The PG Cooper List Thread: Gamer Days

34. Rear Window (Alfred Hitchcock, 1954)



It probably isn't a coincidence that I really fell in love with Rear Window in University, as this is the sort of film academics love to jerk off to. "Oooo, isn't it self-reflexive! See how it comments on the nature of voyeurism and film spectatorship." I love these elements as much as the next guy, but what makes Rear Window a classic is simply how engrossing it is. Just like our trio of heroes, it's so easy to fall under the movie's spell, as the seemingly passive opening gives way to a tantalizing mystery. It's quite a bit of fun to play detective with the characters, but Hitchcock definitely raises the tension in the third act when our heroes are placed in harms way. The film also boasts an incredibly witty screenplay with some sharply defined characters. Also, much as a spoke disparagingly about the academics who faun over this film, I'd be lying if I suggested I was any better. The fact is I love unpacking this movie's meanings, with it's insights on gender dynamics and male weakness proving especially fascinating. Rear Window is an exemplar of what made Hitchcock such a phenomenal director of the classic studio system, not only for the way the work embodies so many of his core themes and tropes, but also for how effectively the film balances complex themes whilst still being a very entertaining piece of escapism.



33. Alien (Ridley Scott, 1979)



Alien is, among other things, the greatest piece of Lovecraftian horror ever put to cinema. The film is not a direct adaptation of any H.P. Lovecraft work, but it does draw on the same well to inspire fear. Lovecraft is all about the terror of a cosmic unknown. The creatures and their actions are horrifying enough, but the true thing which keeps us awake at night is the fact that we can't even comprehend what we've experienced. This is something Ridley Scott's original Alien accomplishes masterfully. We hardly know anything about the Alien who comes to prey on the crew of the Nostromo, with much of the film structured slowly learning new, more terrifying details of what this thing is and what it does. And yet, there's still so much we don't know about the creature, and the aids to the film's building sense of dread. H.R. Giger's design also helps to evoke of sexual fears in a subconscious way and the craft of the cast and crew really rise to the occasion. There are a lot of films where heroes are plagued by aliens or mutants, but few are as superbly crafted and horrific as Ridley Scott's peice of sci-fi horror.


32. The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980)



If any Kubrick film bridges the gap between art house cinema and mainstream thrills, it's The Shining. Horror fans who go in wanting a good ghost story will be treated to an amazing haunted house story, one where the spirits in question slowly prey on our heroes' insecurities and weakness in order to push them to horrific ends. This, of course, results in Jack Nicholson giving one of the most memorable performances in all of a horror and a truly terrifying third act. Meanwhile, Kubrick scholars can endlessly pontificate on the meanings of the work, with readings ranging from basic textual analysis (the film is a metaphor for domestic abuse), to the deeply subtextual (that the film is a metaphor for the genocide of Native Americans), to the plainly absurd (the film is Kubrick's confession for faking the moon landings). Really, I think what makes The Shining such a stunning piece of horror and thematic analysis comes from the same source. Put simply, there is a deep sense of mystery that pervades every frame of The Shining, and that makes the film impossible to shake.

Fuck off. Rear Window should be much higher.

Not as high as I am right now.

31. Sunset Boulevard (Billy Wilder, 1950)



You know how some couples have "their song"? Usually a love song, but a piece of music that is important in the romance's early days, always makes the person think of each other, and usually is a romantic song in and of itself? Well, my partner and I have this sort of affection for a film, and that film is Sunset Boulevard. We watched this together in the early weeks of our relationship and it struck a special cord with this for several reasons. The quality of the film, to be sure, the fact that it's a film about film, but the biggest reason of all is certainly the characters. Both of us are at the point where we project ourselves as Max and Norma and while that likely suggests all sorts of fucked up shit about our relationship, I can't deny the film's been a consistent source of joy. That sort of personal connection undeniably endears this movie to me in a fairly unique way, but even without such a history, Sunset Boulevard is a triumph. The film is the best hard look Hollywood ever took at itself, working as both a bitter farewell to the silent era as well as a brilliant study of what fame and celebrity does to a person. Norma Desmond has been a screen icon for almost 70 years now, and yet, her character and problems remain hyper relevant in an ever obsessed celebrity culture. Of course, Sunset Boulevard also strives more simply as an amazing piece of Noir storytelling, with brilliantly defined characters and an exquisite script from Billy Wilder. But of course, the main event is easily Gloria Swanson's turn as Norma Desmond, which is in the all-time list of greatest film performances.


30. The Bridge on the River Kwai (David Lean, 1957)



Francois Truffaut famously said that no film was ever truly anti-war because any effort to depict combat in cinema is inherently exciting and glorifying. I actually think about this quite, and I find it especially fascinating that one of the film's that most challenges this claim is a big-budget war epic made at the height of the Old Hollywood epics. David Lean is most famous for his grand epics, but his roots are in low-key character driven stories like Brief Encounter, and that deep introspective focus on character never left him. Indeed, while The Bridge on the River Kwai is certainly a big movie that ends on a badass explosion, it's really about the war of wills between two colonels, the hardened yet desperate Japanese Colonel Saito, and the enduring and reserved Lieutenant Colonel Nicholson. One of the great ironies of the film is that both men are actually quite similar and do come to a sort of mutual understanding and respect, yet nonetheless remain divided by inescapable national lines. Sessue Hayakawa and Alec Guinness both give tremendous performances and bring tremendous depth to their respective roles. And then of course, there's the film's iconic endings, which is one of the best looks at the futility of war ever made.

29. Magnolia (Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999)



In recent years, Paul Thomas Anderson has stated that, looking back, Magnolia is way too long and if he could go back and do it again he'd likely cut a lot out. That's a far cry from the days where Anderson claimed Magnolia is, for better or worse, the best film he'd ever make, but I do see where he's coming from. The film is certainly not perfect. It's a sprawling epic that is sometimes messy and imprecise, but I'd also argue that's actually what makes the film so powerful. Where Boogie Nights has a youth exuberance that borders on arrogance, Magnolia feels more like a young person with a lot on his mind and coming to realize their own skills in expressing these thoughts. The resulting is an epic meditation on life and death with an Altman-inspired cast of loners and misfits struggling to make a connection in L.A. The film boasts an impeccable cast of amazing performers, including Anderson regulars like Philip Seymour Hoffman, William H. Macy, and Julianne Moore, as well as a never better Tom Cruise, who draws on his greatest gifts as an actor and mines new emotional depths. The film is engrossing, draining, and yes, it's probably too long, but I woudln't have it any other way. Few movies hit me emotionally quite like Magnolia does.

SHHHHHHHHHHH! I'm following the noise of the hummingbird, man.

Lovecraft irritates me because of its incessant appearances in the board gaming hobby, for reasons that will be hard to explain exactly.

28. The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)



Though he had been acclaimed director for many years prior, it was in 1957 that Ingmar Bergman truly established himself on the world stage when he dropped two of his greatest masterpieces; The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, both meditations on the end of one's life. Wild Strawberries is also great, and features a fascinating turn from Swedish silent filmmaker Victor Sjostrom, but it's The Seventh Seal that has proved to be the more influential and iconic work. People who have never even heard of the movie are familiar with the imagery of a knight playing chess against death, and more generally, the black and white aesthetic of Gunnar Fischer's cinematography has more or less defined the de facto Golden Art house look. The film is indeed haunting and beautiful, with Death stalking Max Von Sydow's Antonius proving especially unshakeable. Beneath the film's supernatural elements though, The Seventh Seal is a brilliant consideration of death, with Antonius and his fellow travelers all embodying different ways of processing death. There is a hint of optimism in Antonius' actions, but ultimately, the character is never provided any comfort, with the film ending with an unsettling ambiguity. Of course, less I make the film sound entirely dour, there is an adventurous aspect to the characters' journey and there's also more humour than you might think. I'm always surprised on rewatches by just how funny The Seventh Seal is, and what this comedy adds to the film's consideration of life and death.


27. The Manchurian Candidate (John Frankenheimer, 1962)



The Manchurian Candidate was by no means the first "old" movie I ever saw, but it was among the first classic movies I saw as a teenager that I really fell in love with. I remember having no real idea what the film was about going in and being blasted by a twisty narrative about brainwashed assassins and political intrigue. Frankenheimer's set-pieces are quite chilling in their precision and the climactic moments are among the most exciting in cinema. Then of course, there's the films famous garden sequence, which through brilliant editing and cinematography is able to convey the film's mind-control high-concept in a way which is both tremendously exciting to discover yet deeply horrific. As I've gotten older though, I can more appreciate the film's political insights. The film stems from an era of McCarthyism and Red Scare paranoia, but Frankenheimer's insights into how fear and anxieties can be manipulated for political power are absolutely timeless and essential for today. That such messages are couched in a thriller makes them all the more impactful, with Frankenheimer creating such a tangible sense of unease and paranoia that the critique seems all the more dire. Indeed, there's a real darkness and ambiguity to The Manchurian Candidate that lingers long after the credits have rolled.


26. The 400 Blows (Francois Truffaut, 1959)



The French New Wave is one of the pivotal eras in cinema history that changed the course of how movies would be made in the future, while also offering some of the most blistering and experimental works of the art-house golden age. That sort of legacy makes the films sound quite heavy, and certainly there's a lot to dig into thematically, but what's so exciting about the New Wave is often how playful the works were. Perhaps no film embodies this better than Francois Truffaut's The 400 Blows, which certainly makes some salient observations about how children are treated (and perhaps betrayed) by society, but is by no means a ponderous or heavy issue movie. Rather, the film is many ways a joyous celebration of youth, as we watch young Antoine Doinel (brought to life with infectious charm and wit by Jean-Pierre Leaud) engage in all manner of adventure. Of course, most of Doinel's adventures are relatively low-key, like cutting class or going to the movies with his parents, but there's a real sense of poignancy to such moments which help build our understanding of the character and his experiences. Matching this youthful energy is Truffaut's filmmaking, which features some cutting-edge New Wave editing and amazingly fluid cinematography, but what really stands out to me is the film's beautiful score, which is equal parts energetic and fun, but also a little sad. Indeed, there's certainly a melancholic streak to the film, but Truffaut never overplays his hand in this regard. The characters are all wonderfully nuanced, the filmmaking exquisite, and the whole thing builds to one of the most iconic shots of all-time; a dramatic freeze-frame loaded with mystery and intrigue that serves as the perfect culmination of The 400 Blows.

25. Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994)



It's telling that over the last 25 years, Quentin Tarantino has dropped modern classic after modern classic, yet 1994's Pulp Fiction is still generally held up as the director's definitive work. The film was hailed as an achievement upon release and over time its influence hasn't yielded. Indeed, for a certain generation of filmgoers (myself included), Pulp Fiction served an important real in getting "serious" about cinema. The film's unorthodox structure and utilizing of French New Wave techniques certainly made it feel special, but that it was also a movie about badass gangsters killing each other and dropping biblical monologues about their own badassery made it really fun and entertaining. That mixture of ambitious filmmaking and general entertainment is a big part of what's made Tarantino such a major player in Hollywood. Influence and legacy aside, however, Pulp Fiction is simply a masterclass in storytelling. The three narratives weave in and out of each other brilliantly, experimenting with the tropes of crime storytelling while also offering a surprisingly strong theme of redemption. It also helps that Tarantino's dialogue is at its delicious best and he's also assembled a pitch perfect cast to bring the material to life.


24. 12 Angry Men (Sidney Lumet, 1957)



1957 is one of the best years in cinema history, offering epic stories of greed and regicide in ancient Japan, suicide missions in the French trenches of World War I, a blistering stand-off between a British and Japanese colonel in a World War II prison camp, and a young knight's final stand against death following years of fighting in the Crusades. How strange then that arguably the year's best film would be among the simplest. 12 Angry Men is a testament to how the value of great storytelling need not come from high production value or outrageous gimmicks. All we have is a room full of people and a disagreement, and oh what drama stems from this. The film has an innocuous enough opening, but that casualness begets what will become an intense debate over the life of one man. As personality's clash, it's all too easy to become sucked into the debate and riveted, hanging off every word of the case (the cast of Hollywood character actors, anchored by the brilliant Henry Fonda, certainly doesn't hurt). It doesn't take long to realize that this isn't really the story of one man, or even twelve angry ones, but how blind discrimination and a lack of empathy leads to injustice. Watching such a story unfold in real time is gripping, and Lumet really makes the most out of his isolated room, with gradually tightening frames and sweaty faces really creating a sense of claustrophobia. Lumet would go on to be one of the most respectable makers of adult dramas right until 2007, but 12 Angry Men remains his crowning achievement; a timeless piece of filmmaking just as important today as in 1957.


23. Barry Lyndon (Stanley Kubrick, 1975)



If any film received a boost here thanks to my time making video essays, its Barry Lyndon. Looking back, my Lyndon video is far from perfect, but its a project I put a lot of time into and was the first time I really felt like I was making the kind of work I aspired to. Really though, like a lot of Kubrick's movies, this just took me more time and thought to really get my head around. Epics aren't usually built around twerps like Barry and while I can certainly see why such an approach might not work for everyone, it also makes for a fascinating exploration of individual agency. Beyond that though, the film is just a rousing adventure of sorts where we match the main character stumble through all manner of dangerous scenario during his strange class ascent and, despite the character being something of a shit, there is a real tragedy to his downfall. To a degree, this can be described as a morality tale, but one injected with that Kubrickian cynicism, where Lyndon's good deed ultimately ends up being his undoing. The film is also rendered in exquisite detail, with some phenomenal set design and gorgeous cinematography. Kubrick famously acquired special lenses from NASA in order to light certain scenes solely by candlelight and the results speak for themselves. The movie really does feel like a painting come to life and even the film's biggest detractors tend to begrudgingly admit its technical brilliance. Of Kubrick's major works, Barry Lyndon may well be the hardest to love, but man do I love it. It's comforting to see its audience is growing.

I think we're at the point of this list where we most likely won't disagree with any of the movies selected, perhaps only their position on the list. Looking forward to the rest of it.

19. The Fly (David Cronenberg, 1986)



David Cronenberg has spent a lot of his career as something of a weird outlier; a horror filmmaker with an interest in body horror and the grotesque, and yet someone who has never played cleanly in genre conventions. His interest in perversion, violence, and identity has made Cronenberg an acquired taste, but he has been able to find some mainstream success without compromising his vision. No film in Cronenberg’s oeuvre epitomizes like this quite like The Fly. Technically a remake of a 50s B-monster movie (and a pretty solid one for what it’s worth), Cronenberg reimagines the premise of a man who crosses his DNA with that of a fly into something a lot more gruesome, but also more tragic. Rather than instantly becoming a monster, Jeff Goldblum’s Seth Brundle at first seems fine, but whose body and mind slowly deteriorate and become something horrific. Chris Walas’ make-up effects are truly superb. You really do believe the transition on screen, and the results are one of the most pure expressions of body horror in cinema. Simply put, the notion that you be trapped in a changing body that you cannot control. That level of horror and gruesome special effects is more than enough to make The Fly special, but it’s the added weight of tragedy that really elevates the film into something more. You expect a creature feature, but Cronenberg ultimately creates a devastating story of lovers facing with the reality of death. The performances from both Goldblum and Geena Davis are great. You really feel for these characters and invest fully in their lives. There are plenty of exceptional scenes ripe with drama, none more so than the devastating final scene, as Howard Shore’s music over the credits solidifies the tragedy we’ve just experienced.

18.Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958)



I’ve wrote a lot about Vertigo over the last few years. Hitchcock was a reoccurring figure of my undergrad essays and my recent video essay “Alfred Hitchcock: The Dark Ages” was something of a culmination of my experience as a teenager and student watching Hitchcock, and I’ve also taught Vertigo twice in my role as a teaching assistant (and made a video essay for said lesson). To some extent I’m sort of burnt out on writing about Vertigo, but I never get tired of actually watching it. The film has a strangely hypnotic quality, starting out as a supernaturally tinged mystery that both we and protagonist Scottie (Jimmy Stewart) become wrapped in. But then there’s a massive twist in the third act that completely disrupts our understanding of the narrative and the presumed power of the spectator. And yet, the film retains its haunting quality, only instead of about being haunted by some sort of supernatural force, its instead about being haunted by a memory. Or, perhaps, merely the idea of a memory. The film is, like Rear Window, a rich text regarding themes of voyeurism and male weakness and that makes it for any academic (myself included) to get lost in. It’s also a beautifully made film that sees Hitchcock executed at the top of his game yet again, but applying his skills to a more somber and unsettling story. Psycho will forever be Hitchcock’s most popular effort and not without good reason, and Rear Window is probably a greater snapshot of Hitch’s sensibilities. But there’s something about the greatness of Vertigo that I can’t deny.

17. Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976)



I spent about ten years holding firmly to Taxi Driver being my favourite film of all-time. Clearly, I don’t still hold this position, but I do still see all sorts of value in Scorsese’s terrifyingly dark portrait of an isolated loner who turns to violence to solve his problems. In terms of film protagonists, Travis Bickle seems totally singular, but we seem to see new Bickles in the news all the time. From school shooters to incels to mosque shooters (to show that my country isn’t immune to this); the notion of angry young men who become warped by their hatred and loneliness into committing horrific acts of violence is clearly no fantasy. What’s so disturbing about Scorsese’s portrait is believable Bickle’s downward spiral is. Robert De Niro portrays the character, at first, as a somewhat well-meaning if socially awkward person. In another movie, Travis might be the inspiring tale of someone who overcomes there awkwardness and wins the heart of the girl he loves. But Taxi Driver isn’t that kind of movie. Instead, Travis is overtaken by racial paranoia and an inability to process rejection furthers his loneliness until it begins to manifest as violence. By the time Travis is shaving his head and ready to assassinate a political figure, it strangely makes sense. That’s not to say Scorsese or Paul Schrader’s screenplay pose such action as rational. Rather, that it understands the thought process that brings a person to this point. It’s undeniably a dark movie, and not one watched lightly, but there is an empathy that underlines it (and most of Scorsese’s work). The film is under no illusions that Travis is a hero, but it does tap into a sense of loneliness and isolation that a lot of young people experience. That has led to some misinterpretation of the work (the fact that “You talkin’ to me” is quoted in the same breath as Dirty Harry’s “Go ahead, make my day” is at least a little disturbing), but its that emotional insight that continues to make Taxi Driver reverberate with such honesty today.

The Fly is great but number nineteen seems a bit much.