Back when I was being paid—or at least reimbursed for the cost of attendance—to review movies, I used to love the point near the end of the year when I'd think back to how I'd be arranging my Top Ten list. Now that I barely see enough new releases a year to craft such an annual list, I couldn't help but get a little giddy about the thought of putting together the imminent Best of the Decade-type lists were going to be getting near the end of this year.
Back before some of us got married, had kids or got arrested multiple times for driving under the influence, we used to play bumper pool all the time. One night we actually took the time to begin a Yahoo Group site for our organization, as though we would recruit similar bumper pool enthusiasts. And then, of course, we promptly began to use the site's message board to post often ill-advised comments of a personal nature that ultimately hurt somebody's feelings (read: usually the most metrosexual—and thus, least interested in the actual bumper pool—member of the group).
During one particular afternoon, I posted a hungover group of lists about the 1990s, a collection of "Top Fives." I found this post the other day and realized that I'd probably still stand by the five films I picked. And then, I thought, I wondered what would happen if I expanded the list to the usual 10 movies.
Of course, I also remembered that what I hated doing after experiencing the joy of putting the list together was trying to also have 10 accompanying brief synopses that did not repeat the same line of critical thought (i.e. pick one "breakthrough" performance, but any more than that is overusing the idea and thus invalidating your opinion and overzealous need to anoint one, etc.). So that said, I'll probably end up doing that anyway and these movies are all now more than a decade old, so excuse me if my comments don't necessarily lay out the plot for you, OK? I'm just trying to crank this shit out.
And that said, I guess my immediate thought is "How has this film aged, and why is it still as good to me now as it was 10 (+ in most cases) years ago?":
10. The People vs. Larry Flynt (1996)
The movie starred Woody Harrelson, but the decision to cast Courtney Love was what I remember there being hooplah about it—made all the more complicated by the fact that she was actually good in it. Considering that Madonna was also getting a lead actress push for "Evita," there was an imminent backlash against the idea that stars of MTV videos were just going to take up some acting and start collecting Oscars. Of course, neither ended up being nominated.
Beyond all the attention that Love was earning the movie, there was the fact that the Academy Award-winning director of "Amadeus" was putting out a film that feminists were accusing of glorifying Larry Flynt. And because it was a biopic, there was the usual complaints about how much of the man's life was actually there (i.e. no mention of Flynt's first three wives, etc.).
But few could deny the magnificence of the performances Forman received—not just from the aforementioned leads or the always brilliant Edward Norton, but all around a wide cast of characters that created a movie with an overhwhelming number of comical scenes that still illicit full-out gut-clutching laughter to this day.
And even many of the film's nitpicking detractors found it difficult to deny that the First Amendment issue at the heart of the film—a representation of the battle between sexuality and purity in America that still goes on today—captures the very essence of free speech. It was Flynt who helped mainstream pornography, having done time in prison and suffering paralyzation while fighting with the belief that, in a line oft-quoted by the critics, "If they'll protect a scumbag like me, then they'll protect all of you."
9. Being John Malkovich (1999)
"Original" seemed to be the word that got used a lot to describe Spike Jonze's surreal feature—but many people were left without any words to describe what they'd seen. The endlessly imaginitive script from Charlie Kaufman went far beyond the simple suggestions that "Malkovich" was just a wry jab about virtual reality or celebrity worship. Indeed, the film couldn't have done better in capturing the fascination we'd all have with what it would be like to be another person.
And while it would be stupid to say I couldn't see anybody else in the lead but John Malkovich, I mean that I don't think the film would have been anywhere near as effective had it been about any other celebrity. Because Malkovich strikes us as such a self-effacing performer, it only makes the moment all the more delirious when he embarks on one of the decade's most memorable scenes and enters the portal to his own brain.
And even if detractors held some minor reservations with some of the backward logic Kaufman used toward the film's end, its final underwater shot still leaves me feeling uncommonly haunted.
8. Hoop Dreams (1994)
Perhaps you were like me and entered your first viewing of "Hoop Dreams" thinking that while you were in store for a few rough moments, the film would certainly adhere to the usual triumph of the common sports fairy tale. But this documentary that grabbed attention by not getting much from the Oscars that year was a stunning work of intense editing, one that resulted in that rarest type of film: a nearly three-hour running time that doesn't seem like enough.
To watch "Hoop Dreams" though, is an incredible experience in which the viewer must endure competing feelings of hope and despair throughout the five years of life it captures from its two high school subjects. And even now, it's harder to tell which moment hits me harder: William Gates trying to convince himself that he can't end up like his older brother, Curtis, a former high school star and now a tragic figure; or Arthur Agee having his father end a game of basketball so he can complete a drug deal.
There were certainly some other great documentaries released in the 1990s, but "Hoop Dreams" stands out to me as the decade's strongest example of a case where "you can't make this stuff up."
7. Schindler's List (1993)
I won't reach for a comparative example, but "Schindler's List" is sort of the "universal truth movie" for the decade. And by that, I mean a movie who's quality was so immediately recognized and accepted, that it strikes me as pointless to try and essentially tell you what you do not already know. If anything, you might be asking me why this isn't ranked higher.
But then again, anything this widely accepted has to invite some sort of backlash. And so maybe you weren't crazy about that ending.
"Schindler's List" is the only film on this list that I do not own, but it's power never fails to amaze me. For some of the complaints I've had about other works from Steven Spielberg over the years, I think he's remarkably gifted at using violence. It's evident here and, more recently, in "Munich." The overdose of gore and splatter, cuts and jumps from most directors nowadays isn't even close to the effect that I find here, where a number of shots or simple moments with a seemingly minimal or quick act strike me harder than I'm prepared for.
I don't know how you put into words the proper praise for a film that you feel captures so much emotion of one of the most horrific events of the last decade, other than to say that it is an immediate classic almost certain to be the new standard by which all other films striving to become historical accompaniments will be judged.
6. The Player (1992)
You'd never guess that one of the decade's best genuine thrillers would also be one of its sharpest satires, and yet there was Robert Altman reminding everyone just how it was done. "The Player" was the best film Altman had made since ... well, before I was born.
If you're going to take a swing at somebody, you might as well make it count and in "The Player," Altman never fails to dazzle you with what he's able to do. The film's memorable eight-minute opening shot is a reminder of how the qualities that became distinctly Altmanesque are still used best when employed by the master, such as the overlapping dialogue and dozens of cameos that almost create a feel of eavesdropping.
When Tim Robbins' movie studio VP, Griffin Mill, suddenly finds himself trying to evade arrest for murdering the wrong writer—in addition to romancing his fiancee—it's hardly any wonder that we find ourselves sympathizing with him to get away with murder. The ending's sarcastically full-circle feel proves to cynically reinforce the dreams made and reinforced by the very entertainment structure Altman's just skewered.
5. Fargo (1996)
Perhaps I'm the sucker for always citing this when asked what my favorite Coen Brothers film is, but it still strikes me as the most solid selection from a highly reputable body of work. You wouldn't get an argument from me if you selected, say, "Blood Simple" or their recent Best Picture winner, "No Country for Old Men." "Miller's Crossing" was probably my favorite film of the first year of this decade.
In "Fargo," however, it's Frances McDormand's performance as Marge Gunderson that brings the heart to what would have otherwise been another ransom plot gone awry. It's McDormand's pregnant police chief who gives "Fargo" the moral compass it needs to counteract the blood-splattered humor.
And there's a lot of humor to be found in "Fargo," to be sure. (You never really do think of a wood chipper the same way.)
I still view the Coens characterization of the Midwest and its residents to be an appreciative one, warmer than most of the film's critics believed. The Minnesota dialogue is distinctively Coen, but I think the film's final scene effectively celebrates the human life most haters seem to think the filmmakers have always taken for granted.
4. Boogie Nights (1997)
Too bad for Spielberg that a year before "Saving Private Ryan" was released and audiences were rattled by his depiction of D-Day, we were all probably still coming down from seeing Alfred Molina sing along to Rick Springfield while firecrackers were going off. It was the most glorious scene of the decade, but a symbolic representation of the life that P.T. Anderson brought to each scene of his porn epic.
And just as Courtney Love and Madonna were mentioned earlier, how odd is it now to think that at one time it was questioned how well Mark Wahlberg could perform? Indeed, "Boogie Nights" has a huge cast without a false note, but it's a testament to how good Wahlberg was here that "Marky Mark" seems like a distant memory.
Then again, so too does the spirit of the 1970s, a time which Anderson captures beautifully in his admittedly dark second-half transition to the 1980s. Because the movie is somewhat about pornography, there's the obvious metaphorical implication of the transition to videotape in the film. But beyond that is a larger sense of a care-free optimism in personal indulgence and satisfaction; it's a feeling, the film suggests, that became an addiction.
3. The Truman Show (1998)
And speaking of the reputation an actor once had, I still remember the lukewarm (at best) reaction to Peter Weir's masterpiece upon its release. "It wasn't funny," was the response I often heard. Considering that Jim Carrey at the time was better known (and more popular) for "Ace Ventura," "Fire Marshall Bill" and his basic reputation as a slapstick caricature, his star turn here was too much for some people to swallow.
You'd hope people have caught up by now, because it didn't take long for it to become obvious how ahead of its time "The Truman Show" really was. I mean, could you imagine a strange world in which the main character was the subject of a 24-hour television show since the day of his birth—and a nation of people glued to their televisions watching it, reciting catch phrases and debating romantic interests?
But "The Truman Show" wasn't just a clever reflection of the audience probably paying to see it. And even beyond the way Weir brilliantly makes an evil world feel like something straight out of Disney, Jim Carrey's Truman Burbank is the ideal represenation of perhaps the 90s' best example of a characteristic that is shared by all great films: the human spirit. It's only fitting that Truman spends the entire movie trying to find a fourth wall to break through, and all the more sweeter when he finally does.
2. Pulp Fiction (1994)
In all fairness, I cannot think of a more
important movie to come out of the 1990s. But without diminishing what I said about "Schindler's List," it needs to be remembered what movies were like before "Pulp Fiction" came out.
Hollywood talent rarely did the art house circuit because the line separating the mainstream and the independent features was so clearly defined. While Quentin Tarantino's classic might have spawned a litany of piss-poor imitators and wannabes, it also dissolved the notion that no movie was too small for big stars.
Oh, and it didn't hurt that "Pulp Fiction" was an exhilarating shot of adrenaline straight to every moviegoer's heart, a masterful direction of tone in black comedy and genuine suspense that felt genius in how it borrowed from its influences while still feeling completely original. The success of Taranatino's dialogue and style earned him the usual backlash when many tried to unsuccessfully copy the three films-in-one sort of feel, but each groan-inducing effort to replicate that rare sort of visceral reaction we all initially had to "Pulp Fiction" actually stands as more proof of how priceless the film truly is.
1. In the Company of Men (1997)
Because nothing has brought me more joy than each person that has forever questioned my judgment and still, to this day, doesn't let me forget recommending Neil LaBute's blackest-of-black comedies to them.
I remember championing the film during its release year, because the very independent film (it was shot in something like two weeks on a budget about the size of a semester's college tuition) was the polar opposite of the heavy-hitter that year, "Titanic." But additionally, "In the Company of Men" was remarkable in how speechless it left me after my initial viewing that summer.
And that was just when I
thought I knew what the movie was about.
The way it's presented by LaBute, "In the Company of Men" appears to be about how two average white-collar guys decide to both romance and then simultaneously dump an unsuspecting, down-on-her-luck female. That aspect of the plot—which works despite its predictability because the viewer still can't help but get sucked into—is not, of course, what the movie is truly about.
I still consider LaBute's to be the most masterful sleight of hand I saw in the entire decade. For even now, when I explain to these same people who for years have voiced the usual misinterpretation about the film (misogyny?), it's still sort of a sick joy for me to watch the film with someone who's seeing it for the very first time. Only then do you realize how well LaBute really executed the concept, which was to immediately introduce a premise that would shock a large segment of the audience, and then cleverly hide the hints to the movie's real motive throughout where only a select few might notice. The end result is a film that some will love and some will hate, but nobody emerges without feeling something.
Welcome to The BMC Vault, yet another tag recently created that will hopefully provide future excuses to post. Since so many online publications decide to be dicks and not leave some of their really great older stuff available for the sake of our posterity, I'm trying to lend a helping hand in the name of humanity. Requests for future installments can be sent here. 
