Properly Screened

  Seeing this seminal piece of science fiction in a theater, especially with booming Dolby Atmos sound on a pristine 70mm print, is nothing like streaming it at home. And I don't care how good your home theater is. I had forgotten that the film begins with an overture. About three minutes of atmospheric music plays over a black screen before any images appear. As the lights dim and the curtains remain closed, the music feels ceremonial and unnerving. At home, it’s easy to overlook. But in the theater, it signals that the audience is entering something. Then the first thunderous blast of Strauss’s “Also sprach Zarathustra” hits. The brass and timpani explode as the sun rises over the earth and moon and the title of the film appears. It’s not background music. It’s an announcement. Strauss's “The Blue Danube”  turns a jump cut from bone tossed into the air to spacecraft floating in the galaxy into one of the most famous edits in film history. The docking sequence turns into a ...

After the show, I immediately texted a friend, “That film was pointless and deranged.” Apparently, I wasn’t alone in finding it morally repugnant. When A Clockwork Orange (1971) was first released, it was met with fierce criticism for what many saw as its social irresponsibility and glamorization of sexual violence. In the UK, reports of copycat crimes intensified the backlash, and the controversy ultimately led Kubrick to withdraw the film from British cinemas for decades. I spent most of the movie distracted and angry at the sense that Kubrick wanted us to feel sympathy for Alex, the sadistic teenage gang leader, whom he called “a victim of the modern age.” I understand the argument: Alex is a monster, but the state’s punishment and attempts to reform him are monstrous too. The problem is, I  just don’t agree. The moral equivalency felt forced. His sadism is so gleefully staged that when the government turns cruel, it doesn’t deepen the film. What unsettled me most was the way ...

  When I was introduced to Goodfellas (1990) in my early twenties, it felt like the epitome of frat boy cinema. The guys I knew could quote half the movie. They had the poster of Henry, Jimmy, and Tommy hanging in their bedrooms. They said, “funny how?” like it was charming. We all knew this guy. (Some of us even dated him.) But watching it now, with a little distance and a lot less tolerance for that energy, I can finally see it for what it is: Scorsese’s masterpiece, and maybe the greatest mob film ever made. But what I didn't know then is how much of Goodfellas ’ power comes from a woman behind the scenes: Scorsese’s longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker. The film's swagger isn’t just attitude, it’s craft. The snap of the jump cuts, the way scenes accelerate or suddenly slam to a halt, the propulsive chaos... that’s Schoonmaker shaping our experience moment to moment. She’s the reason the film feels intoxicating rather than indulgent, why the rise is euphoric and the fall is ...

  I tried to watch The Conversation (1974) twice on streaming, but fell asleep both times before the protagonist, played by Gene Hackman, even meets with Harrison Ford, his client's representative. At a friend's insistence, this was not a film to be missed. This was one of the most under appreciated films of all time, he said, by Francis Ford Coppola. It's set in San Francisco, he said. Analog technology has never been better captured in a movie, he said. Try it again, he said.  In spring 2025, after Hackman's passing, American Cinematheque hosted a tribute highlighting many of his most iconic performances, including his breakout role as a lonely wiretapper in The Conversation . And they were showing it at the Egyptian Theatre in Los Angeles, home of the world's first film premier. This was my opportunity to try again, but on the big screen. Hackman steals the show in a tense character study about the effect of spying on the spy. An analog sound hacker is convinced ...

If you go into this three-hour, 18th-century period drama expecting a gripping plot, you’ll be disappointed. This isn’t a film you watch to see what happens next; you watch it to look at it --- the compositions, the light, and, if I’m being honest, Ryan O’Neal, who does less acting than posing, but that turns out to be enough. I didn’t fully appreciate Barry Lyndon (1975) until I learned about the lengths Stanley Kubrick and cinematographer John Alcott went to make it appear entirely naturally lit. Kubrick looked to artists like Hogarth, Gainsborough, and the Dutch Masters to inform the masterful lighting design.  The candlelit scenes, like the card playing and gambling sequences, are the most famous example. Kubrick used Zeiss Plantar f/0.7 --- ultra-fast --- lenses originally developed for NASA to photograph the moon, and even then production had to create thousands of special candles with multiple wicks just to generate enough light. The effect is extraordinary. It’s perfecti...

If you can separate the art from the artist, this is a hell of a film. Woody Allen's first is often remembered for its jokes, style, and how credibly it portrays a relationship as it falls apart as a result of cultural incompatibility.  Alvy’s Jewishness is central to how he experiences the world. Annie, a gentile woman from Chippewa Falls, Ohio, comes from a distinctly different place. The movie constantly contrasts their formative experiences: Annie's "Norman Rockwell" childhood and presents from "Grammy" versus Alvy’s grandmother who "never gave gifts. She was too busy getting raped by Cossacks." The jokes land because they’re sharp, but also because they expose a real divide. Annie Hall (1977) is a film about the exhaustion of having to translate yourself to the person you love. Alvy’s narrates the failure of their relationship. Throughout the film, Annie grows --- artistically, emotionally, stylistically --- while Alvy largely remains the same...