Film Review: STARSHIP TROOPERS (1997, Paul Verhoeven)

Stars: 4.2 of 5.

Running Time: 129 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Casper van Dien (SLEEPY HOLLOW, BEVERLY HILLS 90210), Denise Richards (TAMMY AND THE T-REX, MELROSE PLACE), Michael Ironside (TOTAL RECALL, EXTREME PREJUDICE), Neil Patrick Harris (PURPLE PEOPLE EATER, DOOGIE HOWSER M.D.), Dina Meyer (BATS, BEVERLY HILLS 90210), Clancy Brown (BLUE STEEL, HIGHLANDER), Jake Busey (THE FRIGHTENERS, IDENTITY), Rue McClanahan (THE GOLDEN GIRLS, MAUDE), Dean Norris (TOTAL RECALL, "Hank" from BREAKING BAD), Eric DaRe (CRITTERS 4, TWIN PEAKS). Music by Basil Poledouris (CONAN THE BARBARIAN, THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER). Edited by Mark Goldblatt (ENTER THE NINJA, THE TERMINATOR, PREDATOR 2) and Caroline Ross (BALLISTIC: ECKS VS. SEVER). Second unit directed by Vic Armstrong (legendary stuntman, best known for his work on the INDIANA JONES series). Cinematography by Jost Vacano (TOTAL RECALL, DAS BOOT). Special and makeup effects by Phil Tippett's (ILM creature legend of STAR WARS, WILLOW, and JURASSIC PARK) and Kevin Yagher's (creator of the Cryptkeeper, Chucky, and several iterations of Freddy Krueger) respective studios. Screenplay by Edward Neumeier (ROBOCOP, STARSHIP TROOPERS 2), based on the novel by Robert Heinlein (THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS, STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND).

Tagline: "They Came to Our Planet, they destroyed our cities, but on November 7th... they'll learn they messed with the wrong species."

Best one-liner: "Would you like to know more?"

Paul Verhoeven. From 1985's FLESH + BLOOD to 2000's HOLLOW MAN, he devoted his craft on this side of the Atlantic to making "the movies that America deserves." Even his slightly-less-than-successful efforts (SHOWGIRLS, HOLLOW MAN) are gleefully misanthropic and extraordinarily audacious, and his finest hours (ROBOCOP, TOTAL RECALL) represent a kind of pure cinematic experience of the American id– filtered through television, ultra-violence, and historical memory– gone horrifyingly, entertainingly, and compellingly hog-wild. His American works are subversive, convention-shattering art films packaged as mainstream, brainless, beer can-crushin' barn-burners. And they function beautifully as both.

Anyway, this leads me to STARSHIP TROOPERS. I've read the Heinlein novel on which it's based, and it's a fine bit of military science-fiction, full of ideas– some sensible, some fascinating, and some repugnant. I say this as a Heinlein fan (THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS is one of my favorite science-fiction novels of all time), but STARSHIP TROOPERS occasionally veers into territory that's sanctimoniously reductive, almost past the point of Fascism. I prefer my science-fiction meditations on war to be a little more complex (try Joe Haldeman's THE FOREVER WAR or Vonnegut's SLAUGHTER-HOUSE FIVE or THE SIRENS OF TITAN), but I can certainly admit that there is a time and a place for dopey, no-frills, jingoistic thrills (Mickey Spillane, Chuck Norris, Charles Bronson, et al.), and this is where Mr. Verhoeven comes in.

Now, a lot of people think that Verhoeven did a poor job because he A. Does not follow the novel to the letter, B. Didn't even finish reading the novel, C. Packed his film with hilarious quantities of 90210 and MELROSE PLACE alumni, and D. Actively mocks the material; but in a way it makes it even more perfect, like if Mike Judge were to do a 'serious' adaptation of Ayn Rand's ATLAS SHRUGGED starring Beavis and Butthead. Verhoeven tackles the material with élan, pretending this film was financed by a future hybrid of Fox News, Josef Goebbles, and the Internet (a roaming mouse cursor continually taunts us with the Information Age-refrain, 'Would you like to know more?'), and the end result is the sort of film that would win ALL the Oscars in its futuristic, imaginary Pan-Fascist Earth.

Modeled almost exactly after World War II propaganda films (Axis and Allied alike) that were intended to strong-arm audiences into joining up and seeking glory in death, STARSHIP TROOPERS added yet another dimension to its commentary when large swaths of contemporary audiences bought Verhoeven's feature-length practical joke, hook, line, and sinker. I've even read evidence that Space Marine movies like ALIENS and STARSHIP TROOPERS generate short-lived spikes in actual American enlistment statistics! I mean, there's a reason that the novel is on the reading list of three out of five branches of the U.S. Armed Forces.

I personally remember having friends (I was in Middle School when this was released) who cheered the Space Nazis like mad apes and thirsted to turn 18 and spill theoretical bug-blood themselves, missing entirely the fact that

Verhoeven makes them look exactly like Nazis (note Gestapo-Doogie Howser above and Mengele-makeover ex-Golden Girl Rue McClanahan below),

he illustrates the distorting nature of propaganda to whip the weak-minded into a jingoistic frenzy,


Humans 1, Bugs 0!!! We did it! U.S.A! U.S.A.!

he makes a complete mockery of indoctrinating the impressionable,


and, (spoiler alert– but that's not really going to impact your appreciation of STARSHIP TROOPERS) he ends the whole goopy affair with the capture of a giant, quivering, vaginal insect brain,

whereupon Gestapo Doogie Howser delightedly announces that "it's afraid,"

which causes the surrounding legions of Astro-Fascist troops to erupt into a bloodthirsty roar of whooping and applause,

which leads directly to said quivering-afraid-giant-space-vagina being metaphorically and literally penetrated by enthusiastic, claw-wielding xenophobic maniacs.


Why yes, kiddies, you're right– the message to be taken away from all of this is... Where do I sign up? Sweet Lord in heaven, have we all lost our minds? Verhoeven's answer is, obviously: YES.
Decades from now, I believe that future film scholars will ask the question, "How in the hell was this allowed to be made?," and somewhere, Verhoeven will be smiling.

So now that I've tried to sort out some of the socio-political ramifications, let's move on to the important issues at hand. Issues like Michael Ironside.

Michael who?, you say. Sean, you haven't done a dad-blammed Ironside review for one entire year, to the day. And I am sorry about that. Truly. Only Ironside can forgive me. But somethin' tells me he might. For starters:

IRONSIDE IS YOUR TEACHER, AND HE IS MISSING A LIMB (AS ALWAYS)


IRONSIDE IS CHAPERONING YOUR SENIOR PROM


IRONSIDE IS GETTING TURNED ON BY MAN-ON-BUG VIOLENCE


IRONSIDE IS HOSTING A KEGGER ON PLANET P



AND YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN– THAT'S AN ORDER


IRONSIDE IS BIG ON WORKPLACE ACCOUNTABILITY


BUT HE WILL ALSO ALLOT YOU TEN EXTRA MINUTES FOR TENT-BONIN'




In short, Ironside is holding this movie together. Maybe I should take it all back– all this talk about Fascism and total war and the moral high ground and distortive propaganda... cause hell, I'd probably join this army if it meant being able to party with Michael Ironside. Also, the "Have fun– that's an order!" command combined with the "You don't do your job, I'll shoot you" line begs the question– would Ironside execute you for not having enough fun at his kegger? And what kind of beer is he serving? Could it be... LABATT MAXIMUM ICE?

Regardless, there's a reason Ironside gets typecast as "the ultimate hardass." See, Verhoeven perfectly casts his WB/CW/primetime soap opera beefcake/cheesecake all-stars as the newbies, but he needed to create an old guard of hardened men and women to make the universe believable. And, speaking of actors best known for testosterone-fests from the 80's, Ironside gets a little help from EXTREME PREJUDICE buddy and The Kurgan himself– Clancy Brown.

Brown plays Sergeant Zim, a steely, uncompromising drill instructor, who's perhaps the most colorful character from the original book. Brown does the role justice, with R. Lee Ermey-style panache.

Brown gets a little help from TOTAL RECALL alum Dean Norris as well, whom I've become quite the fan of since I began watching BREAKING BAD.


Also, I forgot to mention it earlier, but one of the new boot-cadets is played by Jake Busey, who's inherited not only his father's crazy streak and ginormous teeth

but also his propensity for impromptu fiddle-playing.

Also, he convinces everyone to get matching tattoos

while wearing Nazi Blackshirt-style suspenders, which is still only the 1,347th-most crazy thing a Busey has ever convinced a group of his peers to do.

In any event, STARSHIP TROOPERS has only improved with age. It's a platform for guys like Michael Ironside and Clancy Brown to do what they do best, while at the same time remaining jaw-droppingly and spit-takingly subversive. And even though it has a fair amount of shudder-worthy CGI (mostly in long-shot), it was still one of the last big-budget future epics to use loads of miniatures, matte-paintings, and plenty of gooey puppets– courtesy of the legendary studios of Kevin Yagher and Phil Tippett. I'll give it a little better than four stars.

-Sean Gill

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Junta Juleil's Top 100: #75-71

75. HANA-BI (1997, Takeshi Kitano)

Takeshi Kitano– one of the great, unsung heroes of contemporary filmmaking. Comedian, actor, novelist, director, painter, poet, singer, tap dancer, game show host– you name it, and he's done it. Do yourself a favor and read about his occasionally bizarre, occasionally incredible life story, which encompasses strip club stand-up comedy, a burgeoning art career, hitting rock bottom, a suicide attempt, rebirth, and a new Kitano renaissance. It's difficult for me to pick a favorite Kitano– amongst the films he's directed, there's SONATINE, VIOLENT COP, ZATOICHI, KIKUJIRO, and BROTHER; amongst the film's he's appeared in there's BATTLE ROYALE, GOHATTO, MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE, and JOHNNY MNEMON– er, forget I said that last one. Anyway, HANA-BI (FIREWORKS) is presently my favorite. Kitano took up painting in a big way after his suicide attempt, and he often credits it as a factor in his rehabilitation and recovery. As such, painting is a central motif to HANA-BI, and there's a grand stillness in this film; somehow Kitano makes the act of soaking in a painting a kinetic, cinematic act. But it's not all tranquil musings on our own impermanence, it's also cool, calm, collected nihilism punctuated with sporadic, impromptu thunderheads of violence which would make Joe Pesci blush. In short, it's essential cinema.

74. DAZED AND CONFUSED (1993, Richard Linklater)

While it might be heresy to rank this film higher than its inspiration, AMERICAN GRAFFITI, it's so much damned fun, I can't help it. Talk about a movie with a high rewatchability factor– I can watch this film anytime, anyplace. But probably the best time is late spring or early summer, so you can duplicate, even vicariously (especially vicariously!), that ecstatic feeling of 'SCHOOL'S OUT FOR MUTHAFUCKING SUMMER!' The feeling of an endless (well, it sorta felt like it at the time), boundless vacation as you're jamming spiral-bound notebooks into the trash and purging the piles of lead-scuffed busywork from your locker– it's the ultimate cleansing, a feng shui of the soul! Linklater unravels his tale with the ensemble-cast storytelling acumen of a Renoir or an Altman, portraying a rogues' gallery of middle and high school types with playful honesty and complete sincerity. Nicky "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!" Katt's raging asshole townie; Parker Posey's shrill, hazing harpy; Wiley Wiggins' newly-minted high schooler with a penchant for nose-touching; the trio of lovable proto-intellectuals (Adam Goldberg, Anthony Rapp, & Marissa Ribisi); Matthew "it'd be a lot cooler if you did" McConaughey; a paint-bedaubed Ben Affleck (which is the proper state for an Affleck)...I could go on. Pass the Lone Star.

73. PHENOMENA (1985, Dario Argento)

There's not too much to say that I haven't said already, so I'll say it again:
"Jennifer Connelly plays a girl named Jennifer who can telepathically communicate with insects in this Dario Argento masterpiece. The atmosphere is exquisite- dreamlike, comforting, dangerous. Something about his use of the Swiss Alps, the rustling pine trees, the ominous mountain winds, and the over-the-top gore... it's a throwback to the original R-rated storybooks: brutal folklore like the Brothers Grimm. I love this movie. I love the fact that there is one line of narration in the entire film, spoken about twenty minutes in. I love that in that one line of narration, they mispronounce the name 'Richard Wagner.' I love that there is a chimp with a straight razor (in homage to Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"). Between this and SUSPIRIA, it is clear that Dario Argento loves maggots, retching, girls' boarding schools, brutal murders, and the volatile combination of all four. I love that he loves that. I love that there's not only ladybug POV, sleepwalking POV, murderer POV, and Great Sarcophagus POV, but there's also MAGGOT POV. I love that the supernatural is represented by fan-blown hair. I love that the ending somehow manages to be as abrupt AND more ridiculous than the screamfest at the end of TENEBRE. I love the inappropriate use of heavy metal, the baroque visuals, the viscerality, the Bee Gees & Richard Gere references, the charming and sympathetic Donald Pleasence (in spite of Argento dialogue), the evocative soundtrack, the bitchy teachers straight out of SUSPIRIA...in fact, there's nothin' NOT to love here. The only way it could be more ridiculously perfect would be if she made out with the chimp." Amen, Dario. Amen.

72. FLESH + BLOOD (1985, Paul Verhoeven)

Another sort of rehash here:
"I'll begin with two quotes by Paul Verhoeven which seem apropos to this film: "People love seeing violence and horrible things. The human being is bad and he can't stand more than five minutes of happiness. Put him in a dark theater and ask him to look at two hours of happiness and he'd walk out or fall asleep." and "Remember that Christianity is a religion grounded in one of the most violent acts of murder, the crucifixion. Otherwise, religion wouldn't have had any kind of impact."
A lot of people like to pin down Paul Verhoeven as 'the guy who did SHOWGIRLS,' and while he cannot erase the fact that he is indeed guilty of being the guy who did SHOWGIRLS, he's one of the most audacious filmmakers to emerge from post-WWII Europe. FLESH + BLOOD is Machiavellian power games, feculent whores, stillborn children, nun snipers, yellowed teeth, and dogs lapping up pools of diseased gore. This movie is absolutely BRUTAL. Every single character looks out for number one, and here, 'looking out for number one' means ripping an earring (and a chunk of flesh) from a woman as she's being raped or using 'God's word' when it's to your liking (Verhoeven has called organized religion a symptom of societal schizophrenia). Any time there's a moment for levity or genuine romance, it's immediately undercut by something like the rotting genitals or random carrion. It’s not exactly a historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare and the Black Death, and it doesn't quite take place in the 14th Century... sixty years ago it took place on the battlefields of Europe. Verhoeven was just a kid then, but he was there. As we speak, it's being waged by talking heads on TV, by hypocrites behind closed doors, and by vicious opportunists from here to the far corners of the world. Where an exploitation flick would insert a rape scene so the viewer could feel 'morally superior' as they enjoyed some T&A, Verhoeven stages sexual assault as a grotesque vortex of ever-shifting power dynamics between man, woman, and the collective. The performances are outstanding: Susan Tyrrell was born to do the Dark Ages- she enters the scene as a bawdy, pregnant, perpetually wasted whore whose life is a series of the highest, barbaric highs and the lowest, 'WHY ME?' lows; Brion James is pure animal, ruthless but bewildered; Ronald Lacey is the sinister Cardinal- malicious, but sincere (not that it matters when he's got his sword in your guts); Jack Thompson is the beleaguered hunter, embodying an almost Peckinpah-style morality (think Robert Ryan in THE WILD BUNCH); and Tom Burlinson is the man of science, but his singlemindedness gives way to a sanctimonious depravity. Rutger Hauer simmers and scowls- a calculating, towheaded, serpentine fiend, rapist, and murderer who might be the closest thing we've got to a 'hero.' Jennifer Jason Leigh- in possibly her finest performance- is a privileged, maid-beating blueblood who attends the condottiere's ‘school of hard knocks’ and emerges as perhaps the most complex and guileful of the bunch." It's nihilistic entertainment at its best, and my favorite Vehoeven (today, anyway).

71. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939, Frank Capra)

A film which seems to grow in relevance with each passing year. Politicians love to reference this film in attempts to inflate their perceived "inner-patriotism" and vaunted "outsider" status, yet if there was indeed a real life Mr. Smith, soon after the events depicted in this film he'd probably be killed in a Cessna crash that'd be deemed "completely accidental." Oh, and by the way, it was written by a socialist who refused to name names to HUAC and got blacklisted for it (Sidney Buchman). Jimmy Stewart is absolutely brilliant as the callow, unsophisticated vacancy-filler with truthful eyes and hay behind his ears, and his journey perfectly illustrates how the powers that be have hijacked patriotism and hammered it into submission, recreating its twisted form in the new normals of jingoism, belligerence, graft, and corruption. Shouldn't we trust in humanism instead of the oligarchs' smear factory? Ah, well– I guess we're just doomed to repeat history, whether we can remember it or not.

Coming up next... silent film, Gary Busey, and what some have called "the most-hated film in the Criterion Collection besides ARMAGEDDON!"

Previously on the countdown:
#80-76
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

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Junta Juleil's Top 100: #85-81

85. INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE (1989, Steven Spielberg)

I really need to do a full-fledged review of this one of these days. Following two installments chock full of visual and choreographic mastery, Spielberg, Jeffrey Boam, and script doctor Tom Stoppard add something which would be inconceivable in a Republic serial: emotional resonance. The relationship between the Joneses (Ford and Connery as Jr. and Sr., that is) is a flawless synthesis of actor and role. This, of course, is steadily peppered with exquisite action sequences and visual gags- as if THE GREAT ESCAPE and THE GENERAL could somehow cohabitate on the same reel. This sort of film could easily fall flat, but under Spielberg's firm, unwavering hand, there's not a single note which rings false. There's so much to love here: the incredibly clever prologue (starring a vibrant River Phoenix) where it seems that every single event which molded Indy's life occurred on one summer's day in 1912, Indy's 20th Century motorcycle-jousting knight (and his father's phlegmatic reaction), the incredible stuntman's leap from galloping horse to hurtling tank, the breathless speedboat pursuit through labyrinthine canals, Connery and Elliott's silly secret handshake, the dour librarian with the world's noisiest stamp (in a touch worthy of Tati), or Connery slapped by a Nazi's leather glove and fiercely growling in retort- "It tellsh me that goose-schtepping morons such as yerschelf schould try RRREADING BOOKCHS inschtead of BAURNING THEM!" All of this is accompanied by John Williams' greatest score; and the payoffs- involving the three challenges and the reveal of the grail- have left an entire generation of adventure films stumbling and teetering in their wake.

84. CHARLEY VARRICK (1973, Don Siegel)

This movie has a finale which involves a '67 Chrysler Imperial versus a biplane. And no, that's not the only reason it cracked the Top 100. As I've said before, CHARLEY VARRICK is one of the best gritty, 70's, take-no-prisoners crime films populated with brutal, pistol-whippin', lady-slappin sons-of-bitchery. This movie isn't just cynical, it's amoral. Cutthroat. A lot of these flicks are like a punch in the guts– CHARLEY's a kick in the teeth! You could call it a series of clichés– it's "every-man-for-himself," "dog-eat-dog-eat-dog," "lookin'-out-for-numero-uno" etc., but Siegel takes it over the top to such a degree that we see (between the setpieces and the tough talk) the crumbling social structure, an America where calculated ruthlessness is a matter of survival, the ice-cold blood flowing through your veins a necessity. Walter Matthau is brilliantly inscrutable as our anti-anti-hero (usually the cop-killer is not the most pleasant character in a film). And Joe Don Baker's sadistic "Molly" is one of the great screen villains. Highest marks.

83. PARIS, TEXAS (1984, Wim Wenders)

A work of tenderness, of mystery, of reassurance. Robby Müller shows us the vastness of the desert landscape; Harry Dean Stanton shows us the vastness of the human soul. The pacing may be slow, but it's the sort of film in which you can lose yourself, just as you would while traveling by foot through a wild expanse. Wenders has always been deliberate; fascinated by nostalgia, sentiment, music; the ways in which we try to find order, meaning, and respite in our lives. Harry Dean Stanton, Dean Stockwell, and Nastassja Kinski deliver moving, realistic portrayals; you get a sense of the spaces they inhabit, and those boundless spaces within their characters' minds. It's a movie through which you can roam, and maybe the epitome of Americana as represented on film (naturally, directed by a German).

82. CRASH (1996, David Cronenberg)

"They bury the dead so quickly; they should leave them lying around for months." I've written before that "the car itself is a conceptual hotbed of primordial fears and visceral desires: the stifling, claustrophobic space; constrictive belts and cold metal clasps; exhilarating accelerations and jolting stops– it's even the site of many a Baby Boomers' first sexual fumblings... and, oh yeah– the ever-present threat of death and shattered glass and crumpled metal and blood and fluid and bodies penetrated, torn, and ripped by the thundering collision of jagged steel and spongy tissue. We are surrounded by machines: they are part of us, and there is no escape. So we adapt, we integrate, we re-form ourselves like the maladjusted flesh sculptors we are. Howard Shore's dark, entrancing score sends metallic echoes and screeching guitar reverberations up from the pit of our deepest fears– it's as relentless and hypnotic as a highway cloverleaf. It taps into some primal fascination we don't quite have the vocabulary for– from watching bacteria mingle under a slide to pornography to, say, KOYAANISQATSI." Many great artists and writers wring truth from tracking the progress of the human mind; Cronenberg forces us to confront the progress of the body. It's ugly yet sterile, like a hideous medical tattoo. The performances are magnificent: the intensity of Elias Koteas, the smarm of James Spader, the commitment of Holly Hunter, or the gleefully misshapen Rosanna Arquette. And rarely is such a disturbing film so goddamned hilarious. Enjoy that car ride home, kiddies!

81. TOTAL RECALL (1990, Paul Verhoeven)

"If I am not me, den who da hell am I?" Now that is a fine question, sir, and perhaps the most eloquent philosophical inquiry posed to humanity since the days of Voltaire; maybe even since Montaigne. But maybe, just maybe, TOTAL RECALL is the future of human thought. Post-thought. "I've got to hand it to you, Cohagen – that's the best mindfuck yet." See what I mean? Short-attention-span philosophy with a satisfying payoff: the mindfuck. We don't have to fritter away hours flipping through the vellum of dusty tomes: that time is over. It had it's couple centuries in the sun, but now it can go the way of the Dodo. How 'bout instead– er, what was I talking about? I got over here some salacious photographs and a bunch of puns about Weiners. Er, wait– this is loosely based on a story by Philip K. Dick! How 'bout some Dick puns? How 'bout that instead?
This is what Paul Verhoeven means when he says he makes the movies that America deserves. TOTAL RECALL is completely fucken ridiculous, and meant to be enjoyed on many levels– as a latter-day Hitchcock sci-fi suspense thriller, as a quasi-Philip K. Dickian paranoid tract, as a joke on what passes for entertainment these silly days. I mean, he introduces a character, Benny, over and over and over again, just in case we've forgotten, in case we've been distracted by all the Martian mutants and gunplay and midget hookers. "Hey, it's Benny, remember me? Remember me?! IT'S BENNY!" Ah, a goddamned fun time if ever there was one. Also: Michael Ironside, in one of his finest, most startling performances; insane eye-bulging and rubbery Arnie faces; a sweeping Jerry Goldsmith score; and some of the most incredible special effects ever committed to celluloid. And, of course, I wrote this short story about what really happened behind the scenes. Pass the Labatt Maximum Ice!

Coming up next... Harvey Keitel gets naked– TWICE!

Previously on the countdown:
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

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The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 1

Ah, so many films and so few spaces on the Top 100. Naturally, there had to be some spill-over.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

"Reality isn't what it used to be." A Lovecraftian ode sung, naturally, toward the abyss, it's Carpy's last (thus far!) unadulterated, undeniably "Great" film with a capital G. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS prints the fall of man upon celluloid, shows it to our protagonist- shows it to us- and together we cackle in the darkness, senselessly, because there's nothing else we can do. Previously reviewed HERE.

BABY DOLL (1956, Elia Kazan)

Kazan can wring more forbidden sexuality from the subtle rocking of a porch swing than all the R-Rated movies ever made, put together. A Southern Gothic chamber piece like no other, it develops into a tête-à-tête-à-tête between long suffering perv Karl Malden, the creepily childish Carrol Baker, and the inimitable Eli Wallach, and it's no exaggeration to call it a blazing tour de force and perhaps the most vigorous, deranged examination of American repression ever made. It's a bottle of cheap champagne on a hundred-degree day, only someone's been shakin' it up for twenty years, and you have to open it without spilling a drop– good luck!

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965, Sergio Leone)

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE is not, in fact, Leone's greatest achievement, but it's probably his most fun. In fact, perhaps one could go out on a limb and say that it's one of the first "buddy movies;" or at least the first "spaghetti western buddy movie," but even if that's true, it's a more-than-occasionally dark one. From a raging, hunchbacked Klaus Kinski to Lee Van Cleef's flinty, hawk-nosed countenance to Gian Maria Volante's wildly hallucinating madman to Clint's cigarillo-chomping roughneck with no name, one might call this film a meditation upon faces. Faces and guns. And it's all tied together by Morricone's sweeping score, which pendulates between primal grunts from the pit and overpowering Bach organ fugues!

BLACK BOOK (2006, Paul Verhoeven)

After a few explorations of hollow men, CGI bugs, robot cops, showgirls, ice-pick murderers, and the like, Verhoeven returns to where he began– visceral, dark, Dutch art film. Verhoeven usually takes the dim view of mankind, and here he quite effortlessly develops his hypothesis that we exist in a state of neverending war; it's just that big men with small ideas are always submitting these arbitrary labels, like "1914-1918," or "1939-1945," and to tell you the truth, Verhoeven doesn't know quite what those are supposed to mean...

DIRTY HARRY (1971, Don Siegel)

I said before that DIRTY HARRY is "a complex dissection of the 'man of values' in a world that has none, with our hero gradually realizing that his supposed values systems are in fact shadowy and undefined, and aww, who the hell cares anymore, let's shoot some people." Sure, it's sorta fascist. Sure, it stacks the deck, unimaginably. Sure, it has laughable depictions of hippies. But dig that groovy Lalo Schifrin score! Check out that classic a-hole authority figure, John Vernon! Behold the simpering, insane majesty of psycho-killer Andy Robinson! See Clint Eastwood's noon-day hot-dog interrupted by the magnum-blasting of goons! You know, just another Don Siegel masterpiece.

CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

As I have written before in these hallowed pages, I would like to invest in a bumper sticker which says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW." Now I could say that this film flirts with the Top 100 entirely by virtue of "Ed Harris disco dance mania," but it's really because Romero lovingly recreates the morbid fantasias of childhood, the sensation of reading a book beneath the covers with a flashlight; the impressionability of youth, whereupon a dark and stormy night can inspire a sense of unrestrained, gleeful dread... Also: Tom Atkins.

EATING RAOUL (1982, Paul Bartel)

"I'm the host here, goddammit, now get out of your clothes and get into the hot tub, or get out! We don't want any wet blankets or spoilsports at this party...we're here to SWING!" "-Yeah, well, swing on THIS!" EATING RAOUL is probably Paul Bartel's (DEATH RACE 2000, SCENES FROM THE CLASS STRUGGLE IN BEVERLY HILLS) greatest, loopiest trashterpiece, and it's one that pushes the envelope considerably. Comedy this quirky can be a slippery slope, but Bartel and Mary Woronov, who were quite obviously born to work together (as our 80's cult Hepburn and Tracy), soon brush aside our fears with an impossibly perfect combination of slapstick, refinement, and obscenity.

MILDRED PIERCE (1945, Michael Curtiz)

"That Ted Forrester's nice-looking, isn't he? Veda likes him." –"Who wouldn't? He has a million dollars." Film noir, melodrama, woman's weepie, whatever the fuck you want to call it, MILDRED PIERCE (based on the novel by James M. Cain) is goddamned fantastic. Joan Crawford, as a hard-workin' small businesswoman who can't seem to catch a break exudes genuine frustration, pathos, and the weight of life's disappointments...she's at the height of her shoulder-padded powers. I don't wish to reveal much of the plot, but Ann Blyth's spectacular, spiteful portrayal of Mildred's money-hungry daughter, Veda, has got to be one of the most hate-able screen villains of all-time.

STAR WARS (1977, George Lucas)

One of the most enjoyable adventure movies ever made. Continuous revisions, CGI shitstorms, and seemingly endless, doltish pop culture quotings cannot dampen the effect of the Star Destroyer thundering overhead, the menagerie of rubbery buddies at the intergalactic dive bar, Harrison Ford's lopsided grin, Alec Guinness' soothing self-assurance, Carrie Fisher's privileged but gutsy revolutionary, the cathartic roar of the angry Wookiee, the sad bleeps and bloops of a forlorn R2-D2. The attention to detail in the starship models; the sprawling, ramshackle sets and rundown futuristic equipment; the imaginative aliens and innovative special effects; the nods to Kurosawa, Curtiz, and Hawks; the childish wonder and excitement... ah, the heart swells! (But goddamn, what a pity the way things have turned out...)

JFK (1991, Oliver Stone)

Whether or not you agree with Stone's politics, or all, or none, or 10% of the conspiracy theories contained within the hefty treatise that is JFK, you must admit that it is something of a piece de resistance in terms of the fusion of editing, music, narration, and camerawork. At times it feels as if you are situated upon the tail leader of the Zapruder film; it's already been projected, and you're whirling around in the darkness afterward, confused, spooked, disoriented... A monument should be built to Joe Pesci's eyebrows in this film. And Tommy Lee Jones' mysterious, frightening portrayal of Clay Shaw just might be his finest work. Also: Gary Oldman, gay Kevin Bacon, Jack Lemmon, and Donald Sutherland... as "X!"

HOUSE (1977, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Though it pains me to say that HOUSE does not quite pack the same punch the second time around, nothing can compare to the feelings of sheer shock, confusion, elation, and general bogglement that HOUSE instills in the first-time viewer. As I've written, "To avoid comparing it to other films, I would simply describe the HOUSE experience as akin to being trapped inside a kaleidoscope as a cackling madman rams and twirls and flips and submerges it with reckless abandon as upbeat music and ludicrous sound effects ricochet here and there and everywhere, dueling one another for dominance." Theoretically, I feel as if I've often thought that there were "no rules" in cinema, but only after seeing HOUSE did I realize that such a seemingly meaningless conceit could actually, successfully be put into practice!

TRUST (1990, Hal Hartley)

Hal Hartley's a personal American indie film hero of mine, and it was difficult to decide whether TRUST, SIMPLE MEN, AMATEUR, or HENRY FOOL belonged on this list. I settled on TRUST, a film I've described as "REBEL WITHOUT AN APARTMENT." It's a stirring, contemplative, and frequently deadpan hilarious tract; suburban malaise in a world on the verge of... something.

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