Presenting, in alphabetical order, my Top Ten Films of 1991, with apologies to: At Play in the Fields of the Lord, Beauty and the Beast, Boyz n the Hood, My Girl, Soapdish (#11), Terminator 2: Judgment Day (#12), Until the End of the World (#13), and Vegas in Space.
The Ballad of the Sad Café
dir: Simon Callow
pr: Ismail Merchant
scr: Michael Hirst, from the novel by Carson McCullers and the play by Edward Allbee
cin: Walter Lassally
It has all the pleasures of reading, not just because of the language (the dialogue, except for that of Lymon, is sparse), but because it so envelops you in its setting. Those dusty workclothes, the clapboard houses, the colorful and maintained Sunday best; the stillness of the water allowing for each ripple to make that subtle swoop sound, the crickets and cicadas singing as the sun goes down, the hiss of the gas lamp; the accents. Few things need explaining - save one extended flashback - because everyone already knows each other's business, it's up to us to give ourselves over to the film and observe. And feel. And, hopefully, understand. It addresses gender expression and the power dynamics of a patriarchal society, the envy and destruction of an independent woman, without outright saying all of it, but...you get it.
Barton Fink
dir: Joel Coen
pr: Ethan Coen
scr: Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
cin: Roger Deakins
Writing is not cinematic, but in the Coens' hands, writer's block is. What could take advantage of the medium more than hyperfocusing on the slow peeling of the wallpaper, resting on melting glue; the whine of the mosquito as you pursue each other about a small room; the distraction of every creak, cough, and cry? And for those who love dialogue, fill up with inspired monologues about artistic expression, the nobility of the working-class, constant yammering about what you're going to do, what you want your work to express, who you intend to represent. And all the while you run into people who love your work, respect your genius, adopt you as their mentee, all without ever reading a word of your own! If only some kind of act of God, or even act of Satan, could make it so you don't have to turn anything in at all...
Impromptu
dir: James Lapine
pr: Stuart Oken / Daniel A. Sherkow
scr: Sarah Kernochan
cin: Bruno de Keyzer
George Sand biopic focusing on a period when she was technically between relationships but actively pursuing Chopin. Behold the state of women among these liberal, libertine artistes: Emma Thompson’s accommodating patron is insulted, molested, waved away; Bernadette Peters, as the married aristocrat who left her husband to spend a life as Franz Liszt’s mistress, tries to assert herself but is also waved off. But Sand? Sand wears pants, openly advocates for women’s lib, spits at marriage, makes her private life public with the publication of her memoirs - and now she manages to shock society once again by donning gowns in her pursuit of Chopin, who requires a more delicate touch than she’s used to. A romantic-comedy about real people, with things to say about the artistic milieu of the Romantic era and the limitations of Sand’s own brand of feminine independence. One of the year’s surprises.
JFK
dir: Oliver Stone
pr: A. Kitman Ho / Oliver Stone
scr: Oliver Stone & Zachary Sklar, from the books On the Trail of the Assassins by Jim Garrison and Crossfire by Jim Marrs
cin: Robert Richardson
If you’ve read every post I’ve made about 1991, this won’t shock you, I’ve voted for it in every Oscar category I covered. If you’re a friend of mine in real life, you’ll be even less surprised, since you’ve heard me quote it often, maybe even watched my DVD copy or gone with me to see it the rare times it screens in actual movie theaters. What can I say, I love this movie, it’s a portrait of the degradation of the American Dream that nevertheless wears its love of the promise of that Dream proudly. Only a man who truly loves this country could make a film so bilious about its government.
Paris is Burning
dir/pr: Jennie Livingston
cin: Paul Gibson
Probably the only other 1991 flick I’ve watched as often as JFK. Obviously, it’s important to highlight the fact that trans people have always been here, as illustrated not just by the existence of this 36-year-old documentary released five years after principal photography, but by the presence of community elders; important, too, to see that while they live on the margins they are not suffering through an endless poverty porn montage, but rather laughing and celebrating and luxuriating in their truth. But honestly, too, I keep coming back because I’m having a good time with everyone. You can’t underrate the importance of having a good time in getting people on your side. The runway walks, the vogue-offs, the reads, the trophies, Dorian Corey: who could come out of this movie rejecting this community? Not me, I have a heart that beats.
Prospero's Books
dir: Peter Greenaway
pr: Kees Kasander
scr: Peter Greenaway, from the play The Tempest by William Shakespeare
cin: Sacha Vierny
A co-worker asked me, “What was the last movie that made you cry?” It was this! And on my two revisits, I find more places to burst into tears, so moved am I by the beauty, the confidence with which Greenaway adapts The tempest into an almost one-man show about a man who has read all the books and created a paradise where he lives among all of it - all the art and architecture and music and knowledge Man will ever accumulate, Prospero can and does summon, making for an ornate yet surprisingly empty kingdom whose dioramatic facade is exposed by young love. Artifice has never been so keenly rendered; forgiveness, too, feels more real and complex here than in most other films. A unique cinematic achievement.
Scenes from a Mall
dir/pr: Paul Mazursky
scr: Roger L. Simon & Paul Mazursky
cin: Fred Murphy
It’s funny how one can be nostalgic for a time when a movie like this could be made. In setting a tale of marital ups and downs within a single trip to the mall, Mazursky captures a specific era of American culture with equal awe and horror. The mall really did have it all: you could get the catering for your anniversary party, buy a new outfit, go the movies, read a book, get drunk on margaritas, go to the salon, and do it all while surrounded by all of mankind, tourists and families and entertainers and divorcing couples, all without leaving the premises! A whole week, a whole life, lived in a single day, as long as you spend, spend, spend! Very funny movie.
The Silence of the Lambs
dir: Jonathan Demme
pr: Ron Bozman / Edward Saxon / Kenneth Utt
scr: Ted Tally
cin: Tak Fujimoto
You’d be crazy not to consider this among the best of the year. Yes, crazy! Demme’s empathy as a filmmaker serves him well here: your throat tightens as you watch Buffalo Bill’s latest victim search for a way out of the pit, not a lay-on-the-floor hopeless victim, though somehow the active fighting makes it worse; but, too, you feel a similar sense of danger whenever Clarice is alone with any man, even her colleagues, the way they look at her is not professional, their eyes expressing the same intentions that Migs throws in her face. It’s no mere horror show Demme puts on - though he does that, too, and extremely effectively, culminating in a Grand Guignol climax overseen by America’s most famous cannibal.
Thelma & Louise
dir: Ridley Scott
pr: Mimi Polk Gitlin / Ridley Scott
scr: Callie Khouri
cin: Adrian Biddle
One of my favorite new-to-me films I’ve watched all year. Everyone - including Ridley Scott, by the way, maybe even Hans Zimmer, in a way - is delivering their best work. Is it the feminist, male-hating tract many debated it was? Feminist, yes, it’s actually concerned with the inner lives and outer expressions of desire and defiance of women; male-hating, no, but it’s great at depicting how women get into cycles of bad men and how they break those cycles. That final shot is triumphant, breathtaking, even when you know it’s coming.
Whore
dir: Ken Russell
pr: Dan Ireland / Ronaldo Vasconcellos
scr: Ken Russell / Deborah Dalton, from the play Bondage by David Hines
cin: Amir M. Mokri
About as down-to-earth as Ken Russell gets. Yet another film that looks at the choices women are offered in life decides to understand and empathize rather than judge. Theresa Russell’s performance is crass and frustrating, then warm and heartbreaking and, sometimes, even relatable. Sex work is a customer service job is a performance: you hate clocking in but you fake it so you can make it through another day, and you take pride in the days that succeed because of your talents, specifically. No fairy tale ending (though still a jaw-dropping unlikely one), no prince coming to the rescue, just another day lived and more bullshit to look forward to the next. I found it strangely life-affirming! She keeps on, we keep on!
And next time, my Retro Hollmann Awards of 1991, where I officially pick my best of the best of that year.
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