom interactive gaming with Immemory (1998). It’s also a weird one when Criterion decides that the one release they’re putting out from a director will contain a survey of his entire decades-long career.

This week Donovan Hill joins us once more, discussing boat law, America’s indifference to international law, the hilarious/frightening nostalgia within the book Hagekure (and WW2 era views of same), pretty much every adaptation of the 47 Ronin we can think of, and, oh yeah, Kenji Mizoguchi’s 1954 film Sansho the Bailiff. It’s a jam-packed episode (read: long), as episodes with Donovan tend to be.

Jean-Pierre Melville draws on his personal experience as a member of the French Resistance to tell the heroic story of a bunch of ineffectual French Resistance fighters, whose only prize for avoiding death is the chance to avoid death once again.

In October 2016 we were unimpressed with Shohei Imamura’s The Pornographers, but the Collection has finally brought us another of his and this time we don’t hate it. Not to say either Pat or I will be watching it again anytime soon, but Vengeance is Mine is at least more interesting to us than The Pornographers was and makes us actually look forward to seeing more of Imamura’s work in the future.

We return to the films of Jules Dassin (and to the starring roles of Burt Lancaster) with a prison drama that’s sort of undermined by Dassin’s later pro-cop movie Naked City which we watched a few weeks ago. In that movie cops are good. In this movie prisons are really quite bad. Pat and I certainly don’t share Dassin’s (or each others’) views on cops, but we are much more on board with the idea that prison needs massive reform at the very least. I’ll say I’m more extreme than Dassin’s imagination could take him. For more information on what I mean there, check out Angela Davis talking to Democracy Now about Prison Abolition.

We kick off the New Year with arguably the most pro-war film we’ve watched. And argue we do as I keep hoping to come to some anti-war interpretation and Pat shoots me down over and over in this extra-long episode. Truffaut argued that “to show [war] is to ennoble it”, that one cannot make an anti-war film that depicts war. We’ve seen some noble attempts, and I think, in the works of Kon Ichikawa we discussed a few weeks ago, some successes. So Truffaut may be wrong, but Pat is right here, Stuart Cooper’s Overlord is not an anti-war film. It still may be an interesting experiment.

It’s been a long year. Near the end of this year’s holiday special we discuss our favorite movies of the year, Criterion and otherwise, and did you know that March was part of 2019? It seems like a lifetime ago. I mean, I have an excuse. I got hit by a car in May and basically did nothing for 2 months. But still.

To look back and celebrate we gather our friends at this end of the year — Stephen Goldmeier, Ben Jones-White, and Casey and Jonathan Hape all return to the show — and discuss the 1992 Robin Willams-starring, Barry Levinson-directed beautiful mess that is Toys. Also, you should look up youtube videos of Art Metrano.

So Happy Holiday[s]. There’s just so many. You should celebrate them all. Or at least whichever one makes you feel hopeful and loved. And keep that feeling all the year.

In balance to last week’s police propaganda film, we come this week to the story of minority youth in France dealing with the oppression of society, particularly police violence. Mathieu Kassovitz's La Haine is based on true events, and could be based on true events that happen regularly before the film and since in France (and elsewhere). It’s a powerful and wonderful film, and a perfect ending to our year. We’ll see you next week for the annual end of year holiday episode, then in 2020 as we continue being Lost in Criterion.

This week a bask in Jules Dassin’s visual record of mid-century New York. Of course it has to come in one of his most pro-America, pro-police works. Not to worry, though, as next week we’ll have a very anti-police movie, and in three weeks we’ll have Dassin’s own ideological answer to this one in the anti-prison film Brute Force.

But this week’s it’s The Naked City, the story that launched a million stories in the form of the police procedural spin-off tv show, and every imitator down the line. Now today there are more fictional murders on New York-based crime dramas than there are actual murders in New York, so isn’t that something?

After last week’s intensity, we settle into a more sentimental anti-war film from Kon Ichikawa. The Burmese Harp. While both films deal with the loss of humanity that war forces on its victims and perpetrators, Fires on the Plain was more of a gut-punch while Harp plucks at the heart strings. Since The Burmese Harp came out first, we call this a classic Pasolini escalation: the easier to handle films failed in their message so the message was turned up to 11.

We kick off a duo of Kon Ichikawa anti-war films this week, though the two films could not be more different. We start of with Fires on the Plane, a sort of Heart of Darkness trek through the aftermath of the Americans recapturing the Philippines during World War 2, doing its best to undercut any idea of a nobility of war.

It is with great joy that we get to talk about the first Mikio Naruse film in the Collection this week, and with great sadness that we acknowledge that it is also the last Mikio Naruse film in the Collection at this time. When a Woman Ascends the Stairs from 1960 is one of the best movies we’ve seen, particularly for one trying to deal with the inner lives of women in the mid-20th century. Someday when we have free time we’ll have to check out more of Naruse’s work.

Powell and Pressburger decided to make a movie that would convince America to enter WW2.
Powell and Pressburger made a movie that feels like the Tourist Board of Canada advertising to Nazis: “Canada is beautiful and you can kill dozens of us for months before you face any consequences.”
Of course it is also a movie about the unity of the Commonwealth, not just Canada with the UK, but also the Inuit and other Indigenous Peoples, French Canadians, and Hutterites are all in this together, even if there is slight acknowledgement that Canada on the whole isn’t trusting at least the Hutterites.
A note of apology, Pat and Adam talk about the film in the film’s terms and therefore quote the films use of “Eskimo”, but also we continue to use that term when talking about the scene in question. Eskimo is mainly seen as pejorative now and we both should know better. The scene itself is meant to be a rejection of prejudice, which makes our use all the more egregious.

Sidney Gilliat’s Green for Danger is a cozy little whodunit where everyone has something to hide and the main victim is a mailman. It also takes place in England against the backdrop of the Germany’s doodlebug bombing campaign and came out barely a year after the setting. It’s lighthearted. It’s dark. It’s delightfully weird. We spend a lot of time discussing why we think Criterion might want us to see it.

This week we watch one of the classics of world cinema, a tale of desperation in destitution, and continue our streak of not needing to leave the text very much at all in order to show the Marxist reading of a movie. Vittorio de Sica’s Bicycle Thieves tells the story of a man who just wants to make an honest living in a society that is either indifferent or actively working against him.

We finish out our Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist boxset with Citizen of the World containing two films that began life as hard-hitting pro-labor pieces and were both neutered to varying degrees by the outbreak of World War II. Pen Tennyson’s Proud Valley (1940) takes the heavier hit, with the ending being changed from miners seizing the means of production to “management plays an important guiding role” argument à la Metropolis. Leo Hurwitz and Paul Strand’s documentary Native Land (1942), based on the finding’s of the Senate’s La Follette Committee investigating violence against labor organizers and organizations, pulls slightly fewer punches, with its release ending being a tacked on message from narrator Robeson about Nazis being the greater threat to freedom than bosses and the US government, but it was still suppressed for years afterward.

This week we talk about two British films starring Paul Robeson as we continue the Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist boxset. Zoltan Korda’s Sanders of the River (1935) was a project Robeson was very excited about until he saw the final cut wherein what he’d hoped would be a testament to African culture was gutted into a paean to British colonialism. As such Robeson demanded more creative control over his role in Thornton Freeland’s Jericho (1937), even completely changing the ending.

We continue the Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist with two silent films: Body and Soul (Oscar Micheaux, 1925) and Borderline (Kenneth Macpherson, 1925). Micheaux’s work is a “race film” made independently in the US, and is one of only a handful of the director’s works to survive. Likewise, the wildly experimental Borderline is the only surviving work of Macpherson and his Pool Group of British and American outsider artists working in Switzerland. Both are fascinating in their own light, but Borderline in particular exhibits film technique that are rather mind-blowing to see in the silent era.

We have another boxset for October, but a marked change from our September Monsters and Madmen set. Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist is an exploration of singer, actor, and activist Paul Robeson’s career from his start in the 20’s to his essential house arrest in the early 50’s when the US Government revoked his passport and refused to let him leave the country over his politics.

Criterion delivers the films to us in themed pairs on each Spine number, so we’ll be dealing with them in that division. First up is Paul Robeson: Icon containing Dudley Murphy’s 1933 adaptation of Eugene O’Neill’s play The Emperor Jones, which Robeson had been starring in on stage since 1925, and Saul J. Turell’s 1979 retrospective documentary Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist.

The fact that Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee are in Corridors for Blood may be the best thing about it, but also while Corridors of Blood fails at almost everything it thinks its doing as a horror movie or documentary about the creation of anesthesia — both of which are what the creators were trying to do —. it still succeeds in being the most ridiculous movie we’ve watched on the main podcast in years. Sure we’ve watched some weirder stuff on the Patreon Bonus episodes, but even in a boxset of the notoriously silly genre of late 50’s Sci-Fi/Horror, Corridors stands out as silly and last week’s movie had a amnesiac murderer and a bar called The Judas Hole.

Robert Day’s The Haunted Strangler kicks off a pair of British period horror films starring Boris Karloff. Neither are all that great, but this one particularly so after some executive meddling that replaced a supernatural horror plot point with improbable amnesia. Great.

The only entry into the Monsters and Madmen boxset that isn’t directed by Robert Day, Spencer Gordon Bennet’s The Atomic Sub imagines a world where submarines provide intercontinental shipping and passenger service under the arctic, at least until those subs start mysteriously disappearing. Come for the alternative future! Stay for the special effects! Leave before the sworn pacifist realizes war is good!

We kick off a boxset of late 50’s scifi/horror this week with The First Man into Space. Monsters and Madmen is dedicated to films produced by Richard and Alex Gordon, who also produced Fiend Without a Face which we watched five years ago. Things kick off here with Robert Day’s First Man into Space, the tale of an American test pilot who decides to jet into outer space and things do not go well on his return. Very spoopy!

Robert Bresson followed up au hasard Balthazar with an similar film, but this time focusing on a young woman instead of a donkey. Bresson calls the tale (and the writer’s other work — Diary of a Country Priest) “Catholic realism”, and like many applications of the terms Catholic and realism it is super depressing.

Allison Anders, Dean Lent, and Kurt Voss spent years making Border Radio and it shows, though often in weaknesses and incoherencies. But perhaps it is less interesting for its plot and more so for its snapshot of life adjacent to the LA punk scene of the era.

After pretty much everyone involved with the first project was dead except Jerry and during a weird renaissance of attention to the Beales and Grey Gardens, Albert Maysles recut unused footage from the 1975 original Grey Gardens into a new film that feels even more explicitly exploitative. Great job.

William Greaves’ 1968 Symbiopsychotaxiplasm puts the experiment in experimental film. The documentary inside a documentary inside a third documentary, shot in public, essentially boils down to the director seeing how far he can push his cast and crew before they revolt — not violent push, but still an antagonistic one. It’s fascinating and absurd and wonderful. And I suppose it could be all fake.

Krzysztof Kieślowski’s exploration of self The Double Life of Veronique is a subtly surreal and beautiful film, yet much of our conversation is centered around coming to terms with the essays included in the Criterion release, particularly the one written by Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek.

We haven’t seen a lot of silent films in the Collection so far, and we have never seen a movie with a bigger left field ending than this particular film. GW Pabst’s Pandora’s Box has a lot of problems, and a just frankly amazing last 10 minutes. It’s absurd, and I love it.

Graham Greene called his thrillers “entertainments”, which sounds dismissive of his own work but really it was an accurate contrast to the more heavy Catholic novels he apparently preferred to write. Greene himself adapted two of his entertainments to film for director Carol Reed, one being The Third Man and the other (and first) being this week’s episode The Fallen Idol (1948) adapted from a short story called The Basement Room, a significantly worse name.

Jane Campion’s Sweetie takes a fairly realistic look at mental illness in the real world. Though unlike Kerrigan’s film where the world ignores the main character until things get much worse, Sweetie’s protagonist is coddled by her loved ones…until things get much worse. Both are intense in their own ways, but Sweetie, true to its name, is a little easier to swallow. At least until the end.

The story of a corrupt businessman seeking office to better enrich himself while actively endangering the lives of others, the political party that supports him because they’ll get rich, too, and the political system so intent on absolving itself that it lets him get away with it.

Happy Fourth of July, America.

Lodge Kerrigan’s Clean, Shaven is intense. It’s not entirely clear what exactly is happening within the film narrative and what is just the main characters auditory (and possibly visual) hallucinations. But one thing that is clear is that the public and the authorities do not know how to compassionately react to our main character. So quick point, however you feel about police as a group, it’s not their job to help people having psychological breakdowns, and don’t call the gun people when you need someone with different tools. In that regard see Scott Christopherson and Brad Barber’s documentary Peace Officer. It’s estimated that between a third and a half of people killed by police every year have a disability and that the majority of those are mental illness, autism, or developmental disabilities. You can save a life by finding an alternative to calling the police.

Alfonso Cuarón has made some really great movies, a few masterpieces, and at least one sex romp that may be a satire of an HIV awareness campaign for encouraging monogamy. Guess which one the Criterion Collection makes us watch this week? It’s the sex romp one. Ultimately the target seems more than a little misguided, but the movie’s still pretty good.

The Japanese horror films from the 60s that the Collection has served us have been nothing if not interesting. Stylistically, though, Nobuo Nakagawa’s Jigoku (1960) blows everything else out of the water. Certainly Kwaidan is a great film, but Jigoku blows it out of the water with an acid trip through Buddhist hell. Unfortunately, the rest of the film serves to just get us to hell as quickly as possible, so what we end up with is a sort of negative Universalism, where no one is good enough to escape the Bad Place, so theologically and philosophically the film leaves a lot to be desired. But it’s still a trip.

This week we spend too much time talking about Franco to lay a floor for discussing The Spirit of the Beehive as a political film. Of course, even without that context it’s a masterpiece of a movie, visually stunning and stylistically perfect. Also it has Frankenstein.

How did we make it through this episode without making a Francostein joke? The world will never know.

Over a year ago we watched Divorce Italian Style and decided that there was ample evidence that film was an attack on Fellini, instead of the attack on Sicilian culture Germi maybe thought it was. This week it’s harder to ignore that Germi is decidedly punching down as he heaps a national issue onto a certain region. Still it’s a funny movie, so there’s that.

We last heard from Noah Baumbach as the cowriter of Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. One of our many guests on that 300th episode, Ben Jones-White, insisted that when we got around to doing Baumbach’s own feature debut he should join us, and nearly a year later we make good on that offer. Kicking and Screaming shares a lot of DNA with movies we love in and out of the Collection. It’s also the story of people a lot like I was in college. I hate them.

Our guest Ben also works with WikiTongues, an organization dedicated to documenting and saving languages all over the world. If you have the resources please support their work.

Near the top of this week’s episode Adam once again goes on a short rant about the Criterion Collection’s naming conventions as if there is a logic to any of it. There isn’t.

With slight distance I think the boys would be more apt to agree that all of the moral tales of are critiques of various aspects of what we would now call toxic masculinity. In it, though, even with this last episode, we get bogged down wondering if that reading is more our wish than Rohmer’s design. But finally finishing the series at least provides us with a floor to talk about them better individually.

This outing I think Eric Rohmer may have been trying to make a parody of Lolita by introducing a woman with a predilection for underaged men who convinces her male friend to try to seduce a couple underaged young women, but like as a goof. He gets a little too involved.

I like to believe we’ve reached the point in Six Moral Tales where it becomes clear that the Rohmer himself is condemning the behavior of the men in his movies, considering the men in this week’s film are nearly completely irredeemable. But in an interview accompanying the film Rohmer says that he understands the audience not liking the men, but then just laughs and moves on. Does he also hate this behavior? Or does he think this is normal manhood? Are those two mutually exclusive anyway?

In the third Moral Tale we finally meet a fully rounded female character, so round in fact that she gets a name in the title! We also get to finally deal with moral philosophy that while we don’t agree with at least gives us something to talk about in the form of Counter-Reformation Catholicism’s mirror of Calvinism and a discussion of game theory-based Christian belief. Also both of these coming up suggests that mid-century France was significantly more obsessed with certain 17th century theologians and mathematicians than Pat and I find believable, but they may reflect Eric Rohmer a bit more, and that itself makes this movie more interesting. In any case, this one is nothing like “watching paint dry”.

In our second Moral Tale we find another jerk being mean to another woman, but this one has a bit more substance perhaps. It still doesn’t really work for us, but hey whatever. The Criterion releases for each Moral Tale just full of material and Suzanne’s Career also brings us an opportunity to watch and discuss Nadja in Paris (1964), a short clearly meant to encourage American high schoolers to study abroad. Star Nadja Tesich is a delight, and the film is the first collaboration between Rohmer and cinematographer Néstor Almendros who will bring a certain watchability to the rest of the Moral Tales.

We kick off a boxset of Eric Rohmer’s Six Moral Tales with one starring Barbet Schroeder (who produces the entire series) as a jerk who mistreats a woman while his heart belongs to another. This is largely the basic plot of each of the Moral Tales, and if you find that statement reductive or dismissive then boydog are you not going to like any episode in this series. Still some of them connected better with Pat and I than others. But Bakery Girls wasn’t one of them.

Powell and Pressburger make some of the best English-language films we’ve seen. But their wartime propaganda films are among the most, lets say, controversial we’ve discussed. Was Colonel Blimp a good movie? Maybe. Did it have among the worst morals we’ve seen in any film in the Collection? Almost certainly. But A Canterbury Tale combines the terribleness of The Archers’ wartime morality with a movie that is just not that good plot-wise. To the point where Adam argues that maybe the simplicity and idiocy of the plot is hint that the moral of the film is simplistic and idiotic and Powell and Pressburger know it. Here’s hoping.

I can’t, and will not try to, speak to the nature of the Gorilla Foundation’s current model, but the one recorded in Barbet Schroeder’s 1978 documentary on Penny Patterson’s attempts to teach Koko a modified version of American Sign Language appears to lack a certain rigor that Pat and I question. Pat, having been an anthropology undergrad, has seen and critiqued the film before. While Schroeder damningly states that Koko may become the world’s first White American Protestant Gorilla, Dr. Patterson may have just ruined a perfectly good monkey. Schroeder mostly lets the issue lay bare and allows the viewer to decide the experiments merit and achievements. I say mostly because his talk with San Francisco Zoo Director Saul Kitchener makes that zoologist with a primate specialty look like a mean man who wants to take his ape back from the loving psychologist (who wants to give it hamburgers). Along the way we talk about racism and classism, To Kill a Mockingbird and Planet of the Apes, because this wouldn’t be Lost in Criterion if we didn’t.

We spend a lot of time this week talking about Wong Kar-Wai's In the Mood for Love, and on the one hand I feel a bit bad in seeing one Chinese language film and talking about it a lot in comparison to one of the only other Chinese language films the Collection has given us, but on the other Edward Yang’s Yi Yi came out the same year and is Love’s equal in nearly every way and Love is a masterpiece. They are, rightfully, listed as two of the top (often two of the top three) films of the 21st century, and I think objectively they are at the top of the best films outside that century as well. Yi Yi is just amazing (with the possible exception of one artisitc choice I just don’t like, but I don’t know if it’s objectively bad).

You all don’t know this, but this is our first recorded episode in about six weeks and I’m so glad we have Equinox to take that blow. Equinox is two films, the first made by a bunch of kids who would grow up to be the best visual effects artists in American film, the second sold to Jack Harris with additional footage shot by Jack Woods. It’s a ridiculously bad film in either cut, but one with astonishingly good visual effects.

When I first saw that our agenda with the Collection was bringing us another film about a teenage girl’s sexual discovery I was…nervous. We talk about those nerves quite a bit this week, but Molly Haskell’s essay included with the release goes a long way to qualm those fears and explain why they are, for once, perhaps unfounded. Maurice Pialat’s A nos amours (1983) could have easily been something it wasn’t, and may even have been equally praised if it were. Instead we get something Cassavetes-esque that respects its main character. Though there’s probably still too much nudity given her age.

Slacker was one of our favorite films we’ve done for Lost in Criterion, but Richard Linklater’s follow-up Dazed and Confused’s marketing as a stoner comedy meant we know a lot of people who love the movie whose opinions we find suspect. Though, to be fair, a lot of people we know whose opinions should be trusted also like the movie. Anyway, we have a sprawling conversation on the dangers of nostalgia and whether or not Linklater agrees with the danger, because Pat doesn’t think he does and I can’t see how he doesn’t.

After our run of later period, more biographical Louis Malle films a few weeks ago we swing back with his first feature length, which is a different sort of master work than Au Revoir les Enfants but still sticks with me. Elevator to the Gallows, or Lift to the Scaffold as the British (and Pat) demand to call it, is a noir murder with a bit of Bunuelian stream of consciousness thrown in and a level of suspense fit for Hitchcock if not Clouzot. And all that name-dropping aside, it’s also just a really good film.

Barbara Kopple’s Harlan County, USA provides us with a lot of talking points about Pat’s family history (and Appalachian geography’s effects on politics), the Anthropology version of the observer effect (and when keeping your subjects alive means breaking cardinal documentary rules), and what exactly constitutes a living wage (when income well above the today’s Federal minimum isn’t even enough for a guy living in a trailer on the side of a holler).

It’s uh…it’s a very good documentary.

Marco Bellocchio’s 1965 film is open to interpretation, so this week we spend the episode suggesting, then dismantling, various interpretive theories. The story of a wealthy family with physical and mental disorders, and the one son who decided to kill them all, Fists in the Pocket is a bit of a mess and a bit innovative and mostly reminds us of a lot of better films.

Luis Bunuel attacks the Catholic church by attacking the concept of personal charity?

Listen, Bunuel is a complicated guy, but this is not a mistake that is unique to him so I need to say this outside the podcast (and, repeatedly, inside the podcast): he is right, personal charity will not change systematic problems that stem from economic inequality. Systematic issues require systematic changes. But you know what? You still need to help people in the moment.
So support organizations that seek to get people off the street. But also, buy a sandwich for that guy on the freeway exit ramp, give that lady downtown some gloves. And, best of all, promote policy changes that will eliminate the need for those social charities and actually raise up the destitute.
We can do it all. If we want to.

After well over a year we are finally finishing Yasujiro Ozu’s Noriko Trilogy with the first in the series, Late Spring. While Early Summer remains our favorite of the bunch, Late Spring serves as a more overt reckoning with Ozu’s view of post-war Japanese society. It is rather different than, say, Suzuki's. As such we have a talk about false nostalgia, and how occupation is bad, but that doesn’t mean that life before the occupation was good.

We cover the final film in the 3 Films by Louis Malle boxset this week with his 1987 magnum opus Au revoir les enfants. Before we recorded Pat and I established a rule that if at any point we start openly weeping I’d just edit that out. I think I got most of it.

Au revoir les enfants provides much more context to the previous two films autobiographical natures, to the point where I think we can say we have a deeper understanding of both the other films in the set having watched it. But more importantly than that, this is a hard-hitting, masterpiece of a film about selfless compassion in the face of extreme horror, and the personal toll that takes on you.

We move from a Louis Malle film we did not at all understand last week into one that we seem to get on a deeper level than a lot of critics and, frankly, that concerns me. Lacombe, Lucien is the tale of a lost young man searching for meaning and belonging who finds himself falling in with Nazi collaborators. The critics not understanding certain character motivations is fine, but I think it says more about the critics than Malle — and maybe that same sentence could be aimed at this very podcast last week.

Anyway. Recognize yourself in Lacombe, because nearly all of us, at times, align with the powers of oppressive violence, and we need to see that in ourselves instead of writing it off as the moral failing of others. Be better. Do better.

We kick off a boxset of films by Louis Malle that are variously autobiographical, and we may have the quickest turnaround from “I hate this film” to “this later film has recontextualized an earlier one and now I maybe like that one more” in our entire run of Lost in Criterion.

That is to say, neither Pat nor I really enjoyed Murmur of the Heart (1971) when we first discussed it for this episode, but by the time we finish the boxset in 2 weeks we have a different understanding of this first film. While Pat has long maintained that he refuses to learn anything from this project, the self-evident truth is that the more movies we watch the better base of understanding we have in watching other movies. Often that means that we can look back on older episodes and know that we were certainly wrong in the discussion we had about them.

But even after all that learning, I think the incest in this movie ruins it for me. Not because it’s taboo, but because it doesn’t make sense.

Whit Stillman reminds us of Renoir’s immortal advice: “Everyone has their reasons.” And principally those reasons are self-interest. Metropolitan reminds us the self-interest and happiness aren’t the same thing.

There are cats in America. But as refugees and immigrants fleeing oppression arrive at our shores, let them not find us to be those cats, ready to pounce and oppress them anew. If we want to change the world, there's nothing to stop us but ourselves. The Lost in Criterion Holiday Special talks Don Bluth’s An American Tail with Stephen Goldmeier, Andrew Tobias, Jonathan Hape, and Ben Jones-White.

Many years ago when I thought I had insomnia — more on that in this week’s episode — I would enjoy the two am showings of classic films on my local PBS. It was there that I was first introduced to basically any Criterion film that I’ve noted was a favorite before we recorded, and this week’s offering: Robert Hamer’s pitch black social comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets. (It’s also where I first encountered another heavily made-up Alec Guinness in Murder by Death which the Criterion Collection continues to ignore, perhaps for containing Peter Sellers at his most racist.) 

Jean Gabin really likes trains. Jean Renoir also really likes trains. They wanted to make a train movie, and any train movie would do. So why not one that also includes murrrrrrrrder?

La Bete Humaine has a lot of bad psychology and therefore some bad social commentary. It also misses a theme from the original novel that it seems like Renoir and Gabin — who had just finished The Grand Illusion — should have leaned into but instead ignored. But it does have trains! Lots and lots of trains!

Pat submits that this week’s film is actually a horror movie, judging by the title and the professional child actor who stars. Vittorio De Sica’s The Children are Watching Us is a cautionary tale about our influence on future generations, and about the moral failings of fascism and the moderatism that enables it. Also, divorce and suicide.

The backstory to Mr. Arkadin/Confidential Report is Orson Welles just Wellesing it up everywhere. The initial release happened because he was too much of a perfectionist (or maybe just too distracted with a new relationship) to finish his cut on time. Then before he got a chance to put his out, the producer went ahead and just kept recutting it and releasing it. A lot. That’s counting the original radio scripts it’s based on and the novel. But then on top of that, the Criterion boxset includes another version, this one made specifically for this release and containing all footage available from any other version. It’s Comprehensive, yes, “but is it art?” It’s something.

Apparently, the Swedish public complained about the historical inaccuracies in The Seventh Seal. While that's patently silly, it got under Ingmar Bergman's skin, so for his next historical film (an adaptation of a medieval ballad and Rashomon) he asked screenwriter and novelist Ulla Isaksson to help out. The two of them certainly had different views of what the film should be, but that didn’t stop them from making a fascinating piece of art.

In real life Abraham Lincoln was nothing if not pragmatic. He was the political disciple of Henry Clay, architect of the Missouri Compromise and the devil’s bargain that was The Compromise of 1850 which led to a few small gains on the Abolitionist front and a massive loss in the form of the Fugitive Slave Act. Lincoln himself was anti-slavery in as much as he was pro-white working class. One thing Young Mr. Lincoln gets very right is that Lincoln thought slavery undermined Free Labor. But like many white abolitionists of his time, while Lincoln was anti-slavery he was not pro-Black, and he argued as much in his famous debates with Stephen A. Douglas. Lincoln’s just didn’t know what to do with non-enslaved Black people — probably send them to Africa, — but he did know that slavery was hurting white people, and so he was against it. Anyway, John Ford’s Young Mr. Lincoln is hardly historically accurate to actual events or the man’s character, but it’s still a good movie about an American hero.

In this week’s conversation I digress to talk about what I have recently learned about Karl Marx’s relationship to the early Republican Party in the US. While my research did not involve this Jacobin article, the piece is a good synopsis for those wanting to more beyond my rant.

We round out Akira Kurosawa’s Shakespearean adaptations with the loosest of the bunch, so loose in fact that we posit that the “adaptation” is a construction of Western critics grasping at straws instead of a purposeful, or even unpurposeful, decision by Kurosawa. In any case, as Kaori Ashizu argued in the journal of the Shakespeare Society of Japan, going into The Bad Sleep Well understanding it to be a Shakespeare adaptation actually undermines a lot of the excellent storytelling Kurosawa is doing.

Donovan Hill joins us, and along the way we also talk about public office corruption in Japan and Ohio. Good times!

Rene Clement’s Forbidden Games gives us a lot to talk about this week as Pat and I run through various consonant interpretations of the film — though none of ours include the idea that our two young protagonists are in a proto-sexual relationship, an interpretation that seems far too widespread to not say something deeper about the mental state of film reviewers.

This week the Criterion Collection brings us the spiritual successor to Powell and Pressburger’s phenomenal The Red Shoes, The Tales of Hoffmann (1951). An English translation of a French opera, based on the self-mythologizing of a German writer (E.T.A. Hoffmann), Tales combines the beauty of The Red Shoes ballet, with a frankly insane anthology of stories. Pat probably forgets that he didn’t really like The Red Shoes when we watched it, but still manages to think this is a bit flat compared to it. I think he’s just scared of Spalanzani’s eyebrows.

The Criterion Collection sure loves Shakespeare. Turns out so does Kurosawa, though sometimes by accident? Throne of Blood is rather objectively the best adaptation of MacBeth that exists. Soon we’ll watch The Bad Sleep Well which could be Hamlet but it might be better to not think of it as Hamlet — we’ll get into that in a few weeks.

This week in the middle is Ran, which Kurosawa wrote, then someone pointed out that it sounded a lot like King Lear, so Kurosawa rewrote it to lean into the comparison. Donovan Hill joins us once again.

If The 400 Blows was “very French”, and it is considered to be, Francois Truffaut’s follow up was meant to be “very American” and really it’s the most American of things: the mashup. It’s a New Wave crime comedy based on a Noir novel and the tonal shifts! Oh boy, the tonal shifts! That is to say it is not “American” in the same way that The 400 Blows is “French”. It’s a bunch of American stereotypical elements rolled into one silly film — a “grab bag” as Truffaut himself describes it.

On this week’s Lost in Criterion I present a nascent Marxist reading of Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket -- if only as a counter to Pat’s sexual deviancy reading -- and come so close as I talk it out but still so far. I realized after the recording that if there is a valid Marxist interpretation of Pickpocket I had it a bit backwards: Michel steals excess value from people who (presumably) produce it, but sits on it, not using it to better society nor even to better himself. He’s the embodiment of the thieving Boss. Anyway, the film serves as a pickpocketing procedural which is fun, and is also “inspired” by Crime and Punishment in such a way that it almost feels like a parody of Dostoevsky. It’s pretty great.

Our final film in the Rebel Samurai boxset is also the craziest, a parody of samurai films from the preceding twenty years or more, 1968’s Kill! directed by Kihachi Okamoto. Donovan H. finishes us out as well, though he’ll be back soon enough I’m sure.

Movie three in the Rebel Samurai boxset is Masahiro Shinoda’s Samurai Spy, the 1965 Le Carre-ian Cold War espionage film that happens to take place in the political turmoil of the early part of the 17th century in Japan. Also the main character is a traditional Japanese folk hero who the audience should know about but that’s not at all important until it is very, very, incredibly very important to understand the plot in the last ten minutes of the movie. We talk cold war politics, historical analogues, and secret knowledge on this week’s Lost in Criterion.

Number two in the Rebel Samurai boxset is Hideo Gosha’s 1965 Sword of the Beast, also known as — as Pat delightfully points out — Samurai Gold Seekers. Donovan H. joins us again as we talk more about Samurai mythos deconstruction and economic systems of the past! Hurray!

We kick off the Rebel Samurai boxset this week with Masaki Kobayashi's aptly named Samurai Rebellion. Toshiro Mifune stars in a film that plays as a companion piece to Kobayashi's great Harakiri that we talked about back in July. Donovan Hill joins us this episode and for the rest of the boxset, and it's always a joy to have him.

Kenji Mizoguchi's Ugetsu is like a lot of films made in the years after World War II in Japan: decidedly anti-war. That already gives it a lot of points in our book, but it's also brilliant, beautiful, melancholy, and just downright among the greatest films ever made period.

This week Pat puts his Anthropology degree to use to take issue with Jean-Luc Godard's sociology practices. Masculin Feminin is a sprawling look at the young people of Paris just before the 1965 re-election of Charles de Gaulle, a re-election that would lead to the events of May 1968 we've discussed previously with Godard's (superior) Tout va Bien. Unfortunately, Godard doesn't give the respect to his female stars that he wants to say the entire generation deserve.

Mike Leigh's Naked is a bit of a Thatcher-era take on Boudu Saved from Drowning and a bit of an end times prophecy. It's also a pretty off-putting movie, what with all the rapes.

Partway into the episode I present a reading of it as an adaptation of the Odyssey, with David Thewlis's Johnny as Odysseus. While I think that's a fair reading even though there's no cyclops, I only later realized that it's Claire Skinner's Sandra who returns from overseas to kick a bunch of interlopers out of her home, so maybe she's a background Odysseus instead. In any case the films got a lot to say about transience and the lives of people in the bottom rungs of capitalism. I love it, I'm just not sure I could stand to watch it again.

It was only a matter of time before we found a Jean-Pierre Melville film I actually like. We do make one big mistake in this weeks episode though. Despite being a film with Samourai literally in the title we did not invite Donovan Hill back to join us for this French gangster classic. I publicly apologize to him and you listeners for that oversight.

Le Samourai starts with a fake quote about bushido and is philosophically inconsistent with everything we've learned about bushido from the Japanese films Melville certainly watched and doesn't seem to quite grasp. Still brilliant, though.

We get one of our earliest Jean Renoir films this week, and it's a treat. Noted for it's encapsulation of Paris between the wars, Boudu Saved from Drowning is a critique of Bourgeois values via rejection. It's also noted for essentially allowing star Michel Simon to play his no-holds-barred libertarian and libertine self. Pat and I have problems with rejecting Bourgeois sensibilities for right wing individualism, but maybe we just have problems with spitting in books.

The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976) may be our favorite Nicholas Roeg film, though the bar has been set pretty dang low. Even without David Bowie's performance -- and is he playing any more of a character than "David Bowie" ever was? -- this film deserves its cult status. Still as science fiction it fails for us on two major points:
1) The inventions don't seem that mind-blowing/paradigm shifting for 1976.
2) The departures from the source material eliminate the main anti-American militarism and anti-Nuclear weapons themes and replace them with...we're not entirely sure what this movie wants to say. Something about the alienation of pure genius?

Of course those are themes that show up a lot in science fiction, so I'll allow that Roeg may have been avoiding a cliche. But that doesn't forgive point one, which is a failure of imagination in production design (though it is probably the only aspect of this film that fails to be imaginative enough).

There's a lot about Nicholas Roeg's 1980 psychological thriller Bad Timing that is just bad: Art Garfunkel's staring turn, Harvey Keitel's inconsistent accent, the fact that the film spends 122 minutes suggesting that having sex with an unconscious (and dying) woman isn't rape, etc.

Still the story format itself is interesting -- even if, as one reviewer suggests, there would barely be a story if it were actually told chronologically -- the ambiguity of the nature of the flashbacks is mostly interesting, and Theresa Russell is brilliant, even if she spends most of the film convulsing.

We'll be exploring a string of samurai deconstruction films in just a few months as we tackle the Rebel Samurai boxset. Though virtually every Jidaigeki samurai film we've seen so far is a deconstruction of the genre, the deconstructionists hit hard in the 60s as young men disillusioned by the war became the nation's primary voices in film.

This week we have Harakiri, Masaki Kobayashi's hard-hitting 1962 entry in the genre (and we'll see more from him in the coming boxset). While the title is more properly Seppuku in Japanese, the "vulgar" term harakiri better sums up the films attitude toward the traditional practice. Donovan Hill joins us, as he often does for these sorts of films, and we're better off for it, though as is often the case he leads us on a longer than normal conversation.

Based on Janet Frame's trio of autobiographies (and taking its name from the middle one), Jane Campion's An Angel at My Table from 1990 is a lovingly crafted look at the life of the Kiwi author. Frame was lucky to escape the hand she'd been dealt as a woman who did not fit the mold many men in her life expected her to, particularly the moment she was scheduled for a lobotomy by winning a national book prize. Horrific. And utterly normal, it turns out.

Spine 300.

Wow.

For all the jokes about doing this until either we or the Criterion Collection itself dies I don't know that we ever realistically thought we'd be Lost in Criterion for this long. I suppose we may as well stick it out.

Wes Anderson is a favorite of the Collection and we will eventually see all of his films as part of it. He's also a favorite (or decidedly not) of many of our friends who we've invited on this week's episode to discuss his 2004 film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Long time friends Donovan Hill and Stephen Goldmeier return, as well as normally only Christmastime guests Andrew Tobias and Ben Jones-White. Our dear friend and musician Jonathan Hape sits in as well, and helps us run a slightly better set up for multi-guests in one room, though the recording does have some issues, principally an echo on multiple tracks that I wasn't able to track down. Let's pretend I added it on purpose to make the episode more whimsical.

We had a good run with Seijun Suzuki, but like most heroes, eventually you find something you have to step back from.

While much of the message of Story of the Prostitute is similar to and on par with the anti-militarism, anti-toxic masculinity themes of his great Fighting Elegy, the framing element here leaves quite a bit to be desired about the true nature of Japan's history with so called "Comfort Women". Historically these women were (mostly) kidnapped and forced into prostitution for the army, but in focusing his themes against militarism Seijun allows for the cultural myth that the Comfort Women were all willing, even patriotic, volunteers to settle in. Still by no means does he present their lives as pleasant or good, so...what do we do with a very progressive message that is not as progressive as it could, and should, be.

In any case this is the most ideologically complex of Seijun's films that we've seen, and it's the last in the collection at this time, which means we've got at least 646 episodes before we see him again.

We love Suzuki here at Lost in Criterion, and sadly we only have two more of his films to watch before we're all out of them. Well, unless the Criterion adds more before we're done. There's certainly an incredibly good chance of that.

We finish with two of the earliest of his that we've seen (though Youth of the Beast was earlier than either). This week it's Gates of Flesh a story of post-war desperation.

We get to watch a movie about a donkey!

But the donkey doesn't talk. It's not animated. It's depressing.

I'd call au hasard Balthazar peak Bresson, but I'm betting Robert Bresson will keep surprising me. In any case this is the third and final in a string of films that claims inspiration from Fyodor Dostoevsky, and it certainly fits with the Russians' tone (though perhaps not his religiosity).

We're in the middle of a trilogy of films that claim influence from Dostoevsky with the most straightforward adaptation of the lot in being the only one not loosely inspired by a half-remembered scene from The Idiot. Instead Luchino Visconti, who we last saw with the phenomenal film The Leopard last year, does a fairly faithful take on Dostoevsky's 1948 short story White Nights which turns out to be better representative of my psyche than The Idiot ever really was. My relationship to Dostoevsky's work gets meta this week and I learn some things. Hurray!