Top 100 Movies

I think that title will do. Over the next dozen or so weeks I'll count down my 100 favourite films, as cut down from a laughably overlong shortlist of 280 (whoops). Tons of favourites fell by the wayside, but that's inevitable. The 100 that remain include wartime documentaries, screwball comedies, Hong Kong action movies, classic Westerns and a handful of choice B movies. Among the stars represented are Judy Garland, Henry Fonda, Matthew Macfadyen, Chester Morris, Klaus Kinski, Greta Garbo, Marlon Brando and Paul Newman. And Ben Stiller. If I list all the people in all 100 movies, that could get a little tiresome, so I suppose we'll begin...


100. His Girl Friday (Howard Hawks, 1940) is among the greatest comedies to emerge from classic Hollywood. Cary Grant was the most gifted light comedian on the planet throughout the late '30s and early '40s. Here he resembles a whirlwind, playing Walter Burns, an unscrupulous newspaper editor scheming to keep ex-wife - and star reporter - Hildy Johnson (Rosalind Russell) from walking out on him and the paper. Meanwhile, corrupt local lawmakers plot to put to death an insane convict (John Qualen). This is a smart variation on the classic Hecht-MacArthur play 'The Front Page', with furiously fast banter that's the stuff of legend, and a perfect ensemble. Grant and Russell are superb, Ralph Bellamy simply wonderful reprising his Awful Truth routine (as a hapless hayseed), and the supporting cast is stuffed with great character actors, B-movie regulars and cult favourites. There's the great mouse-like John Ford stock player John Qualen, bug-eyed coward Porter Hall - who lent his villainous presence to films as diverse as The General Died at Dawn and The Miracle of Morgan's Creek, Helen Mack (Lee Tracy's leading lady in You Belong to Me), multi-purpose ethnic hood and future director Abner Biberman, the voice of Jiminy Cricket - Ukulele Ike, and laconic comic Roscoe Karns, as well as Alma Kruger and Gene Lockhart. It's warm and funny, but also devilishly satirical, with plenty to say about the role of press and police and the dehumanisation of adulthood. Moving along at the cracking pace associated with directed Howard Hawks, it's one of the most enjoyable films you'll ever see - and gets better with each viewing.

Favourite bit: Grant hides convict John Qualen in a wooden desk and tells him to keep covered unless he hears three taps. A gaggle of reporters and lawmen burst in and Grant starts grandstanding. In a fit of pique he thumps the desk three times...

See also: For more screwball Grant goodness, try The Awful Truth, My Favourite Wife and Bringing Up Baby - the latter teamed him with Hawks for the first time. Like newsroom movies? Bogart plays a crusading editor in the cynical, marvellous Deadline - U.S.A..



99. I Know Where I'm Going! (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1945) is a Hebridean romance with the greatest stock plot going: a girl seeks security in the form of a wealthy husband, then falls in love with a pauper. Here the girl is Wendy Hiller and the man is Roger Livesey, playing the exquisitely-named Torquil MacNeil. Heading for the Isle of Kiloran - where's she's all set to wed a middle-aged industrialist - the pair are stranded together on Mull, and the heady atmosphere begins to cast its spell. It's wonderfully scripted and directed, with a mesmerising evocation of island life, and delightful chemistry between the leads. It's also somewhat reminiscent of Powell's first great film - The Edge of the World.

Favourite bit: Torquil attempts to shake off a centuries-old curse by entering Moy Castle.

See also: Local Hero, in which a Scottish village works its magic on an American interloper.



98. Pickup on South Street (Samuel Fuller, 1953) is my favourite Sam Fuller film. A former tabloid reporter, he always used grabby intros, and Pickup starts with a classic: a worldless subway sequence that sets up our story. Cocky pickpocket Richard Widmark lifts a purse from commie sympathiser Candy (Jean Peters), unaware he's nabbed a strip of microfiche containing state secrets. The commies want him. The feds want him. And him? Well, he wants 25 grand. Widmark is great, but it's Thelma Ritter who walks off with the film, delivering an unforgettable characterisation as a police informer whose sole ambition is to avoid a pauper's burial. This masterpiece mixes human drama with Cold War thriller and provides a vivid evocation of New York City, depicted here as a festering hellhole. It also teaches you how to read microfilm, which I've found very useful when looking at old newspapers.

Favourite bit: Ritter's heartbreaking monologue, as good a piece of screen acting as you'll ever see. "I have to go on making a living so I can die…"

See also: Forty Guns, a vivid, thematically and stylistically outrageous Western, and Fuller's second greatest work.



97. Stand by Me (Rob Reiner, 1986) is one hell of a tearjerker, a slice of pure Americana that joins four 12-year-olds on a weekend trip to find a dead body. It's a heightened piece of nostalgia, ruminating on the nature of friendship, that's aided by lovely scoring, superb performances by the kids and a script that manages to be both clichéd and utterly profound. Superficially defined by a single characteristic: brainy, eccentric, fat and bad, the youngsters' characters gradually unfold across the 90 minutes, as they contend with leeches, hoodlums and unexpected trains en route to the corpse. The phenomenally gifted River Phoenix is the standout, playing the "bad" kid, who breaks down in tears in the woods as he recalls being accused of stealing. Reiner's movie is endlessly enjoyable, packed with memorable set-pieces and one-liners and possessing a rare and fuzzily pleasurable humanism.

Favourite bit: I'm a sucker for a monologue (see #96) - how about Phoenix's tear-stained tale of woe?

See also: Phoenix followed this with a slew of mesmerising performances, in films as varied and fine as The Mosquito Coast and Running on Empty.



96. Ikiru (Akira Kurosawa, 1952) is one of the director's more modest efforts in terms of its logistics (no 1,000-extra battles here), but astoundingly ambitious in its theme, which roughly translates as: 'What is the purpose of life?' Frequent Kurosawa star Takashi Shimura is a civil servant who finds out he is dying. At first stumbling into debauchery, he then slips into self-pity, before discovering what he really wants to do, devoting his final days to creating a children's playground. Built around Shimura's towering, restrained performance, the film is doggedly unsentimental and straightforward, with a particularly satisfying denouement.

Favourite bit: It is snowing. An old man sits on a swing, gently rocking back and forth.

See also: Kurosawa's epic "Eastern", Seven Samurai, dizzying 'nature of memory' drama Rashomon and the sweltering crime procedural Stray Dog.



95. Letter From an Unknown Woman (Max Ophuls, 1948) – Ophuls made a stack of lush romantic dramas lit by spellbinding camera work and tragic heroines. Letter, his second American film, is the pick of the bunch. Joan Fontaine plays a lovelorn Viennese girl who falls in love with a womanising pianist (Louis Jourdan). Though he's barely aware of her existence, her love endures. This is masterfully directed, wringing every drop of emotion from a literate script. The leads are simply wonderful.

Favourite bit: That climax, though the Fontaine-Jourdan date sequence is also utterly wonderful, particularly the "world tour".

See also: Ophuls' Madame de..., Le plaisir and La ronde, which tread similar ground (but generally with more laughs). Douglas Sirk's melodramas touched on the same themes, with All That Heaven Allows the pick of the bunch.



94. The Red Balloon (Albert Lamorisse, 1956) is a magical short film about a Parisian boy who is befriended by a mischievous balloon. He takes it home, walks it to school and even sees it fall in love, but a gang of jealous bullies are envious of the prize and, armed with slingshots, try to destroy it. The balloon is a thing of wonder - playful, funny, extraordinarily human - with everything else falling perfectly into place, from the boy's unaffected performance to the glorious colour photography.

Favourite bit: That bittersweet final scene.

See also: Lamorisse's White Mane, in which a boy seeks to tame a wild stallion. It's similarly gutting - and uplifting.



93. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (John Ford, 1949) - being the first of really rather a lot of John Ford films in the list. It's required viewing for those who insist John Wayne "couldn't act". He's simply superb as Capt Nathan Brittles, a cavalry officer facing as uncertain future as he edges towards retirement. Having lost his wife, he is now surrendering his place in a rapidly-changing world. As he strikes off the days, a pair of green recruits squabble over an officer's daughter, and a scout mission finds evidence of an impending Indian attack. Winton C. Hoch's unforgettable cinematography augments the reflective central storyline, while the boozin', brawlin' and bawlin' prevalent in the director's work keeps goings-on elsewhere pretty boisterous.

Favourite bit: Countless Ford films have their heroes talking to departed loved ones (Judge Priest, My Darling Clementine - though apparently someone else shot the scene and Young Mr. Lincoln). Yellow Ribbon features one of the most moving, as Wayne confides his fears at the grave of his wife.

See also: The other two instalments of the director's Cavalry Trilogy, which sandwich this one: Fort Apache and Rio Grande. The first is a bit cumbersome and messy, the latter is short on story, but they're both fantastic.



92. Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch, 1995) - Johnny Depp has given many great performances, particularly as Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood. This is my favourite, though, where he plays the reincarnated spirit of poet William Blake (possibly), who goes from meek bank clerk to steady-handed outlaw after a simple misunderstanding. It's a hysterical, marvellously-scripted post-modern Western from indie legend Jim Jarmusch, mixing absurdist comedy and existential fable. Dead Man makes me laugh a lot, think a little, and has what must be one of the greatest casts ever assembled: Robert Mitchum, John Hurt, Crispin Glover, Gabriel Byrne, Iggy Pop, Lance Henriksen and Billy Bob Thornton. The cinematography and music (by Neil Young) are absolutely one-of-a-kind, while the script is littered with wonderful ideas and memorable dialogue.

Favourite bit: How the Nobody Got His Name. Depp's Indian sidekick (Gary Farmer) recounts his story.

See also: Jarmusch's 1986 movie Down by Law about three prison escapees, starring Tom Waits, John Lurie and Roberto Benigni.



91. Went the Day Well? (Alberto Cavalcanti, 1942) - If this is not how rural England was, then it's how it should have been. Went the Day Well? is a thriller that doubles as the most heightened portrait of national identity on film. The story sees a small English village overrun with Nazis, posing as English soldiers. It's a prelude to an invasion, which can only be thwarted by a ramshackle collection of housewives, children and Home Guard members. This WWII propaganda film delivers tension, stoicism and some of the most moving sequences in British cinema.

Favourite bit: The short-sighted snob whose actions have almost derailed the resistance sees a bomb heading for a roomful of children and does the only thing she can thing of. I'm welling up just thinking about it.

See also: Millions Like Us, the other great Home Front drama, which features those enduring national treasures, cricket enthusiasts Charters and Caldicott.



Next week: #s 90 to 81, featuring an unheralded '40s series movie, cult comedy from 2001 and cinema's most almighty smartarse.



For this week's letters, please click on the link below right.