Criterion on the Brain

(Toshiya Fujita, 1974)

The main thing I kept thinking throughout Lady Snowblood: Love Song of Vengeance was how impressive Zatoichi was. Over the course of eleven years, 25 Zatoichi films were made centered around the same character and every single one of them is better than this mess of a film. The sequel pulls double duty as a study in contrasts when considering the drop in quality from the original, which looks even more impressive after replicating its tight structure and freewheeling style proved so difficult.

The film fails on multiple fronts, but the worst crime it commits is useless voiceover. The first third or so of the movie includes this vapid narration used to explain things that we mostly already know and illustrate things that were are simultaneously watching. It's awkward, lazy, and unbefitting the original film's inspired delirium. The other flaws in the film are less fatal, but leave it wounded beyond repair: the political story is admirable and interesting, but requires too much exposition to make for a good story for this character; the fight scenes are significantly less creative here, and no one in the film is much of a match for Snowblood, leaving the outcome preordained; the attempt to expand Snowblood's character beyond her simple original plan for revenge is not earned, so we're left to just assume that she would turn to the light and use her powers for justice.

There are some redeeming qualities of Lady Snowblood 2. The music stands out most - though not as focused and perfect as the theme from the original, the score here is consistently impressive and extremely reminiscent of RZA's work in Ghost Dog. Similarly, Fujita has moments of inspiration and is constantly attempting to do something with the material. There's just not enough to carry his enthusiasm in either story or performances. These sorts of forced sequels are extremely common now, but it wasn't always that way. As a spine number, then, Lady Snowblood 2 represents an early failure in this regard, and the best that can be said about it is that they didn't take the easy way out and remake the first movie - though in this case that might have been what sunk them from the beginning.

(Toshiya Fujita, 1973)

Fuck yeah, Criterion!

Obviously one thing Criterion does well is Samurai movies. But they are almost entirely high profile "fancy pants" samurai movies like Yojimbo or Harakiri. Lady Snowblood isn't technically a samurai movie, but it's set during the samurai era, and it is most definitively not fancy pants. This is a film in the tradition of the Blaxploitation films being made concurrently in the US and belongs to the pulpy masses of Japanese films I was initially exposed to by the Wu Tang Clan, though it is far superior to most of those films in technical quality. The film features plenty of spurting blood, an older master training the main character from birth, and a story of revenge that is uniquely Japanese but juicy enough to be at home in any country's genre tradition.

This made its inclusion in the Collection a bit odd to some, since this area of film history is usually covered by genre labels that do a great job with similar movies. But Criterion has never shied away from cult films, whether it's as early as Carnival of Souls or as recent as House. The quality of this film probably falls somewhere in the middle of those two movies, but while I was expecting a fun, tightly constructed thriller from this movie, I didn't expect it to be nearly as freewheeling when it came to filmmaking as it was. There are plenty of stylistic touches here that make the film that much more fun to watch - the photo montages, the freeze frames, the comic, the evocative cuts and poetic framing. The director, Toshiya Fujita, was actually best-known for his films about young people (he also made sex films at Nikkatsu), and these are the only films in this action style that he made. His style is particularly impressive given the film's low budget.

The last thing to mention about Lady Snowblood is the music. "Shura No Hana" is the theme song over the title credits (sung by Lady Snowblood herself), and it's just an incredible pop song. The music throughout the film is excellent, and it ups the film's production value considerably. I'm definitely looking forward to the sequel.

Finally, it's virtually impossible at this point to talk about Lady Snowblood and not mention Tarantino's Kill Bill, which was not so much a remake of the film as it was deeply inspired by it. Like Lady Snowblood, Uma Thurman's character is out for revenge, which is accomplished in a series of battles with the people who wronged her. Tarantino took a lot from the film's style as well, from the use of different mediums and a pop soundtrack to the cartoonish violence and chapter headings. He even overtly acknowledges his source material by including the theme song in the film. But only someone intending to dismiss Tarantino would declare Kill Bill merely a ripoff. As in Tarantino's other films (many of which have similarly borrowed concepts or plotlines), the director brings his own storytelling style and post-modern sensibility to the film. This allows anyone watching either movie to enjoy it on its own terms, and I noted the similarities between Snowblood and Kill Bill, which I saw first, only as a fun connection while watching this film, like hearing a song that RZA had sampled for a classic Wu Tang song.

(Don Siegel, 1954)

What a find. Riot in Cell Block 11 is a certain kind of film Criterion puts out rarely, but always with impressive confidence and great value to the marketplace. Created as a b-level social picture in the wake of a series of prison riots in the early 1950s that stemmed from poor treatment of the prisoners, this is a lesser-known early picture from Don Siegel, who would go on to direct Criterion release The Killers before producing the higher profile Dirty Harry and Escape from Alcatraz. It's not the best-acted movie I've ever seen, and it can often feel a bit preachy in its consistent social message. But it also rings just as true today as it did in its time.

The style of the film is a reminder that throughout film history movies that were considered lesser or even exploitative often had more to say about the ills of society than the prestige pictures of their era. The movie that won best picture the year Riot in Cell Block 11 was released was another future Criterion film, Elia Kazan's On the Waterfront, and while I'm not here to discount that masterpiece, I do think the message of Siegel's film is more complicated and more relevant in today's America.

The scenes with the warden are generally didactic, but it's the final scene, in which the warden explains to the leader of the riot that he has been betrayed, where the message is most loud and clear. It's the truth no one wants to believe but everyone should see as obvious: riots work. They work because people are afraid of society crumbling, and part of the way society stays afloat is that the people with less and who are forced to stay that way agree to keep the peace (at least generally speaking). That detente is broken only when things get so bad that the system needs a virus to run through its body and clear out all the toxins. In Riot in Cell Block 11 (as in the US of the early 50s), the oppressed community was prisoners, growing up in LA it was black people in the early 90s. As the movie shows, riots don't solve everything, but they do bring the kind of attention to oppression that only violence can bring.

People who think prisoners should rot in jail for whatever they did to get there will probably be able to ignore the message of Riot in Cell Block 11. For people like me, the film is preaching to the choir. Yet there is a whole middle of the population that simply hasn't considered these kinds of issues because they didn't need to. These are the people Cell Block 11 was made for, and just as the political message of riots had to be draped in violence, so too does a message such as this need to be drenched in noir and simmering with pulpy aggression. Does Riot in Cell Block 11 raise to the level of many of the classics in the Collection? Of course not. But it doesn't need to - it does what it was meant to do, now just as well as in 1954. This is a vital thread of film history in the American system, and this particular film represents one of the best, making it a great addition.

(Various, 1962-73)

This massive set represents the single biggest viewing challenge in the Criterion Collection to date. Twenty-five feature-length films, all with the same spine number. When it was announced, I felt a wave of resigned determination come over me. After all, I had just claimed victory in my Criterion battle, and had just three yet-to-be-released movies left before I had a clean slate. But here it was, nearly 40 hours of viewing time dumped on me in one fell swoop. Fortunately, these are really fucking good. Rather than dedicate just a few paragraphs to so many movies, I've decided to review them in order, immediately after I watch each one. I began writing this in August, 2013. Hopefully, you're not reading it in 2015. [Note: just made it!] I've bolded all the films that are worth watching if you don't plan on seeing the whole series.

The Tale of Zatoichi
(Kenji Misumi, 1962)

This movie is pure fun, the kind of film you can't help but want to watch. Yojimbo had just been released the previous year, and though this is not the cinematic tour de force that one was - after all, Kurosawa was at that point an international sensation at the height of his powers - it's nearly as entertaining. Misumi has a populist way with his camera, plunging into melodrama when needed yet exhibiting a perfect amount of restraint in the climactic fight sequence. As for the character of Zatoichi, it's easy to see why a franchise was built off of him. Like Mifune's ronin in Yojimbo, he is reserved but cunning and always a pleasure to watch and see what he does next. Getting through this collection is a major project that makes Berlin Alexanderplatz look like a walk in the park, but if every film is as entertaining as this one, I'm certainly going to enjoy the ride.

The Tale of Zatoichi Continues
(Kazuo Mori, 1962)

The second film in the Zatoichi series is not the first film's equal, most likely a victim of the rushed production after the original's surprise success. Obviously still indebted to the first movie but with an eye to future films in the series. Shintaro Katsu is just as charming, though, and the movie remains enjoyable throughout.

New Tale of Zatoichi
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1963)

Number three is better than two, and features some really great moments, most notably when Ichi must roll dice to determine if he gets to keep his arm (spoiler alert: he still has two arms in the fourth movie). I don't know that I really bought that the person who taught this truly honorable dude would be such a scheming asshole, but as an installment in the series it worked pretty well. I am hoping later movies in the series have a little more style to them, as everything has been somewhat conservative up to this point, but overall I am definitely ready to keep going.

The Fugitive
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1963)

The fourth film is the first not to have his name in the title (at least according to the subtitles) - and the first to repeat a director, as Tanaka also directed the third film. It's also probably my favorite movie in the series to date, mostly thanks to a totally kickass sword fight at the end between Zatoichi and a rival samurai. At this point, two things are clear about the series.

First, it's settled into a nice formula, which is basically that Zatoichi arrives in a new town where he quickly gets into trouble, often because his past catches up with him. What follows is Zatoichi peacefully trying to resolve that trouble before succumbing to killing everyone in sight. This naturally mucks things up with whichever woman had fallen in love with him or with which he has fallen in love, and Zatoichi is left once again to roam the countryside alone and one step ahead of trouble.

Second, though, is the series' continuity. Unlike a similarly long-running (though not as prolific) series like James Bond, Zatoichi has a continuing story that carries over from movie to movie. You can certainly watch any of them on their own at this point, but all three sequels to date have featured at least one other character from a previous film. This makes the series feel like less of a serial and more of television series, and in this context the boxset Criterion is releasing is not especially long. With most of the films coming in at less than 90 minutes, this 25 film set amounts to less than two seasons of a network drama. This is a much more comforting way to think about the road ahead, even if I'm certainly enjoying the journey.

On the Road
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1963)

Unless I'm forgetting someone, On the Road is the first film not to include any other characters from earlier films. It's also the most routine, though it's a fun routine, for sure. I'm definitely hoping the woman who is plotting revenge against Zatoichi is going to reappear in later films.

Zatoichi and the Chest of Gold
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1964)

The jump in filmmaking from On the Road to Chest of Gold is startling. Every film before this was directed in a serviceable manner - think of them as television episodes rather than cinema and you'll get the idea. There were a handful of flourishes here and there, but mostly the camera's job was to show you what was happening and help you understand the action. Kazuo Ikehiro's take on Zatoichi is akin to Cuaron's take on Harry Potter; he's reading between the lines and improvising in those spaces, while still retaining the basic rhythm and not straying too far from the familiar riff. This makes Chest of Gold the first truly cinematic installment. The script is less appealing than some of the earlier work, however, which keeps this from being my favorite in the series to date. But I'm interested in seeing where the series goes as it gets deeper into the 60s.

Zatoichi's Flashing Sword
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1964)

Flashing Sword is one of the more violent installments to date - but that's not saying much considering the fact that the early films didn't show blood of any kind. The movie isn't as flashy as its predecessor, but there are some great stylistic flourishes, and one of the best moments in the series involving Ichi killing a bunch of dudes under water. The climax involving dark corridors and candles is also very well-executed, and brings some fresh fighting concepts to a series that in America would be quickly turning into a routine. Although the stories in the Zatoichi films have certainly settled into a formula (as has Shintaro Katsu's performance), there remains something new to offer viewers in each entry, even if you mostly know the dance.

Fight, Zatoichi, Fight!
(Kenji Masumi, 1964)

After a few out-of-the-box installments in Ichi's series, as directed by Kazuo Ikehiro, Kenji Misumi, director of the very first installment, takes back the reins in Fight, Zatoichi, Fight. While the results remain entertaining, this installment is the first to feel extraneous. Maybe it's the absurd baby-centric premise that has been used in countless films before and after (he even pees in his face - comedy!), or maybe it's that the one original fight sequence here - in which Ichi is attacked by men with torches to block out his hearing - fails to electrify and is shot in a rather pedestrian manner. There's still plenty to like here, but I'm hoping the next movie has a little bit more energy.

The Adventures of Zatoichi
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1964)

We are back on track with the ninth feature. Interesting backstory for Zatoichi with a potential reunion with his father combines with a standard but well-executed version of the typical Zatoichi-against-the-machine conflict, but the stand out here is the impeccably shot and totally fucking awesome sword fight in the climax. This is the second kick-ass faceoff in the series to rival anything I've seen in more "artistic" Japanese samurai films, and it's a real pleasure to see such great work in a simple studio product. Another note here: aside from the occasional honorable samurai (which Ichi inevitably has to kill) pretty much every guy in these movies other than Ichi himself is a real jerk. Weren't there any decent men in feudal Japan?

Zatoichi's Revenge
(Akira Inoue, 1965)

Another routine outing, though Akira Inoue does bring some interesting flashback/montage techniques into the mix. Shintaro Katsu gives a very strong performance in this entry, but the fight scenes are standard and the villains are so weak that there's hardly any suspense. A redeemable non-samurai man does finally show up, but he starts out trying to betray Zatoichi and only turns toward the light after being confronted by the swordsman. The entertainment is not as constant, but the spark is still there long enough to carry us through to the next installment.

Zatoichi and the Doomed Man
(Akira Inoue, 1965)

I took a long break from Zatoichi in between the last installment and this one, for no real reason other than life is busy. Coming back to it I am reminded how impressive the series is. This is the second movie in 1965 to feature the character, and yet they managed to deliver a fresh concept that makes this movie stand out from all before it. Here, what felt new was the character who decides to impersonate Zatoichi, a clever plot that builds on the challenges of the earlier movie but also serves as a shrewd reminder of how honorably the blind swordsman uses his powers. I'm not sure if the break renewed my vigor for the concept, but Zatoichi and the Doomed Man was one of the most fun offerings yet.

Zatoichi and the Chess Expert
(Kenji Misumi, 1965)

Despite an interesting premise, this was an average installment in the series that lacked any really compelling moments. I did enjoy Zatoichi's relationship with the chess player in the film, but it never really felt like anything beyond the typical Zatoichi movie.

Zatoichi's Vengeance
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1966)

Tokuzo Tanaka directed one of my previous favorite movies in the series, The Fugitive, but Zatoichi's Vengeance felt much more routine. The key differentiating feature here was the blind monk that Zatoichi meets, who convinces him that he should not be corrupting the young boy Zatoichi must protect. This is a clever enough take on the series, but it doesn't go very far beyond that. Another good movie - and I probably liked this one slightly more than the last one - but nothing special.

Zatoichi's Pilgrimage
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1966)

Zatoichi's Pilgrimage is the first movie in the Zatoichi series that I feel genuinely reaches classic status. This is a perfect execution of the concept and a stunningly beautiful movie, both emotionally and technically. The movie makes a statement early on with an opening sequence that ups the ante in terms of gore in the series when a thief gets his hand cut off, but the rest of the movie doesn't maintain this shock value, and instead turns into a confident retelling of the Zatoichi template. Zatoichi's Pilgramage often reminded me of the strongest episodes of my favorite television shows - not the ones where the most significant things happened (although those can often be great, too) but the ones where it feels like everyone associated with the series is firing on all cylinders and the director really gets what's at the core of the series thematically. Tanaka's beautiful cinematography and straight-faced delivery of the story is a reminder what can happen when craftsmen refuse to settle and instead elevate their popular art to graceful levels. If I had hated all of the films up to this point (and I liked all of them) it would have all been worth it for this one.

Zatoichi's Cane Sword
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1967)

How are these still this good? I mean, I know TV shows can be good or even getting better 15 episodes in, but these are 90 minutes and they release two or three every year. Movie sequels get made every few years and are always terrible. Anyway, Zatoichi's Cane Sword doesn't reach the cinematic heights of its immediate predecessor, but it's just as compelling as a narrative. This time, the series focuses on Zatoichi's underrated supporting character, his sword. There's a twist here that matches any plot development that's come before, and the movie as a whole has some great character swings for Ichi. These are all a real pleasure, but they seem to be only warming up 15 in.

Zatoichi the Outlaw
(Satsuo Yamamoto, 1967)

This one was a bit routine, with the only interesting moments coming from a boss who manages to deceive Zatoichi's usually impeccable sense of character and a brief musical montage that feels very much of its time in the best way. The plot is overloaded with characters, perhaps a recognition that the core story is not especially interesting or special within the series, so we get just about every archetype we've seen to date: the evil corrupt bosses, the star-crossed lovers Zatoichi attempts to shepherd, the reformed ronin, etc. Still not a bad movie, but I'd put this near the bottom of the pack.

Zatoichi Challenged
(Kenji Misumi, 1967)

A perfectly serviceable entry in the series, Zatoichi Challenged was neither especially noteworthy nor memorably off. Again Zatoichi is tasked with transporting a child, though thankfully we are saved most of the dumb humor of Zatoichi and a Baby!!! The final fight sequence is especially beautiful and the samurai's change of heart was pulled off rather well, I thought. But there's nothing here to remember or that makes it different from the rest of the series - which, in a way, makes it different from the rest of the series. Zatoichi Challenged is as formulaic as the series gets, which is a pretty good thing.

Zatoichi and the Fugitives
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1968)

Another generic entry, with only a few saving graces: the fight scenes were particularly bloody and the death faces were incredible. Do they have a school for those people? There should be an Academy Award for best death face. Although Zatoichi Challenged was actually pretty good, the last three in the series have taken a notable step down - though I wouldn't put any of them at the very bottom and they are all still pretty entertaining as far as samurai movies go.

Samaritan Zatoichi
(Kenji Misumi, 1968)

And we're back! Samaritan Zatoichi doesn't reach classic status but it is one of the must-see films of the series. Misumi delivers just enough cinematic style and variation in formula to make this installment the best since Zatoichi's Pilgrimage. The best part, though, is how focused the plot is, with minimal side stories and a contained universe of characters, all swirling around Zatoichi in an elaborate dance of corruption and honor that defines the series. This one was a real pleasure.

Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo
(Kihachi Okamoto, 1970)

Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo is a significant departure for the series. First, there are all the superficial differences; it took nearly two years for the film to be released after the previous installment, when previously there had often been two films in one year; the film runs nearly two hours, while most of the series' films clock in at under 90 minutes; and finally the film features another towering figure in samurai cinema: Toshiro Mifune's Yojimbo. Yet the film also feels different. While the basic template of the series remains - in this case, Zatoichi returns to a town he loves only to discover that it has been taken over by evil yakuza - the story is more sprawling, the characters more complex, and the pacing more cinematic and less episodic. Although Zatoichi is certainly still the protagonist, he spends most of the film sharing screen time with Yojimbo, who drives as much of the story as anyone. Obviously, it's a real pleasure to see both of these characters onscreen at once. We don't get to see a true battle between the two (since neither could possibly kill the other) we do get a few great exchanges and some brilliant dialog. The plot might be a little overly complex, and there are a few scenes that probably could have been excised. But overall this film lives up to its promise and kicks the cinematic ambition of the series up a notch, refreshed after its longest break and ready for the homestretch.

Zatoichi Goes to the Fire Festival
(Kenji Misumi, 1970)

BADASS. After a two-year hiatus, the Zatoichi series had a one-two punch in 1970 of a strong crossover with an iconic character and then this, certainly one of the best films in the series and arguably the best overall after Zatoichi's Pilgrimage. This one has everything we expect of a great Zatoichi movie: sullen women pining after Ichi's honor, prideful and petty villains who wield power over towns of peasants, naive men and/or boys who mistakenly choose the path of the yakuza, and Ichi himself, alternately humorous and powerful. But it also does everything the previous installments did so exceptionally well that it seems to be on another level. Ironically, as the series gets closer and closer to its move to TV the films are becoming more and more cinematic. Check the epic bath house fight - a clear influence on Cronenberg's Eastern Promises and every bit as gripping and memorable. Or the climactic sequence, an incredible mix of impressive suspense (the dice without marks) and stunning visuals (Ichi in the fire). The villain, too, rivals any of the previous heavies for a place as the greatest in the series, a blind man who has consolidated power and fears Ichi's similar drive. If all of this wasn't enough, we get Tatsuya Nakadai, one of Japanese cinema greatest stars, as a ronin desperate to avenge his wife and convince Ichi was her undoing. If I had to recommend only one Zatoichi film to someone who had never seen one, it would be this. It's just that good.

Zatoichi Meets the One-Armed Man
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1971)

This installment was one of the most fun from a stylistic perspective. A guest appearance by Hong Kong kung-fu star Jimmy Wang Yu not only gives the series a bit of hand-to-hand combat to mix in with traditional samurai action - it allows the filmmakers to have some fun with the usual flourishes found in that region's cinematic grammar. This means awesome rack zooms, quick cuts matched with impossible stunts, and sparse, even abstract set design. The story itself is passable but certainly beside the point, as everything leads up to the big showdown between Zatoichi and the one-armed swordsman. All in all another fine 1970s entry that distinguishes itself from anything else in the series.

Zatoichi at Large
(Kazuo Mori, 1972)

Oh dear, another baby. Although it is definitely handled better than it has been in previous films, this has become such a contrived driver of conflict in these movies that it was disappointing to see it in the later editions. All of the previous films of the 70s have been so different from what came before, so this routine entry was a bit of a letdown. Still, there were components here that weren't strictly routine, the most amusing of which was the final, last-second fight - fit in as if the movie was ending and the filmmakers thought "oh no, we forgot to close that plot thread!" The least impressive film since Zatoichi and the Fugitives four years earlier.

Zatoichi In Desperation
(Shintaro Katsu, 1972)

This is the first film in the series to be directed by star Shintaro Katsu and the actor's enthusiasm and inexperience both shine through. The film is visually busy, making for a constantly engaging installment but without any real heft behind it. He certainly has some great moments behind the camera, but they rarely serve the story, which has another fairly routine central conflict (Zatoichi accidentally causes a woman's death, leading him to make amends by freeing her daughter from prostitution). The difference here - and the thing that allows the movie to join most of its 70s associates as a singular entry in the series - is that the film is almost oppressively dark. Just the fact that the woman isn't especially interested in leaving the oldest profession is something that would not have happened in early Zatoichi films, where just about everyone who isn't yakuza or government is pure of heart. What Zatoichi is up against here is notably more complex than what we've seen in earlier films, and so too is the challenge bigger at the end when his hands are pierced, the kind of injury we've never seen from the seemingly invincible hero. Add in a dead kid as a sideplot and you've got a pretty depressing popcorn movie. But after 24 of these movies, seeing something different can be just as enjoyable as seeing the same routine executed more efficiently.

Zatoichi's Conspiracy
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1973)

A fine ending to the series. Although the film is rather typical, the central conflict carries an emotional heft that earlier films lacked, and Zatoichi's journey - while unfinished - feels like it has come to a resting place. There are a few really great fight scenes here, and the candle sword trick is pretty cool. Overall, the films in the 70s showed a huge maturation from the earlier phase. Certainly these movies were more explicitly sexual and violent (blood spurts everywhere in the last few movies), but they also featured more nuanced characters (relatively speaking) and bigger threats. While the earlier films had settled into an episodic rhythm, where each movie could be subbed out for any other, these last six films each felt like they were trying to separate themselves from the pack, so it seems surprising that this was the last stretch before the series made the jump to TV.

Thoughts on the series:

Zatoichi is wholly deserving of its place in the Collection. These movies represent not just a significant chapter in Japanese film history, but one of the most impressive runs of any serial. Although there are certainly some mediocre entries in the series, none of them are truly bad and all of them would make perfectly decent standalone films. And then there are the must-sees: the first film, Zatoichi and the Chest of Gold, Zatoichi's Pilgrimage, Samaritan Zatoichi, Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo, and Zatoichi Goes to the Fire Festival are the movies every film lover, and especially every lover of samurai movies, should not miss. This was a massive undertaking, but it was also never a chore and I could certainly see myself going back to these at some point in the future (especially with all of them up on Hulu). This is the sort of set Criterion does best, and I'm glad they are still doing it.

(Delmer Daves, 1957)

3:10 to Yuma is probably best known at this point as the original version of the recent Western starring Russel Crowe and Christian Bale. This makes a release of the first version a perfect occasion to forget about that history and focus on the film itself - something that is a real pleasure to do. Delmer Daves has been mostly forgotten in film history, especially as a director, since his most famous screenplay work was on Love Affair, which was directed by Leo McCarey. Prior to the remake of this Western five years ago which gave the original a higher profile, his highest profile film was probably Dark Passage, most notable as one of the few Bogart/Bacall onscreen team-ups and as one of those rare mainstream narrative films that spends much of the time with a first-person perspective.

3:10 to Yuma proves that Daves was better than mere gimmicks; this is a beautiful and striking film directed with razor precision both in terms of the way Daves deals with the suspense of the narrative and how he treats the Western iconography so familiar by 1957. The film's storytelling is intricate and sparse - more reminiscent of The Friends of Eddie Coyle than High Noon - which is not especially surprising considering the film is based on an Elmore Leonard story. Daves lets both his cast and his geography come to him, with only an overwrought (but typical of the era) score get in the way.

But the core strength of 3:10 to Yuma lies in the two performances at the center of the film. Although I've seen Glenn Ford here and there in a number of films (most notably Gilda) this has to be easily his best performance I've seen. My wife pointed out that his character has the same calm unpredictability that made Heath Ledger's Joker so effective in The Dark Knight, and while he might not rise to that level as an iconic villain, the film's success is largely due to his magnetism and air of danger and violence buried underneath the surface. Van Heflin, meanwhile, holds his own in a role fairly typical of his career at the time, when he spent more time in cowboys than out of them. His rancher has a dark side (enhanced by his wife's stereotypical and vaguely sexist prodding) that gives the film an added psychological kick.

It's probably the hint of darkness in both characters that makes the ending somewhat disappointing and unbelievable after what has come before. But the final sequence is filled with so much tension and executed so well that it's hard to fault the film too much for delivering the requisite happy ending. 3:10 to Yuma is a great addition to the criminally small but slowly expanding Criterion Western contingent.

(David Fincher, 1997)

The Game is a room full of funhouse mirrors that lead to secret corners and playful surprises. Though it has a psychological edge to it (and lends itself, perhaps unintentionally, to a satiric critique of the one percent), it doesn't amount to any more or less than this description would imply. Though the film has grown in stature since its release a decade and a half ago, I don't think it compares to the best Fincher's catalog has to offer, the masterpieces Zodiac and Seven. Then again, even if the film is slight, it's miles ahead of Panic Room.

The biggest problem with The Game is undeniably the difficult task of suspension of disbelief. It is simply impossible to believe that what happens in the film is possible, and there is a lot of expository sweat spent trying to distract you from this truth.

What saves the movie is a combination of a couple of performances from two of the most consistent stars in Hollywood - Michael Douglas and Sean Penn - and the increasing confidence of David Fincher as a director. Although his palette here is one-note very nearly to a fault (and it seems like every light in the film comes from some storefront lit from behind), his pacing and framing are both top-notch, and he has control over the suspense that hints at his downright Hitchcockian touches in Zodiac. This quality of craft elevates what would otherwise be a typical modern thriller - but it can't transcend the concept's inherent flaws.

Quite frankly, I find it confusing that many of the same people who complained endlessly about Benjamin Button being included rejoiced when The Game was announced. This is certainly the better movie, but both are easily dismissed as Hollywood throwaways - if impeccably made Hollywood throwaways. Just because Button takes itself a little more seriously is no reason to dismiss it faster. All that being said, as someone who happens to think Zodiac was the best movie of the 00s, it's always welcome to see a Fincher film in the Collection. As long as it's not Panic Room.

(Josef von Sternberg, 1927)

This was a huge surprise for me. Although I've definitely enjoyed the von Sternberg talkies I've seen, I chalked most of that up to his muse, Marlene Dietrich, despite the fact that so much of what I loved about The Scarlet Empress in particular was the direction and cinematography. I had assumed that von Sternberg's early work would be less impressive and more subdued. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Underworld is largely considered the first modern gangster picture, the kind of movie with swell dames who turn sentimental and fast crooks that thumb their nose at mom and the law. It's where "the world is yours" originated - here it's "the city is yours" on a billboard. It's also fairly fast-paced for a silent film, or really any film before the 80s. It begins with an explosion and doesn't really let up for its 90 minutes.

The story of the film is certainly simplistic by today's standards. The characters are pretty one-note - really, only one of them changes at all, and it's a pretty quick and clumsy switch. But the movie is made on its cinematic language, which is lightyears ahead of what most of Hollywood was doing at the time. Von Sternberg uses some great dollys, POV shots, and quick cuts that make the visuals pop like you rarely see in the studio system from the era (no wonder the film was underreleased and von Sternberg continued to have an antagonistic relationship with his bosses). There are great small touches, too, like the use of the feathers and flowers.

This is really fun cinema, and I'd be surprised if even the least likely silent-film enthusiast wasn't taken in by this film. It's an unexpectedly great start for a boxset I'd been putting off a little.

(Fritz Lang, 1944)

Hot damn, what a fun piece of top-notch pop art this movie is! I had actually never heard of this film before Criterion announced it, and had always assumed The Big Heat was Lang's best film after coming to America. But this is some Nazi-fighting, spy-loving goodness. Lang does his best Hitchcock impersonation as an average guy gets mistaken for a Nazi spy, throwing his life into disarray. There are some really beautiful touches here - not just the obvious ones like the cake and the trademark Lang lighting, but great stuff like dialing the phone with the scissors (a prop that's used in three amazing ways within a matter of minutes) and the artfully designed seance scene.

Though I wouldn't go so far as to say this approaches the near perfection of The Lady Vanishes, I actually liked it quite a bit more than Night Train to Munich, a much better-known film. As I pointed out in my comments on the latter film, the entire idea of an adventure movie being made during World War II about the war is simply not something that would happen now. (There was obviously a little bit of it in the Cold War, but these battles were entirely fabricated, often coming not from the Soviet leadership but from rogue villains, making the appeal less immediate.) This is partially because we have moved beyond conventional propaganda being an effective tool, but it's also a product of the grey wars that have been fought over the last sixty years, making a cut and dry villain much less believable. But there's something simplistically pleasurable about the concept, even if we know it's reductionist, and as Tarantino showed with Inglorious Basterds, there's nothing that can get a crowd going like mowing down some Nazis.

I've strayed from the film a bit here, which relies much more on human-level intrigue and suspense than political machinations or war-time stakes. Lang's success with Ministry of Fear is to wrap you up in his protagonist's journey (an achievement made even more impressive by the fact that his lead is Ray Milland, one of the more mediocre stars of the 40s) and keep you constantly excited about where it will go next. Do not let this one pass you by when it's released.

(Christian-Jaque, 1952)

Fellow French New Wave fans, I have seen the enemy. I have looked it in the eyes and I have seen its tired soul. It's name is Fanfan la Tulipe and, well, it's really not that bad.

Fanfan la Tulipe is a rip-roaring swashbuckler with plenty of romantic intrigue and physical wackiness - only its wry narration satirizing war sets it apart from similar bloated entertainments coming out of Hollywood at the time. It's cheesy and pretty routine, but the structure and tone are cliché for a reason: they work pretty well to give you a good time.

What's mainstream and popular in one era probably doesn't entirely work in another, and, much like Gone with the Wind, this movie isn't going to work for the modern equivalent of the people who made this a commercial success sixty years ago. The plot drags, the action is sped up Benny Hill-style, and the ending is preposterously happy.

Films like Fanfan la Tulipe are crafts rather than art, and while the skill is just as impressive, it lacks any long-lasting relevance. Like The Rock fifty years from now, it's still objectively well-done, but basically an historical document of what put asses in the seats when it was released.

(Cornel Wilde, 1966)

The Naked Prey is a wholly improbable, totally outdated bit of pulpy fun. This is assuming you can get over the absurdity of the basic premise, which assumes that our precious hero is not only such an outdoorsman that he is able to withstand the harsh African wilderness with nothing but a handful of items, he's also better at hand-to-hand combat than African warriors that have trained for their whole lives. This also assumes you aren't looking for much character development (or even names), and your need for story is limited to "man runs for life."

Then of course there are the racial politics, which are... interesting. The Naked Prey isn't an inherently racist film, though I do think some of the leaps of logic needed to fully engage with the film depend on an assumption of mental if not moral superiority (it doesn't help, either, that the film was financed by the South African government). It reminds me of the term "colored" - it's not necessary an offensive term, but it's anachronistic status forces a reminder of the less enlightened times from which it is native. The Naked Prey might not be overtly racist - in fact, Wilde goes out of his way to have his character save and befriend an African child, who then saves him in return. But the film would never be made today in its current form - a muddy indication that something isn't quite right here.

All of this sort of adds to the historical appeal of The Naked Prey. Because the film itself is so primal - both technically and textually - the idea that the cultural subtext might highlight something darker about the 1960s or about cinema's depiction of black people underscores its blunt immediacy. It makes for a fascinating viewing that helps fill the void between the many leaps of logic.

The Naked Prey was recently the recipient of a bit of heat thanks to an episode of Mad Men where Peggy went to see the film. It's no surprise that a show about male identity would reference this masculine manifesto, but I doubt too much should be read into it beyond the basic connection Weiner and crew (most of whom were kids when The Naked Prey ran on TV) have towards material of that era. That's the thing about the film - every time you think there's something more to it, it stays almost frustratingly - but admirably - simple. Bringing this film to the Collection was not just a case for more exposure (it had yet to be released on home video), it was almost certainly a play for the more idiosyncratic side of filmmaking, a world of cult followings and quirky one-offs that can never be duplicated.

(Ishiro Honda, 1954)

Godzilla might be the most famous movie that most people who have heard of it have never seen. This is because the character of Godzilla has become ubiquitous, and is undoubtedly one of the most successful movie creatures in history. There have been countless sequels and relaunches of the franchise both in Japan and here, while Godzilla itself ranks alongside icons like Dracula and King Kong as characters that transcend their medium and have long ago seeped into the culture. In fact, another Godzilla film is going into production in Hollywood as I write this, and Godzilla will continue to be remade and sequelized as long as movies are being made.

This all made the announcement that Godzilla was coming to the Criterion Collection a pretty big deal, despite the fact that the movie itself is only so so. In most regards, the film would sit very comfortably next to the films in the Monsters and Madmen boxset - though the scale of the effects here leaves that of those much lower budget films in the dust. The human-level story is typical melodrama for the era with a half-baked love story and some various professional quandaries made a bit more compelling by the presence of Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura. Meanwhile, the music is pretty damn cool, and it's always a pleasure to watch effects that required a lot more ingenuity than a simple point and click.

But the real thing that sets Godzilla apart from similar monster movies is the clear and inescapable nuclear metaphor of the film. This is tightly woven into the main plot of the movie (most obviously by Godzilla's origin and the technique that destroys him) but it is most interesting in two smaller moments. The first happens in the early acts of the film, as a group of people ride into the city on a train. One woman declares that she barely survived the bombing in Nagasaki, and now there's this... The second is even more intense, and comes during the core rampage of the monster. As Godzilla stomps on buildings and sets Tokyo aflame, a woman cowers with her children and tells them they are all going where Daddy is. This latter scene is a real "holy shit, this country is only nine years on from the most significant and indescribable series of destructive attacks the world has ever seen" moment (don't forget, along with the military deaths from the war, bombings on Japanese cities were not limited to Hiroshima and Nagasaki - traditional weapons were used on more than 50 other population centers). It makes the rest of the film take on a much greater significance than the typical monster or disaster movie ever could.

Godzilla, then, is more than anything a movie about loss - crippling loss that sets back humanity in both intellectual and moral ways. Perhaps the film ignores for a moment Japan's own role in its fate, but I would argue that the film is an emotional metaphor for the country that doesn't shy away from its own potential for destruction, even as it attempts to come to grips with its own victimhood. All of this feels like an intellectual exercise from the comfort of 21st century America, so it's hard to imagine what it must have felt like to see this movie in theaters in Japan in the mid 50s. Its wild success speaks to cinema's - and horror/thriller films' in particular - ability to transfer complex dark feelings into symbols of a cultural sickness and exorcise them collectively. That such a powerful representation of a global tragedy has long since been divorced from its true meaning is a reminder of both film's superhuman reach and the limitations of that reach, the moment when fact becomes legend.

(Hideo Gosha, 1964)

Generally speaking, most well-regarded samurai movies are either sprawling epics like the Samurai trilogy or Kagemusha or veiled social commentary like Harakiri. But the vast majority of samurai movies are meant as pure, rousing entertainment. Three Outlaw Samurai certainly falls into this last category (though, as might be expected, few movies are confined to just one purpose, and the film has a healthy dose of rebellion and tradition to reflect upon).

The film's story is vaguely related to Seven Samurai's archetypal story of samurai committed to protecting the downtrodden, but the premise here is much more straightforward, with a clear villain in the evil magistrate and a specific conflict in his kidnapped daughter. The movie's action, too, is far more contained, both in running time (the movie is less than half as long as the earlier epic) and scope, as much of the fighting takes place between two individuals facing off.

The movie is a solid adventure flick, but beyond any basic appreciation of the action, it comes up a bit short. There's never any doubt of who is going to win the battle, and the magistrate is a boring and generally unthreatening character. The samurai at the center of the film are appealing and fun to watch, but their characters never seem especially original or memorable. I enjoyed Three Outlaw Samurai, but in (an unfair) comparison to a straight-ahead action masterpiece like Yojimbo, it fails to transcend the genre.

(Paul Verhoeven, 1987)

Here's a broad, totally subjective and hyperbolic statement: RoboCop is the best action movie ever made. Let me finish.

Created at the peak of 80s movie excess, RoboCop is simultaneously a hilarious send-up of the genre and a perfect representation of what it does best, both sociologically and viscerally. As directed by Paul Verhoeven, the film takes on a delirious quality, whether it's the Kentucky Fried Movie-style commercials or the strangely haunting sequence in which we are privy to the moments which will eventually be erased from RoboCop's brain when he goes live. The film stands upon a foundation of hatred towards the decade that birthed it, skewering corporate culture, urban initiatives, and the quick fix. But it's also an insanely good time at the movies, complete with over-the-top gore effects which work both as psychological releases and as old-fashioned wtfs.

The film's main villain in terms of generating action is a secondary role player in the plot. Played extremely well by character actor (and That 70s Show dad) Kurtwood Smith, the rapist/cop killer bad guy on the loose is a classic 80s trope stolen from 70s films like Dirty Harry and perfected in early templates for the modern action film like 48 Hours. RoboCop manages to connect this crowd-pleasing baddie to the real villain in the film, the gloriously named Dick Jones, the vice president of the evil corporation at the center of the plot. This switch allows the film to have its shoot-em-up cake and eat it, too, by featuring plenty of action while focusing the animosity on the man behind the curtain.

This focus on the corporate bad guy helps the film deal with the two main political issues the film wants to explore: the merging of public good and private gain and the deterioration of American society in order to enrich the privileged. Both elements were front and center during the 80s in American politics and cinema. The key to dealing with serious issues like this in an action film is to seamlessly infuse them into the plot, and Dick Jones (along with the neighborhood where Murphy lived, the new city that's going to be built, and bombed out alternate world Detroit) helps the film do this very successfully. The film also works on a psychological level though, in a pseudo-Cronenberg way, by keeping at its emotional core the story of a man murdered and pulled from his family being reborn as a cyborg - but, you know, that can love. It manages to never seem sappy in this regard by avoiding making a point about it in even the subtle ways Cronenberg seeks to subvert our conventions, instead saving this aspect of the film for a character arc that ties the film's plot together and keeps viewers invested.

There are few action films that generate solid, original action moments, and even fewer that manage to balance superb action with an intelligent commentary (Verhoeven has made two more of these: Total Recall and the underrated Starship Troopers). The film manages to do this so effortlessly that it seems especially frustrating that so many of the alternatives cannot even pretend to attempt it. There have been other superb action films in the modern era - John Woo's The Killer and Hard Boiled, Terminator 2, and The Matrix come to mind - but none of these movies succeed in every area in which the action film thrives: political or sociological statement, character evolution, vicious satire, and dirty fun fuck-shit-up-ability. In contemporary film, the action movie has evolved into a special effects extravaganza that has allowed comic book movies to come to the forefront thanks to new special effects capabilities. But the action genre is still fundamentally about larger-than-life situations that can be related to an every day existence. It is the fundamental spirit of the action movie that is so in line with RoboCop, and it's what makes the film as relevant, thrilling, and provocative today as when it was first released.

(Masahiro Shinoda, 1965)

I watched Samurai Spy twice, and not because I enjoyed it so much the first time that I couldn't wait to see it again. No, I watched Samurai Spy twice because I had no idea wtf was going on the first time I watched it. After watching it the second time, I'm still not totally clear on what was going on, who had betrayed whom, and why I should care.

A big part of the problem is the foreign origins of the plot. As a Kurosawa fan, I am especially conscious of the difficult relationship between the American viewer and Asian films. Kurosawa's work has been criticized by some viewers as too Western, stuck in a Hollywood mold that is not true to its Asian settings and origins. It's no surprise to these critics that Kurosawa's work has been appropriated quite easily by cinema's mainstream over the years. Watching a film like Samurai Spy reminds you that cultural knowledge - which is often gained through osmosis - can be essential to fully appreciating a film. Understanding the history of Japan in the rudimentary way that all Japanese people effortlessly would seems like it would make the film infinitely more accessible. Add on to that the enormous weight of following all of the foreign names in the film and a viewing become less an enjoyable experience and more a code to be cracked.

This makes the inclusion of the film in Criterion's Rebel Samurai boxset even more interesting. While there are certainly many of the same independent and anti-authoritarian motivations in Shinoda's protagonist here that there are in the protagonists of both Sword of the Beast and Samurai Rebellion, the film itself is much more traditionally insider and stubbornly intent on presenting Japan as its viewer sees it. True, there are some flourishes in the film that would have made Godard proud, and the film's technique surpasses those other films in the set in terms of divorcing itself from the conventional presentation of a samurai film. But the movie is too inside baseball for me to see through to its core. Certain moments  make me think this is my fault - the single shot in which the protagonist is informed that the priest he had met was killed, where the camera pans over to see him running away as the woman who loves him calls after him, comes to mind immediately, as it is a subtly breathtaking sequence. But a plot that features too many names of people we haven't even met being tossed around makes me feel less like I could wrap my brain around the gravity of the moment and more like I am missing something in the translation.

(Hideo Gosha, 1965)

Sword of the Beast is part of Criterion's Rebel Samurai boxset, which also features Kobayashi's masterful Samurai Rebellion. While this movie isn't as impressive as that film, Hideo Gosha nevertheless manages to successfully incorporate anti-establishment themes that dwell on power and personal integrity into an otherwise conventional Western-influenced tale of the lone ranger. Gennosuke is a lowly swordsman in clan, intent on reforming its ways, when he is tricked into killing a minister by his superior. Refusing to sacrifice himself, he sets off to escape, not yet even able to grasp the fact that he no longer has a home. His journey of redemption takes a typical path for the era, but the film has enough appealing twists and entertaining showdowns that the plot becomes just as enjoyable as the themes explored in the film. Like Samurai Rebellion, Sword of the Beast is more samurai film than counter-culture expose. It uses anti-establishment themes because they were the dominant themes of the time, but ultimately its purpose is the same as a film like The Hidden Fortress, whereas a film such as Harakiri is less a samurai picture than a deep exploration of very contemporary issues.

The funny thing about the reformation of the Western/Samurai film - this most traditional of traditional genres, the home of John Wayne and the American dream on one side, Toshiro Mifune and the Japanese honor code on the other - was that the genre fit so easily into its new role, depicting tortured protagonists, splashed with shades of gray. The very same tools used to build up the mirror-image genres - individual achievement in the service of heroic glory, naturalism as a vehicle for mythmaking, archetypal characters that provided relatability - were just as quickly used to tear down the tenets those genres held dear. Now individuals were bucking the system to retain their own integrity, nature was being plundered at the expense of an all-too-real violence that threatened its very existence (think the gold digging here, cutting into the Earth, or most apparently the opening of The Wild Bunch, where a scorpion is carelessly tortured by children), and those same archetypes were being tossed on their head. Hookers don't have a heart of gold in Sword of the Beast, they strangle men to death. The (all but) death of the Western in the 1960s was perhaps the most significant development in American cinema that decade, and the samurai film - though not as permanently killed - suffered a similar fate at the hands of a generation intent on tearing down the system that came before them.

Sword of the Beast represents a worthy installment in this deconstruction because of the protagonist's inability to succumb to his lowly fate. The title inevitably offers up the question of whether Gennosuke was a beast even before he left his clan as an outlaw, and the movie seems to be his attempt to struggle with this dilemma. Regardless of the answer, Sword of the Beast is another highly entertaining samurai entry in the collection.

(Michael Bay, 1996)

The Rock is everything you want it to be and nothing more than you would expect. It's an action movie made in the heart of the 90s, and it typifies the decade's updated tropes for America's broadest genre: unlike similar non-stop testosterone-pumped popcorn garbage (I mean that as a compliment) from the 80s, The Rock is unexpectedly complex. So the villains are more nuanced, the direction flashier but more sophisticated (with the obvious exception of Verhoeven), and the main characters are played by genuinely great actors like Sean Connery, Ed Harris, and Nic Cage (yeah, I said it), fresh off his Oscar for Leaving Las Vegas, a slightly different film.

But then again, the movie treads over all of the usual ground that has made the genre so often maligned. Here is terrible (great) dialog like "losers are always whining about giving it their best shot. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen." There are ridiculous character traits that are passed off as character development, like Cage receiving a Beatles LP at his office because his girlfriend would be mad he spent so much money on one record. And, of course, everywhere are the ridiculous, never-ending action sequences which pop up in the most inexplicable places in the most absurdly super-sized ways. How great is it that not only was there a hummer for Connery to jump into, but Cage got to find a lamborghini rolling down the street?

Still, there's a reason why people love to complain that Armageddon is part of the Criterion Collection, while few people ever say peep about its older brother The Rock sitting right next to it. The movie succeeds at its end goal better than maybe any other mainstream action film in the decade (only another Cage film, Face/Off, comes to mind as competition), mostly because it plays everything so straight-faced and uses the action sequences in such giddy, inoffensive ways that you can't help but be caught up in it.

Perhaps the only flaw in the film is that, in trying to make Harris a more complex character, the filmmakers made him a much less compelling villain because, well, he's kind of right. How wrong would it be for America to use its illegal funds to pay settlements to families of soldiers who lost their lives in secret missions? So maybe complexity in action films isn't just usually not necessary, but actually detrimental to the enjoyment of the movie. Or maybe the admirable attempt here was just too half-hearted. Either way, when a cable car slides down the streets of San Francisco and bursts into flames as it explodes, who really cares whether we see shades of gray in the baddies?

(John Woo, 1989)

I had watched The Killer years ago on VHS, and like far too many Chinese films released on the thankfully now-archaic format, the color quality and subtitles were basically shit. And that's all before you take into account the pan-and-scan, which took Woo's best strengths, his framing, lens-usage, and operatic action, and made them almost unrecognizable.

So I was glad to take this opportunity to have another look at the film, this time on blu-ray. Unfortunately, the rights were taken away from Criterion years ago, and it's really a shame, because while this copy is light years beyond what I watched on VHS, it's still a pretty embarrassing showing for the format of the future. The transfer seems to be almost completely untouched. I doubt they did anything but upres the print they already used for DVD, and the thing looks pretty much like it might have in 2000 on a DVD player. I'm not nearly an expert on video quality (and my TV is only 720p), but this looked like junk even to my untrained eye. Why won't these shitty companies have a heart and give the films back to Criterion, where they would be cared for and given the treatment they deserve?

Anyway, the film itself is a masterpiece of Hong Kong action, an almost non-stop array of shootings and car chases that wallows in its own excess in the way only an 80s film can do. I prefer Hard Boiled (which I actually own), but this film clearly sits next to it as the one-two punch that cemented Woo's legacy as one of the great action directors ever (I also love Face/Off, btw, which of course referenced the climactic dove/church shoot out in its own final fight). If you like action movies, this is as essential as it comes.

(Akira Kurosawa, 1954)

Seven Samurai is another Kurosawa classic, and most likely his most famous movie. I had seen it years ago, but had only remembered two things about it: it was long, and the last shot was of samurai graves, with dust blowing in the wind (late spoiler alert!). In fact, I had remembered it being in letterbox, but it turns out to be in good old 1.33:1. It's just the movie that is expansive, not the ratio.

I prefer a few other Kurosawa movies, but it is hard to argue with just how effective this film is, and how epic the story is. The entire second half consists of the battle to save the village, and it's all spectacular. Mifune, too, is excellent in the film, giving one of his best - and most atypical - performances as the peasant-turned-samurai triangle on the flag.

I'd love to see this one on the big screen, I can't even imagine what it would have been like to see it upon first release.

(Akira Kurosawa, 1958)

Why won't anyone listen to Toshiro Mifune? Just like in the later film Sanjuro, Mifune has to deal with shitty guys that don't listen to him and fuck up his shit for two hours. If I met Toshiro Mifune and he was like, "Yo, I think we should go this way, and don't say anything," I would go that way and shut the fuck up.

The Hidden Fortress is Star Wars from the perspective of RJD2 and C3PO if instead of being robots they were dicks. It's also Star Wars if Star Wars was way more awesome and had less merchandising. While I still prefer three or four other Kurosawa movies, this is a fine action-adventure film that includes one of the most awesome Mifune scenes I've seen. The star rides after a couple of bad guy on horseback, sword drawn, and takes them down. Then he gets off the horse, surrounded by bad guys, and challenges another samurai to a duel. They have an awesome fight (with spears!) and Mifune wins (duh). This guy is fucking awesome. Listen to him.

(Akira Kurosawa, 1962)

This sequel to Yojimbo is not the inarguable masterpiece that film was, but it's a great time nevertheless. The biggest hurdle to a sequel was the fact that we now know from the very beginning that Mifune's central samurai is not in it for the money, but is instead a good person. The solution is very smart: make the good guys and the bad guys clearly delineated, but make the good guys idiots that Mifune has to corral. Furthermore, the bad guys get a samurai of their own, a "tiger" in a world of cats, as Mifune says.

This all makes for a film that is extremely entertaining and satisfying, but it lacks that extra something that makes Yojimbo so great. A worthy sequel, though.