Reviews

"Heaven, I'm in Heaven/And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak,/And I seem to find the happiness I seek,/When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek..." (Irving Berlin)

The popularity of Irving Berlin's song is indeed astonishing, even after seventy years since it was written. It appeared in the repertoire of a plethora of soloists, starting with Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald; it featured in such great productions such as Spielberg's "Artificial Intelligence: AI" and Minghella's "The English Patient"; it is quite a rarity for anybody in the Western World, (and not only), not to have caught its tune at least once in a lifetime. Its classic status has cemented over the years in what we may identify as American popular culture. Berlin wrote a good song, and was fortunate enough to have a young Fred Astaire to sing it. The year was 1935, the recording was done for "Top Hat".

When one indulges to assess the quality of a musical, a different approach seems imminent. The soundtrack is less of a supporting player, it becomes a lead in its own right. A great song score can secure a film immortality, despite certain weaknesses in plot, direction, or performance. Arguably, this is the case with Mark Sandrich's second collaboration with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. At least, this appears to be the common argument.

In "Top Hat" we have a traditional drawing room comedy of errors. A famous American dancer, Jerry Travers (Fred Astaire), arrives in London 'incognito', to perform in a musical produced by Horace Hardwick, a rather conservative, affable, but rather nervous man, played to utter eccentricity by Edward Everett Horton. Traverse is a mischievous sort, and enjoys disturbing someone's peace with his dancing, particularly during the night. One victim is the lady occupying the room below Hardwick's one, the beautiful Dale Tremont (Ginger Rogers). Her misfortune, and Jerry's chance, is to go and have a chat with the dancing man, who obviously falls for her, and would force his luck to win her love whatever it takes. The errors start when Dale mistakes her 'Adam' for Horace, and the circumstances would not allow her to find the truth throughout the film. In a nut-shell, she thinks he's an obsessed womaniser, who happens to be married to her best friend, Madge (Helen Broderick); he, on the other hand, desires to take her to the altar.

Criticising the film for its lack of plot is slightly unfair. The script is witty, and maintains the feeble misunderstanding ingeniously. After all, what is a girl supposed to think when the man occupying Horace's room sends her flowers and has an apparent close relationship with Madge, and then is suddenly pushed by the latter into her arms? Probably that the Hardwick's are having a rather special relationship. A rather special one indeed, as he offers to marry Miss Tremont, and the wife is not even given a notice for divorce.

The comedy is top-notch, and the actors must take the credit for it. Astaire is callous, evading, and quite lecherous, delivering one of the greatest performances of his career. Rogers does appear in his shadow on this occasion, partly because of the irrationality of circumstances her character finds herself in, and yet she manages to create quiet moments of tenderness whenever she is in Fred's arms. However, it is the supporting cast that steals the scenes of confusion. Broderick is particularly well-cast, her matter of fact style and dead-pan humour create the film's loudest laughs. Eric Blore, in his turn as Horace's butler, deals hilariously in his multiple personalities farce. "We are Bates!", he informs Travers, while offering help with his coat. And, of course, Horton excels in his part as the misinformed innocent lamb, threatened to be cut to pieces by Erik Rhodes. Rhodes plays a Narcissistic Italian designer, who supplies Miss Tremont with gowns and financial security, but his performance is arguably the most formulaic and dated, despite contributing to a number of laughs.

When it comes to "Top Hat" the screenplay, despite its qualities, does step back though. The greatness of the film is found in some of the most lyrical dances ever caught on film. From the opening dance on sand in a room hotel under the tune of "No Strings (I'm Fancy Free)" we enter a world in which physical restraints cease to be a human condition. Astaire's legs and his entire body move with an eloquence compared to Beethoven's "5th Symphony" virtuosity. He seems to embody a dream in which there are no barriers to what a man can do. By the time we reach "Cheek to Cheek", one is indeed relaxing in Heaven. Bernard Newman's gown for Ginger Rogers creates the illusion of a flying angel, whenever she is lifted by her partner in crime. Rogers, like all of Astaire's ladies in dance, tends to gain a certain security that imposes a freedom of action, making the camera shiver with excitement. On this occasion, it is Fred that gains that little extra from Ginger, which ultimately ensures perfection.

"The Piccolino", sung by Rogers, is the closing song, which is accompanied by an immense production number, gaining the film the reputation of the most expensive affair for RKO at the time. Sandrich does a great job into ensuring a sense of the grandiose at the end of it all, but he cannot achieve the impossible. "Top Hat" is packed with smart dialogue and a number of exquisite dances, so a grand finale to top the mastery of "Cheek to Cheek", but also Astaire's stage solo "Top Hat, White Tie and Tails", does appear a hopeless enterprise. Smartly, the closing number is rather short, like a teasing dessert after a great dinner. So, lean back, and prepare, as Astaire promises:

"For I'll be there/Puttin' down my top hat,/Mussin' up my white tie,/Dancin' in my tails..." (Irving Berlin)

Michael Mann's longstanding affair with Los Angeles crystallises into a beautiful canvas called "Heat". We are given to read some of the most personal thoughts of an individual who seems to have a pulsating passion for the grandiosity of the city, as well as its law breakers. But he doesn't love these individuals, rather enjoys observing their choices, their moves, and their troubled lives. Ultimately, the dichotomy between the good and the bad world is diminished, leaving the society – the law-breakers and the law-protectors – naked, with all its scruples and shortcomings.

Neil McCaluey (Robert de Niro) robs banks, with his entire arsenal of armed men. Lt. Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) is the policeman trying to catch him. But "Heat" is not an usual 'cat-and-mouse' story. Both men do what they do best, and the fact that their interests conflict with each other is a pure accident of nature. There is no invested interest from either side to harm the other, there are no personal gains from succeeding in their plans. The cat would almost willing let the mouse run around the house, until the latter would lose any interest in his mischievous behaviour. It is the social pressure however, the roles designated by man for man, that prevents the chase to stop, and it is precisely this issue which is taken under scrutiny by Mann.

"Heat" excels in its exploration of institutions. Like in a chess game, every detail is given attention, every pawn is regarded as valuable, and the similarity of tactics and emotions on either camps does nothing but to solidify a universal theory of human action. The bank becomes a symbol of social values, and its insecure status (in need of protection) does nothing but to prove a lack of coherence in its construction. Building those values becomes as easy as stealing them, but both actions would still share the same intrinsic characteristics.

The film does not give any answers, but like any good piece of work it raises the right questions, and formulates them quite successfully. The only outcome is probably that the game will go on until one king would leave the chess-board voluntarily, but even them the success of the victor is questionable. Beyond the public war, there is always a private war, one driven by personal convictions, incited by the individuals who surround one's life. The desire to lead a good life, the desire to be loved, becomes the driving engine in this latter conflict. And neither of the protagonists are able to rise above the challenge.

Mann has constructed a complex work, that seems almost incapable of fault. Two outstanding performances from its two legendary leads, who have paved the history of gangster films, are complemented by some career bests from Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore and Diane Venora. But only Dante Spinotti's shadowy cinematography is able to take the spotlight from its creator. LA becomes the leading character, that is misunderstood, haunted, cherished, and destroyed by its own hand sweating of heat.

Since the world-wide success of Ang Lee's "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", the Western audience seems to have developed a fascination with dance-like martial arts, performed in the most breathtaking sceneries, accompanied by a score of operatic proportions, all scripted in a rather ingenious structure. But watching "House of Flying Daggers", as charming as it is, with all these elements incorporated in a flawless fashion, we trace symptoms of artistic crisis in a genre that has exhausted its offerings slightly too early in the game.

"House of Flying Daggers" is an underground alliance which rebels against the corrupt government at the height of the Tang Dynasty. After the successful assassination of its leader, the band operates under a new leader, who is hunted by two local captains Jin and Leo. When a blind girl, thought to be the lost daughter of the old chief, starts working at the local brothel, Jin appears to make significant progress in his search. What follows is but an extravagant spectacle formed by a series of fights with swords, sticks, bamboo branches, arrows, exquisite fabrics, and of course, flying daggers.

But the new film from Yimou Zhang is not so much concerned with martial arts philosophy, as with the passionate relationships formed between the three leading characters. Love becomes the driving force in every struggle, it changes the heroes' dedication to their cause, it marks each of their choices, to a point at which the power of destiny dies at the touch of two lips. It is a tragic tale of love, a simple tale, and yet Zhang ensures that the sentiment is given a pedestal at the zenith of humanity. Nature, politics, even human life, is left thus slaving for its existence.

As in "Hero", the director's most recent award-winning production, we are never aware of where the truth lies. The script, despite its dialogue problems, manages to lead the viewer slowly to a concept of reality which ultimately is frozen in a most expressionist of manners, a reality we ignore and revere simultaneously. This becomes a problem in so far as our interest in the story is shattered to the limit of indifference. We never find out what is the fate of the "House of Flying Daggers", nor are we entirely certain of the fate of the three lovers, and their real passions, and, frankly, we don't really care about that. But then Zhang rarely appears to be interested in the plot, and focuses his artistic talents on the delivery of his tales, and the ideas he so carefully crafts.

Martial arts films have been compared to musicals in the past, and this is not a far-fetched comparison. As in the Hollywood productions, and almost the entire Bollywood output, in this Tibetan tale of masters who defy any physical laws with their skills, the story seems to be centred on a number of very stylised fights. It is up to the author to ensure that the entire adventure has a meaning, it aims at something more than just pure aestheticism. The crafting of the idea becomes essential, and Zhang is undoubtedly aware of the issue.

In "House of Flying Daggers" he dwells on the universal tradition of the power of love, but despite the richness of the concept, he limits himself to the pure, straightforward principle of 'the superiority of love'. And even if we allow that Zhang takes simple things to make them grand, one can't but leave with a feeling of dissatisfaction. And nothing - not even Xiaoding Zhao's breathtaking photography, nor even the powerful performances delivered by a most stunning Zhang Ziyi and the handsome half-Japanese, half-Chinese Takeshi Kaneshiro, nor even the poetic score by Shigeru Umebayashi - can save the film from that quintessential final impression of emptiness. Nothing, that is, apart from sound team, which has delivered a feast of heightened awareness of movement (due to the blindness of Ziyi's character), climaxing in a most exquisite action scene in a bamboo forest. One can savour the beauty of the film even with their eyes closed.

And closing our eyes is where the crisis begins, particularly in a film which boasts with a beauty that makes fairy-tales look sombre. Did the technical achievements make film a redundant form of visual art, or will we continue to marvel at the glory of these oriental epics for years to come? Let's hope that we are not approaching the death of the reincarnated Chinese martial arts film. Let's hope that these symptoms deceive us.

No wonder the highest directorial achievement for direction of the British Academy of Film and Television is named after David Lean. An artist who knew how to combine great performances, with breathtaking settings, haunting soundtrack, in order to create works of art that are to remain as pillars for the future generations of film-makers.

"Doctor Zhivago" is definitely one of his most outstanding works, a film that breathes with life, and suffers with passion. Neither, though, of the credited people can take as much credit for it, as David Lean. Omar Sharif delivers one of his best performances of his career, Julie Christie has never been as stunning, or Rod Steiger as Komarovsky or Tom Courtenay as Antipov ever left more memorable performances than these ones. Not even Maurice Jarre, who composed one of the most unforgettable themes in film history, or Robert Bolt, for his skillful adaptation on Pasternak's difficult novel, not even Freddy Young's cinematography, can rise above the vibration of genius, which is David Lean. We almost feel the complexity of the universe collapsing on us with a mad power that we instantly become part of it, and fall in love with all its particles.

For those who haven't seen the film, this might make little sense, and it can give a misleading understanding of what one is to expect. "Doctor Zhivago" is a poet, who at the beginning of the 20th Century is caught in the historical Bolshevik revolution. An outstanding doctor, married to his childhood friend, Tonya (Geraldine Chaplin in a warm performance), finds that there is beauty beyond deceit, love beyond commitment, by starting an affair with an enigmatic lady which appears often in his path in the most unnoticeable of moments. Their destiny is as confused as Russia in the turmoil started by the Reds, it is shaped by history without their approval. There is no solution for a country that abandoned its passions in its desire of self-improvement, just as for the two lovers, which find themselves abandoned in the middle of the Siberian taiga.

This is a slow film and for the good reasons. We are allowed to breathe the story, to give it momentum, and to judge it from within, as if the choices were not Yury's, Lara's or Tonya's, but our own creation. And this is the brilliance of Lean's direction. The story transcends time and space, and it melts within the triviality of our life. Beyond it, we are left with nothing but love, pure and blindingly real.

"Heremakono" ("Waiting for Happiness") is a pure cinematic treat. A film in which the camera work, the minimal use of dialogue, the images themselves, are meant to tell the story, is what the Mauritanian-born, Russian-educated director, Abderrahmane Sissako, decided to grace the big screen with. We are made to share the day-to-day life of a little community from Nouadhibou, a small seaside village on the Mauritanian coast. It is a transit city, with predominantly temporary housing, called "heremakono", the Hassianyan for "waiting for happiness".

The film's charm is that we, the viewers, are forced to become temporary inhabitants. We learn disjointed information about the lives of the people we encounter in our way: Maata is the electrician who knows little about his job; Khatra is the orphaned boy who finds his shelter under Maata's protection; Abdallah is the son that decided to visit his mother before emigrating to Europe, frustrated by his rootless past; Nana is the local prostitute who lost a daughter from a failed relationship; Tchu is the corner's dealer of useless objects, trying to integrate in the distorted web of this deserted place. None find happiness in this exile before the voyage, and yet "maybe waiting is actually happiness" (Sissako).

Jacques Besse's remarkable cinematography and especially Oumou Sangare's soothing music are two shadows that are to hunt you for days after you've seen "Heremakono". A light bulb will never be only a light bulb, nor its light will ever identify with happiness. We all search for light, and only when we find it, then we switch it off, and only then do we gain peace. This seems to be the final message of "Waiting for Happiness".

Sissako, like Scorsese, does not consider time an enemy. He allows us enjoy the moment, its vibration, its numbness. And this is more laudable if we consider that most characters are played by non-professional actors. And what beautiful performances we are offered, especially from the young Khatra Ould Abdel Kader. A true talent! Beauty and peace…. What more should we want

"Wondrous Oblivion" is a film that has as its motive one of the most boring sports out there (at least for those who don't play it) – cricket. Thankfully, Paul Morrison's second feature, after the award winning "Solomon and Gaenor" (1999), is not about cricket at all.

We are given a coming of age story of a Jewish boy, David (Sam Smith), born in the family of two Holocaust survivors in the 1950s England: Victor (Stanley Townsend), a Polish émigré, and a very young Ruth (Emily Woof), coming from Germany. The boy has an empowering passion for cricket, obvious from his massive card collection of cricket celebrities. However, he is totally rubbish at it. His destiny is to change when a Jamaican émigré family comes next door, and sets up an improvised cricket court. Dennis Samuels (Delroy Lindo) teaches the boy the craftsmanship of the sport, and becomes a close friend of David.

All seems a very familiar bad-sportsman-turns-great story, but Morrison's script is ingenious enough not to fall in the stereotypical Hollywood film-making. The boy doesn't end up the great sportsman that we all wish him to be, but learns something greater, something more important in the process. And this is the 'wondrous oblivion' the author intended to deliver… The 1960s as a whole becomes a decade of surprising changes and animosity, and yet all characters seem to remain static in their conception of their beliefs.

This is a good film, and it is worth seeing for the original cinematography and a moving performance from Emily Woof ("Passion", "The Full Monty"), which steals the whole film. Watch out for the dance scene with Lindo, which is dominated both by passion, and religious taboos, and it is surprisingly sexy. The only three problems in the movie are the simplicity with each the Holocaust theme is being treated, the poor knowledge of Jewish faith, as well as the stereotypical two-dimensionality of the entire supporting cast. But this applies only for a picky audience.

"Wondrous Oblivion" is one of those films that one cannot dislike, or at least loathe. Pacing, beautiful, and quite funny really.

'Mickey', as all Mabel Normand films, has her at the centre of attention from the beginning till the end. The camera, the action, the entire plot, are all attracted to her like magnets. And Normand is excellent in this film, establishing her status as silent era's first lady of comedy.

And we do have a great comedy. Full of suspense, 'Mickey' is never tiring, never boring. We are to witness the adventures of a mine-owner young girl, who cares for mining as much as donkeys care for belts being pushed down their throats. She is a mischievous child who, even when she is brought in the rich household of her aunt in the East, never tires to be a child. Yet it is remarkable what love can do.

The supporting cast is all first rate, with Wheeler Oakman, George Nichols, Minnie Devereaux or Laura La Varnie, all delivering some great comedic performances that seem to be untouched by the axe of time. But they are all there for Normand, who does everything from jumping nude into the water to riding horses and some impressive high altitude stunts. She was one of a kind, and 'Mickey' is there to prove it.

Before 'Pulp Fiction' and 'The Lord of the Rings', at a time when films were just at an age of adolescence, D. W. Griffith produced 'Intolerance', a pure cinematic treat of grand proportions. Involved in practically every aspect of the craft, from direction to makeup, Griffith lavishly proved his artistic talent.

'Intolerance' is unarguably a work of ambition. The daring script structure that took almost eighty years to grow to its full potential, the jaw-dropping sets, disgustingly expensive for contemporary studios, a cast of thousands, and top class performances from the entire cast, particularly the female leads – radiate with freshness in the third millennium. The achievements make it irresistible to disconsider any flaw. But 'Intolerance' is flawed. Its dogmatic, utopic, and often historically inaccurate, plot makes room for wide criticism. And yet, the paced finale, with nail-biting suspense, redeem Griffith's attempt of delivering a mature product.

Often misunderstood, and characterised as Hollywood trite, the film is devoured by its own complexity. The four stories intertwine sporadically, disconnected, only to allude in the end at the similarity of human kind since the beginning of time. 'Intolerance', ultimately, is an epic on humanity, and its tenacity is a testament of its greatness.

Writing for children is arguably the hardest job for anyone. It involves so much speculation regarding the child's psyche, that the author, despite a richness of childhood experience, feels helpless at the task; that is if he/she intends to write good children literature. L. Frank Baum never seemed to have this handicap.

'The Magic Cloak of Oz', lost in its complete version, lacks the power of a great piece of work, and yet it is somewhat touching. The sets and the costumes are rich and beautiful; the cinematography is pleasant (Mildred Harris' mirrors scene deserves commending). On the acting front, Fred Woodward's physical performance is rather successful, and Juanita Hansen provides reasonable attempts not to overact.

The film is definitely dated, and it seems hard to imagine that the children of our times can really appreciate it. J. Farrell MacDonald, or Baum himself (according to some records), has provided a feeling of playfulness and sheer childhood joy in the story however. One has to imagine how great would it be for a kid to have the entire national budget spent on toys! Maybe, the film has the magic of the irresponsible days, a feature we learn to loose in time.

While both in USA and in Europe directors were producing one-shot short films, merely of a documentary nature, Alexander Black had produced (arguably) the first feature of moving pictures. The photoplay 'Miss Jerry' tried its best to create the illusion of motion, with the slides changing once every 15 seconds, while Black was effortlessly providing the voice for every character.

Despite the handicap of the format, 'Miss Jerry' holds well if compared to a plethora of films that followed after it. The credit has to go to the script, which provides a charming portrayal of a countryside girl, Geraldine Holbrook who decides to become a reporter. The romance developing between the main character and her editor is remarkably subtle, refusing over dramatisation. Both Blanche Bayliss and William Courtenay provide memorable stills, their emotions managing to transcend the barriers of the photos, ultimately vibrating in the eyes of the viewer.

Unknowingly, Alexander Black had set a number of themes and motives, as well as scenes, that became cliché long after the tour of 'Miss Jerry' finished in 1907. It offered a glance in the future of film-making, when the Lumière brothers saw no use in motion pictures. The sight was delightful.

Sequels rarely rise to the level of the original, and almost never surpass them. This phrase has been used so often in reference to "The Godfather: Part II" – the exception that makes the rule. What is even more laudable is the fact that the original is generally considered as a landmark in the history of film.

This is one film that proves cinema to be a form of art, and not merely one of entertainment. A skilful direction from Francis Ford Coppola, outstanding performances from the likes of Pacino, De Niro, Gazzo, Strasberg, Cazale, Duvall, Keaton, Shire, memorable cinematography from Willis, a soundtrack by Rota, Coppola and Curet Alonso, and an ingenious script by Coppola and Puzo (partly adapted from his novel), make "The Godfather: Part II" stand out as a story of courage, love, treachery, and devotion, crafted in the life of the Corleone saga.

The plot follows the consolidation of power of Michael Corleone, and his desire to gain the legality of his business, and the consolidation of power of a young Vito Corleone, and his desire to build a better life for his family. The old story of the father handing his wealth to his sons, gains a new twist by allowing a positive outcome to the original story. The wealth remains in the family, but there are losses to be incurred. An ontological thesis of Pareto optimality into the organisation of social structures is subtly brought into the view, without harming the general development of the story.

"The Godfather: Part II" remains also as a text book for any actor. Al Pacino shows that temperance can be dramatic, making us empathise with his character even when made to realise the most brutal of actions. Robert De Niro is purely outstanding, in one of the best supporting performances the screen has witnessed. His charm, charisma, and vocal skills, help him achieve a complete transition to Puzo's Vito Corleone. The viewer is unarmed in the choice given between murder and love, between life and necessity. Talia Shire stands out as the lost woman in a world dominated by men.

Even if "The Godfather" is the point of reference when it comes to great cinema, "The Godfather: Part II" remains a powerful example which proves that there is always more to say in a story, and the additions can be more than surprising.

"Gone with the Wind" is definitely one of those films that have time as their best judge. The highest-grossing film of all time, accounts its achievement through its outstanding quality. It is a film that was not made in a rush, one which benefited from the work of one of the best people in their field at the time: Selznick, Fleming, Cukor, Gable, Leigh, Havilland, Steiner… - all proving that a masterpiece needs both time and talent to achieve completion.

The first thing, which astonishes the viewer, is its sheer vastness. The large landscapes that seem to stretch to eternity are juxtaposed to some telling close-ups, allowing the audience to be absorbed in that era that was gone with the wind.

In a period, in which Europe was preparing for war, Selznick was producing a lavish film, which tackled so many sensitive issues at the time, and yet without imposing any particular view. The best way to understand the impartiality is probably by quoting a Yankee woman, from the novel, who after receiving an answer from Scarlett about where to find a good nanny for her children, ends up saying: `I would never allow a black person to take care of my children'. Scarlett has nothing else but conclude that these Yankee's are just ignorant, remembering the soft bosom of Mammy. The main characters are nothing but great supporters of the humanity that lives in the heart of their slaves, as opposed to the liberators who would not bother a lot about the fate of a nation after it's sudden fall.

Regardless, of its political difficulties, "Gone with the Wind" is a landmark in the history of film. The great performances are probably the main reason why people continue to adore the love story between the dashing Rhett Butler and the beautiful Scarlett O'Hara. Clark Gable has all the charisma and all the charms of Mitchell's character, raging from sheer passion to absolute destruction of the ego. As for Vivien Leigh, there is nothing to be reproached, apart from the fact that she is too beautiful for the characteristics given in the novel. She delivers a truly memorable performance, portraying so clearly the psychological struggle behind her choices. The supporting cast is applaudable: Olivia de Havilland, Leslie Howard, Hattie McDaniel, Thomas Mitchell, Barbara O'Neil give some of their most memorable appearances.

And then there is the soundtrack. The main theme is a haunting piece, possibly Steiner's best achievement. The vibration of the sound connects naturally in the masterful cinematographic work of Ernest Haller.

"Gone with the Wind" is probably the definition of what Hollywood can do at its best. A truly magical piece that survives and lingers at our hearts like a newborn baby.

It is rare when a filmmaker manages to shine in his first features, especially after 20 years of continuous work in television. Well, Anthony Minghella is such a case: an artist to discover the boundaries of poetry only when reaching complete maturity. And what an artist! "Truly Madly Deeply" (1991) and "Mr. Wonderful" (1993) where respectable pieces, that established him as a craftsman in the field; but it wasn't until "The English Patient" (1996) that we got to see the godlike creative power of the man who later gave us "The Talented Mr. Ripley" (1999) and "Cold Mountain" (2003).

"The English Patient" is veritable poetic art, and, as with poetry, it opens delicately and invites you to share the experience of a lifetime, quietly, so you could hear Gabriel Yared's harmonious tunes in the process. Hana (Juliette Binoche) a Canadian nurse, lost in the deserted minefields of World War II Italy, is in search for life and scope. As in Ondaatja's novel, she gradually starts to rediscover reality once she is put in the care of an amnesiac Count Laszlo Almásy (Ralph Fiennes). Neither Kip Singh (Naveen Andrews), her new found lover, nor David Caravaggio (Willem Dafoe), her countryman, manage to fulfil her soul's need. None, but Almásy and his stories about the Egyptian deserts, about the winds of Sahara, and more importantly his own story: `And the story, well, there's this Hungarian count. He's a wanderer. He's a fool. And for years he's on some kind of a quest for... who knows what. And then one day, he falls under the spell of a mysterious English woman. A harpy, who beats him, and hits him, he becomes her slave, and he sews her clothes, and worships…' – Katherine (Kristin Scott Thomas). A truly moving relationship unfolds, which reduces to a blubbering mess even the most cold-hearted among us.

Binoche, in her Oscar-winning role, is so simple and real, which makes Hana's breakdown even more tragic. Scott Thomas, in her best performance, is just beautiful in the entire sense of the word: sensual, talented, ignorant, and so passionately in love. And then Fiennes captures exquisitely the sheer complexity of the English patient, the vastness of Herodotus's poetry of the desert.

"The English Patient" is a definite must-see for any serious filmgoer. It is a rare case when art managed to transcend the boundaries of this world, and mainly because it was a film made out of love for beauty. The production has run out of the budget before the film was finished, which meant that the actors, the director, most of the crew, left with empty pockets, received only the catharsis of creation, hoping of a smashing success. There was no alternative, but superlatives at all levels.

Spielberg's craftsmanship in direction had to wait the ultimate praise until 1993, when he produced the extraordinary epic "Schindler's List". It was the film that brought him the first Oscar, the first Golden Globe, the first David Lean (BAFTA), and most of the directing awards existent at that time. And yet, the king of blockbusters produced a work that was greater than him, a work that rose above humanity. Even John Paul II considered it as the best film of all time in what was to be known as The Pope's Oscars.

"Schindler's List" is the adaptation of Thomas Keneally's novel about Oskar Schindler, 'a German bon vivant, speculator, charmer, and sign of contradiction', who during World War II saved the life of more than 1000 Polish Jews. It was the only important thing in the life of a small industrialist who gained popularity under the Nazis, and who disappeared into oblivion just as the war ended. 'He was fortunate', would remark his wife later on, that 'between 1939 and 1945 he had met people who had summoned forth his deeper talents'.

We are exposed to crude cruelty and absolute goodness, both touching each other and dismissive of any contradiction. The Black and White negative gives the great charm of "Schindler's List". We are transposed to the forties so elegantly, and so passionately, that we become one with the setting. We feel the coldness of the concentration camps, the smell of burning bodies, the breath of hiding children in the communal toilets. Everything is captured as if by our own eye, when we suddenly get to notice a yellowish flame of a candle, the little girl dressed in a red coat hiding from the SS. A masterful cinematography under the eye of Janusz Kaminski.

It is not a film you watch for the end, but one you absorb and regurgitate. The time passes as passionately as the events of the film, so boredom is the last thing on one's mind. And how can you be bored with such an impressive cast, most giving the performances of a lifetime? Liam Neeson is the perfect Herr Direktor Schindler, full of charisma, capable of cruelty, unbothered of changing women like underwear, and still a man that would not produce a gun that can shoot in his factory, that would lie, and risk his life for as many souls he could save. And then there is a young Ralph Fiennes playing the sadistic SS Commander Amon Goeth. We have a total transformation towards brutality, inhibited lust, sado-masochistic alcoholism, the complete loss of power and humanity – all characteristics of the best supporting performance the screen has ever witnessed, probably second only to DeNiro's portrayal of Vito Corleone in The Godfather: Part II. Ben Kingsley is the tender, honourable, devoted Itzhak Stern, Oskar's right hand throughout the entire war. Caroline Goodall and Embeth Davidz give two memorable performances as Schindler's wife, and Goeth's Jewish maid.

"Schindler's List" is one of those films that lack the ability to be summarised in a few words. It is an experience in itself. It teaches, though not dogmatically, that Heaven is relative, that beauty is salvation, that the love for life matters more than the integrity of our own souls.

Excellent picture of the most horrid period of the last century. Perfect for an evening of meditation. A perfect classic.

The most complex film since "Pulp Fiction" and "Howards End" was realized across UK on Valentine's Day. The Hours, directed by "Billy Elliot"'s Stephen Daldry, and based on the Pulitzer-winning novel by Michael Cunningham adapted by David Hare, is an epic about life, just as it is: rough, trivial, passionate; above all it is a masterful atomisation of the day-to-day life of an ordinary woman.

The action, or better said the lack of action, is concentrated in one single day of three women, 'and in that day {their} whole life'. Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman), battling insanity, starts writing in the early 1920s her highly acclaimed novel, Mrs. Dalloway, while 'avoiding life' in Richmond. Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) starts reading in Los Angeles the same book that is to affect her perfect family life in early 1950s. So we reach a climax, when Clarissa Vaughan (Meryl Streep) is to give life to Mrs. Dalloway in 2001 in New York. All the three stories come to be intertwined in Richard Brown (Ed Harris), a brilliant poet dying of AIDS, who is to become the victim of Virginia's novel, Laura's abandoned son, and the disillusionment in love, but also the peak of happiness, in Clarissa's 'meaningless' life.

"The Hours" is a film that is to disappoint anyone looking for entertainment while going to the cinema. There is little, almost, nothing in it, which would allude to a story. Nevertheless, the film contains one of the most powerful and poetic plots second maybe only to Kazan's "A Streetcar Named Desire" or "The Great Gatsby". Hare managed to recreate so exquisitely the Woolf's universe, full of ordinary characters, though all perfectionist in their triviality. This led to the creation of a very real picture of humanity in a never-changing time.

The main reason, though, why this picture is to remain a classic in the cinema history is the flawless female performances. If "Mrs. Dalloway" represented the step from a good to a great writer for Woolf, then "The Hours" is the membership ticket into the all-time top actresses league for Nicole Kidman, who manages to freeze motion with each gesture, to capture a mad universe in each look. Moore does her own share of work: pale, confused, loving and hating, she gives life to a character that looks so dead while staying alive. And then Streep comes with a metallic hysteria, with a depressing reality every time she defends the beauty of each wasted hour. Miranda Richardson, Toni Collette, Allison Janney, all leave memorable performances behind.

"The Hours" has left very little room for criticism. The one thing is that it may trigger a number of yawns in case one misjudges it for an appetiser of a long night out.