55. Distant Voices, Still Lives (Terence Davies, 1988) was the British arthouse director's first real feature - and quite unlike anything cinema had seen before. Set in the '30s and '40s, the film is like a family photo-album brought to life, with all the misery slung back in. It shows Davies' eldest siblings united by group sing-alongs but terrorised by their abusive father (Pete Postlethwaite). A savage memoir of domestic violence, it evokes an uneasy nostalgia, reinforced by snippets of archive song. A spellbinding opening sequence sets the tone. "All the music, every track(ing shot] and every dissolve – everything – goes into the script," Davies said, when I interviewed him in 2007. "I wrote the opening of Distant Voices, Still Lives and I knew there was something wrong. The shipping forecast was in there, and my mother's song, 'I Get the Blues', because she always sang that song. But there was something missing. I was listening to the radio and on Radio 3 one lunchtime the concert finished early and they played Jessye Norman singing 'There's a Man Goin' Round Takin' Names' and I knew that was the missing element. That part of filmmaking has got to be instinctive. Sometimes you hear something and think: 'Yes, that's what it needs.'" Based on family stories told by Davies' elder siblings, the movie has the structure of memory, its vivid vignettes linked not by time but by theme. That meandering narrative gives the film a slow-burning power that's bolstered by the cruel jolts and moments of transcendent joy so typical of the director's work. It's harsher than Davies' follow-up, The Long Day Closes (which is coming up later), but similarly poetic, with only a slight over-reliance on pub-based sing-alongs in the second half tempering its spell.

Favourite bit: The 'Love Is a Many Splendoured Thing' sequence: from a sea of umbrellas during a rainstorm, the camera travels into the theatre, where two of the family are blubbing at the film. Then, with the music still running, we cut to a new scene: two figures moving away from the camera. For a second you're not sure what you're seeing, then the men crash through a plate-glass roof. Davies, notoriously critical of his own work, picked it out as being among his favourite scenes from his films in the 2007 interview.

See also: The Neon Bible, Davies' first venture away from autobiography, a stunning take on John Kennedy Toole's book, set in 1940s Louisiana. It's fanciful, dreamlike and virtuosic, with an intensely moving death scene that ranks among cinema's greatest. Davies describes it as "a transitional work". His Trilogy, comprising the short films Children (1976), Madonna and Child (1980) and Death and Transfiguration (1983), follows a Liverpool man from cradle to grave. It's an hour-and-a-half in the company of a depressive, self-loathing homosexual. The bleakest film in Davies' canon, it's gruelling and confrontational, with a surprisingly graphic treatment of sexual degradation. It culminates in Davies' alter-ego coughing himself to death, alone.



54. The Killer (John Woo, 1989) is John Woo's masterpiece: it's more ambitious and explosive than A Better Tomorrow, has a stronger storyline than Hard-Boiled and is just a very lot better than Face-Off. Borrowing from Le Samourai (#75 in the list) - and with a hint of our #51 film - it stars Chow Yun-Fat as an assassin who blinds a singer during a botched job. So he scraps his plan to retire and carries on taking assignments, trying to scrape together enough money to pay for a sight-restoring operation. On his tail is cop Danny Lee Sau-Yi, who's flummoxed by Chow's unexpected shows of ethics, like risking capture to take a girl caught in the crossfire of a shoot-out to a hospital. A grudging friendship develops, leading to a battle to the death with the Triads: think scattering doves, thousands of candles and statues being shot to smithereens. Impassioned performances, a superb musical score and action sequences that recall The Wild Bunch in their visual glory and emotional impact make this one of the best actioners ever made.

Favourite bit: Woo's take on the "cops and crooks, they're pretty similar" chestnut (no they're not, they're completely different). To the strains of the terrific main theme, the camera pans around the cop, sitting in Chow's chair. Then Woo repeats the shot, with Chow in the chair. It's marvellously effective, and unexpectedly moving.

See also: Woo's 1986 movie, A Better Tomorrow, in which two brothers - one a cop and one a hood - wind up on the same side. Chow is excellent in his breakthrough role, playing the hood's best friend, matched by the late Leslie Cheung as the officer. The storyline might not be new, but the treatment is, and it introduces many of the themes the director nailed in The Killer: friendship, honour and the scope for redemption.



53. The Lives of a Bengal Lancer (Henry Hathaway, 1935) - We've been covering some pretty well-known movies in the last couple of weeks, but here's one you might not be familiar with. It's the lighthearted imperial yarn par excellence, and a key influence on the genre's other highspots: Gunga Din, Soldiers Three and The Man Who Would Be King. It was also Hitler's favourite film, but we'll play that down, shall we? Gary Cooper and Franchot Tone are officers who appoint themselves the guardians of their superior's cowardly son (Richard Cromwell), whilst trying to quell rebellion on the northwest frontier of India. The interplay between Cooper and Tone is delightful, the plotting intelligent and the climax wrenchingly powerful, though I won't say anymore than that.

Favourite bit: The snake-charming sequence, in which Tone goads Cooper by endlessly playing a pipe, only to summon a most unwelcome visitor.

See also: Gary Cooper was a great star and an underrated actor. Catch the marvellously funny screwball comedy Bluebeard's Eighth Wife, or the other-worldly romantic fantasy, Peter Ibbetson. Franchot Tone rarely got the chance to show off his tremendous talent, having moved to Hollywood following great stage success, but gave a tremendous performance as the dying President in Advise & Consent. The film is overshadowed, however, by the remarkably similar (though more cynical) film The Best Man, released the following year, with Lee Tracy (my favourite actor) even better than Tone as the ailing main guy.



52. The Railway Children (Lionel Jeffries, 1970) is a modern British classic, capable of reducing 25-year-old journalists with curly hair to tears. And real men too. Jenny Agutter is Bobbie, the oldest of three siblings who move to the country after their dad is accused of espionage and become "the railway children" – solving problems big and small with the aid of the station master and the passing passengers. It's colourful, dreadfully moving and very British, with appealing performances across the board and fine location shooting.

Favourite bit: "Daddy! My daddy!"

See also: Agutter's next film: Walkabout. No discussion of visually sumptuous movies is complete without a nod to Nicolas Roeg's spellbinding ramble through the Australian outback. Agutter and Luke Roeg (the director's son) are siblings forced to fend for themselves after their father's suicide. They meet David Gulpilil, an Aborigine midway through a ritual estrangement from his tribe, who they hope will guide them to safety. There's little plot, but striking cinematography and a subtext of burgeoning sexuality make it like nothing else in cinema.



51. City Lights (Charles Chaplin, 1931) - There are few moments in cinema more moving than the climax of City Lights, in which a flower girl realises that the benefactor who saved her sight is not the millionaire she believed, but Chaplin's penniless tramp. The film was made four years into the sound era, but the director had steadfastly stuck to silence, aside from his superb, maiden self-penned score and some sound effects. In an enjoyable spin on the "you're my besht mate, you are" gag, the plot finds The Little Tramp making friends with a millionaire who only recognises him when he's hammered. Our hero tries to use his influence to get together enough money for a blind flower girl's eye operation, while telling her he's a wealthy man. When the millionaire disappears, Chaplin turns to street-sweeping and then boxing (recalling his classic short, The Champion) in his efforts to raise the funds. It's not as laugh-out-loud funny as The Kid or Modern Times, but it's unquestionably the apex of Chaplin's career, with an emotional clout that's unmatched in silent comedy.

Favourite bit: That ending.

See also: Chaplin's Modern Times, which takes dead-aim at the ills of '30s society, doubling as a touching romance. Everyone else had converted to sound in the late '20s, but Chaplin wouldn't speak on screen until The Great Dictator in 1940, which is frankly a bit rubbish. Buster Keaton was every bit Chaplin's equal (and not such a tremendous bighead) - I've recommended Sherlock, Jr. already, but Our Hospitality, The General, The Cameraman and Seven Chances are almost as good. The third great clown, Harold Lloyd, is seen to best effect in the enchanting 1927 comedy The Kid Brother.


Top 100 Movies

The list so far:

#s 100 to 91: featuring His Girl Friday, Stand by Me and The Red Balloon
#s 90 to 86, including Five Easy Pieces, Ghost World and Confessions of Boston Blackie
#s 85 to 81, where you'll find The Edge of the World, Judge Priest and A Thousand Clowns
#s 80 to 76: including The Purple Rose of Cairo, Singin' in the Rain and Lawrence of Arabia
#s 75 to 71: boasting Le Samourai, Kiss Me Kate and Swing Time
#s 70 to 66: in which you can read about Naked, Casablanca and Chinatown
#s 65 to 61: including The Night of the Hunter, Hail the Conquering Hero and Peeping Tom

Thanks for reading, more next week. Don't forget to sing the theme song.