I recently received a rather acidic email from a reader, demanding to know how I could “review” the AFI’s 100 Greatest Movies if I hadn’t seen half the films on the list. Well, I’ll tell you how I could review them, buster. I could review them because…okay, well, I felt qualified to comment on certain aspects of…uh…see, in my experience, a review isn’t so much an expert opinion as it is a journey into the…hmm, yes, perhaps the man has a point.

But when I review movies on TN, I don’t do it because I expect to ascend to Pauline Kael’s throne. I do it because the movie in question is resonating with me somehow, because it frustrated me or pissed me off or got a thing exactly right, and I want to work out why — where it got me, and how. I don’t know as much as I’d like to about the technical language of film, or the history; nobody’s going to ask me to teach a class on the subject, God knows, and I’ve never intended my writing about movies to serve as a primer. I just like movies, and I watch as many as I can, trying to learn how it’s done, trying to absorb how something that started out as a piece of writing could become a whole world. When a movie gets to me, in a good way or in a bad way, I like to take it apart in my own writing and try to figure out how it runs (or doesn’t), and that’s what I tried to do with the AFI list.

But maybe I need to furnish credentials. After all, as I said above, I don’t have any more insight into “feeeeelm” than the next girl. I’ve never worked in the industry, and I’ve never even taken a class on movies — I just know what I like. But maybe, in order to get anything out of my reviews, Acidic Email Guy needs to know what I like, too. So, for the benefit of Acidic Email Guy, I’ve decided to write up a list of the movies I own and why I own them. That way, the next time he (or anyone else) thinks I’ve biffed a film analysis, he might have some insight into why. Or he might just point and laugh.

Here’s what I’ve got around, and how it got here.

The Breakfast Club. Yeah, I know it’s on cable all the goddamn time. Once in a while, you want to see it with curse words. Judd Nelson bellowing “FLIP YOU, DAD” doesn’t have quite the same impact. I grew up with it.

The Shawshank Redemption. Probably my favorite movie — at least in the top three. Beautifully shot, wonderfully acted, suspensefully plotted, full of salty expressions that I have stolen for my own use, and sappy as hell. Morgan Freeman rules.

Ocean’s 11. Cute boys, great music, and everyone in the movie looks like he’s having the time of his life; watching it lets you in on the fun somehow. It’s just incredibly entertaining to watch, and Clooney’s delivery of “Ted Nugent called — he wants his shirt back” pays for itself, but why did I have to own it? Bernie Mac. The faces he makes when he’s faking bronchitis, followed by the shit-eating grin in the cab, kill me every time.

Welcome to the Dollhouse. You know, I really can’t tell you why I own it. It’s good, and strictly in terms of set design it’s one of the most accurate films about Jersey I’ve seen, but it’s really quite depressing. But every time that rebellious guitar riff kicks in at a scene change, I start giggling. There’s something uncomfortably true about it that I enjoy.

Fantasia. I think I may have borrowed it from my parents and forgotten to return it…for six years. Oops. Sorry. Anyway, it’s a good one to watch when you don’t want to think about much. Once in awhile, I put it on and just listen to the music while I tidy up the apartment, but the animation is lyrical.

Toy Story. “You! Are! A! TOYEEEEE!” Hee. I greatly admire movies that can work for both kids and adults, and Toy Story does. The dialogue is wonderful, and the central premise holds up beautifully.

Clueless. Doesn’t everyone love Clueless? Even my dad loves Clueless. It’s just so charming and sweet. Also, Paul Rudd.

Clerks. It’s funny as hell, and it gets the Jersey accent right, but that’s not why I bought it. “Biggest pair you ever seen…dingleberry”? That’s why I bought it. Hee. “Dingleberry.”

The Outsiders. I got it as a gift, probably because the giver knew that I’d seen the movie seven hundred times as a teenager. And why did I see the movie seven hundred times as a teenager? Because I had a crush on C. Thomas Howell. Yeah, you heard me. Of all the guys in that movie to have a crush on, I picked the spindly one with the Adam’s apple the size of Kansas City. It’s not a good movie, but it’s like an old sweater, and now that I’ve gotten past the crush, it’s fun to make fun of it; Matt Dillon overacts so insanely that you can almost hear him popping a hernia.

The Last Seduction. Bridget Gregory for president. Seriously. She’s got great hair, she dresses like a black widow, and I never get tired of watching her get her bitch on. Plus, Peter Berg is actually cute in it.

Take The Money And Run. Every time I see that cello flying out the window, I laugh until I cry. Every single time.

Kicking & Screaming. It’s an elegy for the way we all lived just out of college — we knew we couldn’t go back, and we didn’t know how to go forward, so we sat around sniping at each other. Great dialogue; Chris Eigeman is hilarious.

Heathers. Duh. So many great quotes, so many high-school revenge fantasies acted out, so many sweet camera angles of Slater in that foxy duster. Love it.

Charlie’s Angels. I don’t get what’s going on with me and this movie; I think it just has an energy that I like. Sam Rockwell is yummy.

Living In Oblivion. The Biscuit used to say that he’d worked on movie shoots just like that one, so I like the realism, but nothing compares to James Le Gros’s hilarious rendition of Chad Palomino. I’ve heard that the character is based on Brad Pitt, but even if that’s not true, the scene when Le Gros appears in the frame wearing the eye patch gives me a giggle just thinking about it.

Walking & Talking. It’s a portrait of me and Ernie, really, especially the answering machine message where Amelia is smelling the sponge and laughing that it smells like hot dogs. Anne Heche is really good. And whenever I eat cookies, I have to greet them with “HEL-lo, cookies,” because of that movie. Any girl who’s ever had a neurosis and a best friend can feel this movie in her bones.

Rushmore. I loved it wholly, immediately. Wes Anderson creates these worlds that look like ours but function in a different way, and he just takes that functioning for granted — that a Max would exist, that he’d have a friend Dirk’s age and put on plays based on Serpico, that his dad would just roll with the program. There’s something so hopeful about it.

Big Night. I can’t watch it very often because it gets me craving Italian food and I can’t cook very well, but it’s such a nice film to look at and listen to — the delicious food, Isabella’s buttery accent, the music, Campbell Scott, all that bright tight satin. It’s like a found love letter.

Bring It On. I like movies for various reasons, like we all do, but the reasons usually boil down to one of two, I think — the movie is very much like life, or the movie is nothing like life. It’s a faithful rendition of a thing I know well, or it’s an imagined world I’ve never seen before. Bring It On is the latter. It has nothing to do with anything I’ve ever seen. It’s cheerfully, effervescently ignorant of continuity and realism. It’s like a shaken-up soda rocketing around the room, and it’s utterly cute. Cute boys, girl fights, and Sparky Polastri.

Lost In America. I needed to have “your song stunk, I hate your suit, and I could hurt you” available at all times.

Go. We’ve all had nights like that. But without Taye Diggs. Sigh.

Dazed & Confused. Another movie I like because it’s just so darn likable. I well remember the days of having not much else to do besides drive around and find a way to get beer.

Manhattan. It’s a love letter to the city, and it’s a love letter to love. I’ve got a soft spot for both of those things.

Rumble Fish. Also a gift. It’s a really bad movie. No…it’s really bad. What’s with the glasses on Vincent Spano? What’s with Mickey Rourke not blinking? What’s with the Tom Waits? And yet it’s so perfectly eighties that I can’t bear to get rid of it. It’s always on Bravo, maybe because it’s the spiritual predecessor of Albino Alligator.

Fargo. Another one that’s interesting even on mute, but also, “You’re such a super lady!” I like the genuine sweetness of Marge and Norm’s relationship, too.

Office Space. If it introduces the word “assclown” into my vocabulary, it gets space on the shelf. That’s the rule.

Bedrooms & Hallways. Yeah, there’s the cute-boy factor, but the dialogue really sells it, and it’s kind of daffy and confused about what it wants to say but determined to try. I like that in a movie, even if the end result is a bit odd.

The Opposite of Sex. Its crabby, snide exterior masks a soft heart. I can relate.

The Iron Giant. Sniff.

Election. This movie’s god is in the details — Tracey’s sexless little plaid skirts, freeze-frames, whip-smart edits, Jim McAllister’s car. Its timing is like getting tickled. It’s not An Important Feeelm, but it does what it sets out to do with such thorough flair that I loved it immediately.

Raising Arizona. “Son? You got a panty on your head.” Best chase scene ever.

Diner. In addition to inspiring in me a lifelong love of cheese fries, this movie taught me a lot about comic timing, and believe it or not, I got most of it from Paul Reiser. I’ve probably seen it over a hundred times.

Breaking Away. It’s a decent movie, but not great, and I really only own it because of a certain Dennis Quaid “issue” which I have long since resolved.

Sling Blade. When I first saw it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it — the way it took its time with the story, the inevitability in every frame. It’s such an ugly story that it’s almost beautiful. The kid is so great, too.

The Graduate. It’s more like a group of vignettes than a proper movie — I mean, it has a plot, but it’s closer to viewing a series of panels. It’s not exactly linear, and that’s what I like about it. Well, besides the music and the excellent costumes and the fact that Anne Bancroft rocks.

M*A*S*H. It’s sort of rough, so it feels like it’s really happening. Watching it, I feel like I’ve been let in on something. Also, Donald Sutherland is hot.

Ghost World. The Sour Patch Kid of movies — almost too sour to eat, but you can’t stop eating them.

Goodfellas. I don’t know. Explain it to me. Scorsese can put together a whole that’s greater than the sum of the parts, and no matter how many times you watch it, you don’t know for sure how he does it. But I think it’s mostly the dialogue. “She lives her life in a nightgown.”

Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion. Silly and light and irresistible. I love the Kudrow, I really do.

Zoolander. My God, it’s funny.

Wet Hot American Summer. See above. The entire production is wholly committed to looking completely ridiculous, and it succeeds gloriously.

Desert Blue. I really don’t think more than three people saw it — me, Ernie, and that other guy — and it’s a shame, because it’s so wistful and sad and sweet and weird.

So that’s what’s in the rotation these days. I don’t think there’s any pattern to it, except that I like funny stories…and sad stories…and weird stories…and stories with boys in them…and pretty pictures without much story at all. I just write about what I like and what I don’t like when I write about movies, the same as I do the rest of the time. So before you send me a snitty email telling me I don’t “have enough knowledge of the cultural age this movie was made in to have some perspective,” remember that. Remember also that I can get bigger laughs by snidely insulting Head than I can pretending that it’s not a self-indulgent, self-important, pointless, boring ten pounds of crap in a five-pound bag, and that that’s what I do here. You don’t have to respect my opinion, or agree with it — I own Degrassi episodes, for heaven’s sake. But it’s just an opinion, one forged in the fire of a thousand Diner viewings, and if that’s not your bag, you can skip my reviews. I really won’t mind.

But at least now you’ll know why I write them.

July 29, 2002

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