Thursday, December 25, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Best films of 2003

Anthony Allison

As we cried in September, after another dismal movie summer, we're mad as hell and we're not going to take this anymore.

We're mad about the fallacious notion that films are Seabiscuity thoroughbreds in some cinematic horse race or that there can ever be such a thing as one "best picture." Pitting Lost in Translation against Finding Nemo is patently absurd.

We're nauseated by integrity-challenged quote whores who sell their souls to have their "reviews" quoted in movie ads.

And we're sick of a system that holds back the "quality" movies for the "awards season." That's when--ignoring Shattered Glass' reminder about the importance of journalistic ethics--media folks are tacitly expected to conspire with studio flacks in helping promote movies that either are megabudget behemoths requiring no further publicity (The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Cold Mountain) or films that, having had their one-week Oscar-qualifying run in New York and L.A., may not reach Las Vegas for weeks.

Call us old-fashioned, but we still believe in the quaint notion that a "year-end roundup" is supposed to be, well, a roundup of the year's highlights, not a sycophantic preview of coming attractions.

So here's an alphabetical list of some of this year's best films, with their Vegas release dates: About Schmidt (Jan. 3), Adaptation (Jan. 10), Chicago (Jan. 3), Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (Jan. 24), The Hours (Jan. 17), The Pianist (Jan. 10), The Quiet American (Feb. 14), Rabbit-Proof Fence (Feb. 7), Talk to Her (Jan. 17).

And some other memorable offerings from this movie year in Vegas:

Bubba Ho-tep and Schmelvis: Searching for the King's Jewish Roots. Who knew that Elvis was moldering in a Texas rest home, or that he was Jewish? Thanks to Bruce Campbell's pitch-perfect impersonation, Bubba's existential ramblings ("Is there finally and really anything to life other than food, shit and sex?") are funny and poignant. And Schmelvis, the highlight of the Las Vegas Celebration of Jewish Film (which returns to the Suncoast Jan. 15) gets kudos for criticizing itself--when documentarian Evan Beloff's buddy, Jonathan Goldstein, questions his motives: Is Beloff merely trying to incite anti-Semitism in Memphis?

Capturing the Friedmans. Truth is stranger than fiction, and Andrew Jarecki's documentary about a notorious pedophilia scandal wisely lets viewers decide what the truth is. A shocking indictment of our fatally flawed criminal justice system.

The Day My God Died and The Revolution Will Not Be Televised. Programmer Trevor Groth returned to the CineVegas film festival with a mixed bag of Sundance rejects. Breakfast with Hunter was highly anticipated. But Wayne Ewing's film on Hunter S. Thompson turned out to be a mundane, hagiographic profile of the godfather of gonzo journalism, who made a spectacle of himself with rambling, incoherent, post-screening remarks. Better were The Day, Andrew Levine's harrowing exposé of the child sex slave trade between Nepal and India, and The Revolution, Kim Bartley and Donnacha O'Brian's gripping, vérité record of the April 2002 coup that ousted Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. The film's revelations about the U.S. government's hypocrisy and the way mainstream American media willingly parrot White House propaganda are sobering indeed.

Elephant. No one knows exactly why Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold made the unthinkable psychic leap, April 20, 1999, from disaffected teen normalcy to mass murder. And Gus Van Sant's nail-biting exploration of a Columbine-style massacre eschews pat explanations and half-baked theories. A chilling reminder that it's not only the Bin Ladens we need fear, but the terrorists in our midst too.

Tupac: Resurrection. Lauren Lazin's portrait of Tupac Shakur, gunned down in a Vegas drive-by shooting, September 7, 1996, takes a balanced look at the misogynistic rapper, who reveled in his "thug life" persona but also understood his responsibility as a potentially positive influence on his fans. Food for thought next time you're sitting, as Pac and Death Row Records impresario Marion "Suge" Knight were, at the corner of Flamingo Road and Koval Lane.

Jeannette Catsoulis

Since observant readers of our star system will already know that Elephant and Lost in Translation and 21 Grams are on my list, I've decided to focus on the other great movies silently hovering behind Russell Crowe, Nemo, and Peter Jackson. One of these, The Fog of War, has not yet opened in Vegas but will almost certainly appear in the New Year.

The Dancer Upstairs. Alternately elegant and electrifying, John Malkovich's supremely confident directorial debut follows a troubled Latin American police lieutenant as he stalks a violent revolutionary--and a sexy ballerina. Part political thriller, part character study, and with a riveting central performance from Javier Bardem, Dancer is a hypnotic examination of the tension between professional commitment and personal sacrifice.

Dirty Pretty Things. Stephen Frears' darkly comic thriller-cum-social melodrama faces the plight of London's undocumented immigrants with unwavering humanity. A Nigerian doctor, hauntingly played by Chiwetel Ejiofor, survives as a daytime cab driver and nighttime hotel clerk, where he uncovers a ghastly secret--and a means of ending his servitude. Vividly intense, Dirty Pretty Things conceals its politics beneath humor but never permits us to forget them.

The Fog of War. Turning his camera on former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, documentarian Errol Morris neither hangs nor pardons the man many claim was the "chief architect' of the Vietnam War. Instead, he lets him talk, sometimes tearfully, and convict or exonerate himself. It's our call, and it's a tough one.

Kill Bill: Vol. 1. Forget the unsatisfying ending; Tarantino's epic revenge fantasy, merging spaghetti Westerns and martial-arts movies, is one of the most magnificent cinematic spectacles of the year. As The Bride, hot on the trail of the man who slaughtered her husband, Uma Thurman gives the most fiendishly energetic performance by a leading lady ever committed to film. Cameron Diaz, eat your heart out.

The Magdalene Sisters. A furious and unflinching exposé of the abuse suffered by "wayward" girls in Dublin laundries run by Magdalene nuns. Condemned by the Vatican, actor-director Peter Mullan's disturbing film flirts with extremism but is ultimately grounded by the sincerity of its performances. As the sadistic Mother Superior, Geraldine McEwan will give chills to believer and heathen alike.

The Man Without a Past. A minimalist and surreal romantic comedy from Finland's Aki KaurismŠki, with a poor, hulking metalworker for a hero and emotional resurrection for a theme. Rescued from amnesia by a community of squatters, the hero discovers that love among the ruins can be beautiful, too.

Raising Victor Vargas. Shot in shimmering naturalism by cinematographer Tim Orr, Peter Sollett's debut feature follows the hesitant romance of two 16-year-olds in New York's Lower East Side. With rare erotic candor and supremely unself-conscious stars, the movie conveys the ache of first love with wit, honesty and a sweetness that's never cloying.

Stevie. A textbook victim of abuse and dysfunction, Stephen Fielding was mentored by filmmaker Steve James in 1985. Ten years later, James returns to find his ex-"little brother" adrift from family and accused of molestation of a minor. A courageous, mesmerizing film that subtly illuminates the ethical quandary at the heart of the documentary process itself.

Thirteen. In her stunning first feature, director Catherine Hardwicke reveals the vulnerability and recklessness of teenage girls faced with the enticements of advertising. Hysteria is balanced by the authenticity of the film's relationships and a visceral Holly Hunter as a mother dealing with forces utterly beyond her control.

Finally, one of the many great films that skipped Vegas completely: Friday Night (Vendredi soir). A woman, a car, a traffic jam, a sexy stranger. Enough said.

Mike Prevatt

(An alphabetical list that, shades of This Is Spinal Tap, unashamedly goes to 11.)

American Splendor. An absorbing, format-bending work that mixes the biopic with documentary and comic book elements, in telling the story of the Eeyore-esque Harvey Pekar, who based his sad-sack life on the cult strip of the same name.

Angels in America. Technically, this movie never saw a Vegas movie theater, but HBO nonetheless made one of the most compelling artistic endeavors of the year--a six-hour fantasia on AIDS and gay life in the '80s, based on Tony Kushner's groundbreaking play. Even keeping "The Sopranos" and "Six Feet Under" in mind, there has never been stronger evidence for HBO's superiority over the four TV broadcast networks--and, in this case, the big Hollywood studios.

Capturing the Friedmans. The big Hollywood breakthrough this year was the documentary, and this accidental cinéma vérité masterpiece--about a family shattered by sex abuse charges--was the most gripping of the lot.

Elephant. In his Palme d'Or-winning meditation on school shootings, Gus Van Sant employs Kubrick-esque long-walk shots (see his other 2003 release, Gerry), forcing the audience to follow 10 students shuffling around their suburban campus, in an attempt to convey, then brutally upend, the idea of high school being a sanctuary from real world evil. He smartly avoids explaining what exactly motivates a teenager to such extremes, and when the Big Moment finally comes, Elephant proves to be as terrifying and unnervingly realistic as it is psychologically complex. An extremely powerful film.

Finding Nemo. It's easy to take Pixar, the computer-animation standard bearer, for granted given its perfect track record. But this aquatic charmer--stolen by Ellen DeGeneres as a forgetful, quippy Regal Blue Tang--has no equal even among its company's own oeuvre.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. It would be the Academy's most criminal oversight should the most exhilarating installment of the LOTR saga not sweep the Oscars in February. Like its heroic hobbits, this work bows to no one.

Lost in Translation. Sofia Coppola is two for two in the indie masterpiece department, with the help of Oscar hopeful Bill Murray. Stylish and emotionally involving.

Mystic River. Aside from the LOTR ending, the hankie moment of the year comes from Sean Penn's uncontainable reaction to his daughter's grisly death, in this tightly crafted drama from Clint Eastwood.

Shattered Glass. You don't have to be a journalist to feel the sting of Stephen Glass' ethical lapses at the New Republic, chronicled in this unexpectedly thrilling film.

28 Days Later. Trainspotting's Danny Boyle revisits and reinvents the zombie horror flick to devastatingly realistic effect. The year's most surprising popcorn flick.

The Whale Rider. Another imported sleeper. Pubescent feminist rebellion has never been filmed so beautifully (LOTR isn't the only Kiwi-backdropped gem this year). And serve up an Oscar for young Keisha Castle-Hughes.

The Johnny Come Lately Syndrome. If you haven't already put these late Vegas-comers in your Netflix rental queue, here's a good a reminder as any: Talk to Her, The Pianist, Chicago and The Hours; plus two 2002 releases you may have missed: Bowling for Columbine and Roger Dodger.

Conversely, as we have films that were technically ineligible for 2002's year-end lists, we naturally have films that, as far as Vegas is concerned, are actually 2004 films. There's France's The Triplets of Belleville, one of the most imaginative and clever animated flicks in recent years, about a grandmother's tireless search for her kidnapped cyclist grandson; the unassuming, Office Space-meets-Tinseltown satire New Suit, regarding a fake script that becomes the buzz of Hollywood; the multiple-identity, multiple-frame and superbly acted British drama AKA; and the engrossing documentary Brotha Outside: The Life of Bayert Russell, recounting the story of Martin Luther King Jr.'s openly gay righthand man.