Best Movie of All Time

Is Husbands the Best Movie of All Time?

This is Best Movie of All Time, an eternal search for the greatest film ever. Read the full archives here.

I feel like I should say this up top: I have not seen everything John Cassavetes has made. That seems to be an outlier position. There are a lot of directors like this, but if you like anything he’s made, you love everything. My first introduction to him was in Le Tigre’s “What’s Yr Take on Cassavetes,” a song where the band screams alternating takes of “genius” and “misogynist.” I apparently didn’t feel like that was enough to investigate further.

John Cassavetes directed twelve films. I suppose that eventually I will try to see all of them. That’s the mark of influence, to some degree, that you occupy enough of a space in the canon that people want to learn what you made and why you made it. Husbands was the first one I saw and it really, really surprised me. I mean several things by that.

The plot first: Three men go to a funeral and process the death of their fourth best friend. This was personal for the director, as he lost a friend early. Statistically, this isn’t uncommon. You can probably relate to this, maybe even in exactly the same terms. The film opens with the aftermath and the uncomfortable response all three men have to death and what comes after for those who live. They wander New York and get drunk. They play basketball, in a scene that sticks with me more than most of the rest of the movie. They want to keep the night going, not just out of a joy of being together, but out of a fear of returning to their own lives.

There are several ways to view this. Grief is complex, and a response like this isn’t even a strange one. It gets more complicated as they return to regular life and explode in various ways. There is some extremely uncomfortable and extremely long emotional and domestic abuse. We’re led to believe that this is a reasonable reaction. These men deserve their anger and their wildness and their response. I think any critical review of Husbands has to reckon with what Cassavetes intends these scenes to say. That’s what Le Tigre wants you to think about, too.

Time said Husbands was “the best movie anyone will ever live through” and Roger Ebert famously said “seldom has Time given a better review to a worse movie.” The Guardian drew a comparison in their review to John Updike’s Rabbit, Run, another story where men say they would be doing great if all these terrible women would just let them live. Your ability to enjoy the motives behind Husbands will depend largely on what you think Cassavetes thinks of his main characters. It’s called Husbands, after all, but the relationships are deeply strained and get worse, mostly through aggressive, impulsive actions.

Even if you’re willing to view this as a critique, solely, on these actions, you have to contend with more than two hours of film. The distributor removed 11 minutes after release as audiences were walking out, but that’s even after the director removed over an hour of what he wanted to include. I wouldn’t wish that original cut on my worst enemy, because the finished product still feels like one of the longest movies I’ve ever seen.

Most of the “film paper” reviews of this movie talk about the choice to include a 25-minute segment in the first act of the film. The characters show up to a bar and host a long, long singing contest and then throw up in a bathroom. There’s really no other way to say it. It has to be the longest vomit scene in anything that has a Criterion Collection release. There’s speculation that it’s real and that the actors were really drinking to create the effect, but I’m less interested in that aspect and more in the director’s choice. Cassavetes really, really wants you to feel like you’re in this bar bathroom and you’re uncomfortable with these characters. The singing contest is more than ten minutes, with extended pauses and realistic, awkward exchanges. The bathroom scene feels true-to-life for a blackout experience in a tight-squeeze bathroom. It’s impossible to not feel the experience when it works, but it’s so long, so very long, that it’s impossible also to not feel like you’re watching a movie that wants you to feel the experience.

This is my second review in a row saying a movie “feels long” but Husbands is designed to do just that. Cassavetes wants this to feel like a wandering mess, or at least I hope he does. It fits the tone of the story he’s telling and the improv-feel of the dialogue (whether it’s scripted or not) tells us a lot about these three men and how afraid they are of what comes next.

The nicest thing I can say about Husbands is that it’s interesting. The choices here are surprising and the result is a movie that feels intentional and deliberate at every step of the way. The things I don’t like feel like things I just don’t like, not failures of filmmaking or screenwriting. I bought into the sadness and the angst of these men until they lost my sympathy and the story fell off a cliff for me after that. I will admit that might be the point, but it spends so much time making that point that it doesn’t matter for me what the aim here was in the first place. It’s all lost in the experience over time.

By the time the trio makes it to London to have a final hurrah, things feel even less critical. It’s winding down even before the climax, which is compelling in a sort of “bold choice” way but certainly not as a viewer. I don’t think I would suggest to anyone that they see Husbands, but I would want to talk to anyone who watched it right away. Responding to grief by running away is familiar territory for classic film, but the nihilism of Husbands doesn’t build on the premise. It just spends a lot of time drunk in a bar or drunk in London, hoping things will get better without doing any of the work necessary to get there. If the time was compelling to watch the lesson wouldn’t matter at all, but it just isn’t.

Is it better than the last movie we looked at? No. Battleship Potemkin is groundbreaking and drags a little bit for a modern audience, but that’s a result of the march of time. Husbands drags on purpose to make you suffer. People walked out at the time, so this isn’t some modern view that can’t process what the director intended. I do think there’s something here, but it’s surrounded by the kind of tissue that needs to be cut out. The performances are fascinating and the best part of the film, but it all strings together so oddly that it never really works.

Is it the best movie of all time? No. Husbands is more fun to reflect on than it was to experience. Maybe after I finish every Cassavetes movie I’ll be able to understand the galaxy-brain approach and why you need ten minutes of confused vomiting, but I don’t think even then I would elevate this beyond an interesting oddity.

You can watch Husbands for free on Amazon (if you have Prime). You can recommend a movie to me for this series through email at readingatrecess @ or on Twitter @alexbad and I will watch it, no matter what. Try to pick something good.

Is Battleship Potemkin the Best Movie of All Time?

This is Best Movie of All Time, an eternal search for the greatest film ever. Read the full archives here.

Battleship Potemkin is a tricky movie to evaluate. It’s been almost a hundred years since it was released and it doesn’t really resemble what we consider film today. To call it “bad” given its place in the history of cinema would be a scorching hot take, purposeless except to force a reader to the comment section. To call it “good” seems equally difficult, as it’s missing a tremendous amount of what a movie needs to contain to engage a modern audience.

The difficulty with a lot of early cinema is that it very often feels like pushing vegetables around a plate. There is a lot to love in the early days of filmmaking, but it’s really silly to pretend that even a stellar movie like M isn’t just a little bit boring. You run the risk of sounding like some kind of idiot if you say that, but I’d argue that you should be willing to meet the movie where you’re at just as much as you need to meet it where it is in the historical context.

Battleship Potemkin is the story of a Russian mutiny on the battleship Potemkin. The real mutiny happened in 1905 and didn’t exactly happen like this, but that doesn’t really matter. The film was created as propaganda, though that carries a connotation that I don’t intend. It’s a simple story of how starving sailors will rise up and demand a better life, which turns into everyone rising up for the same reason. Joseph Goebbels famously said that it would work as propaganda on anyone who had no existing beliefs. Starvation is an easy bad guy to understand.

The movie is short at roughly an hour, but again, it’ll feel long to a modern viewer. It’s repetitive, as it really does just want to drive that one idea home. It’s the story of class, with obvious villains who have to appear obvious in a silent film to an audience that would bring their own convictions and understanding to the visual representations. It certainly worked differently on audiences in the 1920s, but even now you’ll understand who is good and who is bad. You’ll also understand why, though, because it’s all about obvious things everyone deserves. When the guys in the nice clothes demand the guys in less nice clothes eat rotten meat, it does not matter what you bring to the proverbial table. You get it.

You have to get it. It has to not just work right away, but to smash through what you feel. It’s shockingly violent, with multiple innocents dying at the hands of an oncoming, faceless, evil force. The evil force is “right,” technically, legally speaking, but that’s what revolution is all about. Battleship Potemkin needs to be unambiguous, but to break down your feelings that government, order, society, all of that, is working. When the sailors rise up, there is no assurance that people will go with them and rise. The people do, then they are put down, then another boat joins their cause. This is the story of revolution, the movie tells us, and it will be difficult but it will work.

The story is really powerful. You don’t know, going into the ending, what will happen. I’m going to “spoil” this movie from the year William Jennings Bryan died, but another battleship nearly fires on the rebellious Potemkin and then doesn’t. Disaster is averted and the revolution, for now, is intact.

This would have been the most shocking outcome to the audience at the time. Of course, this is about a real event, so maybe not, but the reminder that rising up works (at least temporarily) is always a revelation. It’s easy to get stuck in what you’re doing, both macro and micro, and the triumph of the movie is the climax selling this idea as a really significant win. Nothing happens, which turns out to be a huge thing.

Sight & Sound does a list of top movies voted on by directors and Battleship Potemkin is on the most recent top 100. The Gold Rush is the only film older than Battleship Potemkin on the list. It was compiled in 2012, but still only four movies from 2000 or later made the cut versus seven movies from the 1920s alone. Film history is obviously going to be something directors want to preserve, but it is a controversial and complicated idea when you get into it. Were we better, as a people, at making films a hundred years ago?

Of course not. But it is easier to be revolutionary when history has fewer firsts, of course, and Battleship Potemkin treads new ground. Everything owes to this, but it’s not just that this was first. It was undeniable, which is why it endures. The three things that happen are all gripping and told in a way that an audience would never have expected, but it’s hard to shake the modern narrative expectation a hundred years later that there should be more than three things. Is that on us, as viewers? Sure, to a certain extent, but we are who we are.

Is it better than the last movie we looked at? I don’t think so, but this really stretches the definition of “better.” What Ever Happened to Baby Jane ushered in a new genre, sure, but not in the way that Battleship Potemkin created a whole language for filmmakers. Every reviewer will feel differently about this, but I think you have to judge a movie both by the context it was created in and the context of present day. It’s why The Birth of a Nation isn’t great, not that you need me to tell you that. It may have been capital-I Important but it’s racist trash that was even racist in the context of the day. Battleship Potemkin isn’t “canceled” or whatever, it’s just a tougher watch in a year that starts with “2” than What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.

Is it the best movie of all time? No, but it’s possible that it was the first “great” movie that’s still something you could enjoy in a similar way today. A lot of early cinema can feel impenetrable, leaving you with the sense that jokes or knowing looks meant something to audiences then that you can’t access now. If you watch Battleship Potemkin tonight, you’ll basically have the same experience that audiences did originally. You won’t react the same way, but that’s not the movie’s fault. That’s the march of time, the development and improvement of recorded sound, and, probably, some people will tell you, your inability to truly “get it.”

You can watch Battleship Potemkin on The Criterion Channel or HBO Max or Vudu. You can recommend a movie to me for this series through email at readingatrecess @ or on Twitter @alexbad and I will watch it, no matter what. Try to pick something good.

Is What Ever Happened to Baby Jane the Best Movie of All Time?

This is Best Movie of All Time, an eternal search for the greatest film ever. Read the full archives here.

Trailers were very different in the 1960s, which is how we come to the marketing strategy for What Ever Happened to Baby Jane before release in 1962. An ominous voice explains that this is a horror picture and it features Bette Davis and Joan Crawford as we’ve never seen them before. Strangely, the narration cautions that viewers need to know that before they decide to see it, and then demands further: “We beg you, as the tension builds to the screaming point, as shock after shock assaults your senses, try to remember that this is only a motion picture. Try and remember!”

This is a big claim to live up to, especially the insistence that we might forget this isn’t a real event. Once you take in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, though, you begin to understand why this was the angle. The stars really hated each other, famously, and the professional conflict was so rich that it spawned an entire season of television more than four decades later.

Feud was supposed to be a series of individual seasons of feuds between famous figures. It was cancelled after one season, so it exists as a standalone eight episodes called Bette and Joan about the production of and response to What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. I watched it before I saw the film, and I do think that’s the order you should do it in if you haven’t seen either one and are going to watch both. Susan Sarandon is particularly good as Bette Davis, despite the big shoes to fill. Jessica Lange gives a quieter, maybe more convincing, portrayal of Joan Crawford. It’s all kinda true and probably real and maybe this is something, is the vibe you get, and as long as that lens stays it holds together.

It’s hard to divorce the film from that context. These are two of the biggest stars in film history at the end of their careers, playing characters well past the end of their careers, and it is deliberately metatextual. I don’t know how much intent you can assign, but Davis and Crawford knew that their performances as washed-up characters would be read as commentary on their respective places in Hollywood. Davis went much bigger with a much crazier role and ended up nominated for an Oscar, but even with that, this is the end for both of them. They had to know that was a possibility.

Roger Ebert spends an entire paragraph of his review of the film debunking a story about one actress kicking the other hard enough to require stiches during production. It’s time swell spent, because there is a lot more discourse about how this got made than there is about what actually got made. I realize this a long runway at this point, but it’s necessary because what is on the screen isn’t as important as what happened around it. By marketing the movie this way, the studio co-opted decades of film history and fan appreciation for two legendary performers. It must be reckoned with before you even talk about the plot.

Bette Davis plays “Baby Jane” Hudson, who was a child star that couldn’t translate success into adulthood. Joan Crawford is her older sister Blanche, who was jealous as a child but grew into a star with a higher ceiling. Blanche’s career is cut short by a car accident that leaves her paralyzed and we open with her under the care of the very drunk, very sad “Baby Jane.”

There are a lot of places to take that opening and most of them aren’t good. The go-to from more modern film is probably Misery, another bedridden piece of tension driven by a maniac’s unwillingness to release their “captive.” Both films look at different causes for mania, but it’s hard to not see one in the other, depending on which you’ve seen first. What Ever Happened to Baby Jane really hammers home the fact that “Baby Jane” is jealous and furious with her sister and that she is never going to let this go.

The word you will find in reviews of this movie is “camp.” Nearly everyone calls it campy because of Bette Davis’ makeup and her choice to play “Baby Jane” at 11/10 the entire time. She screeches half of her lines and somehow escalates her already way-too-big performance into even more during the climax. By the end of the movie, she’s barely human. It’s a really risky set of decisions and it really is fairly exhausting to watch.

Crawford’s fear, however, feels very real. When you get lost in the conflict, it’s in the moments that Blanche is alone, scheming, trying to find a way out of a room she knows she can’t leave. The conflict between the sisters (on and off screen) is the hook, but I think the struggle is more fascinating when “Baby Jane” is an off-screen threat.

The secondary characters force Crawford and Davis to advance their rivalry, but mostly it’s the two stars. The climax is anything but predictable, but it’s also not really the point. The ending is ambiguous, as much because that’s a more compelling choice as it is a choice that doesn’t really change the experience. The journey is generally more important than the destination, but it’s especially true for a movie that depends on rising tension as much as this one.

I was generally surprised by what What Ever Happened to Baby Jane turned out to be, given the world around it. It’s much more suspenseful than the “camp” legacy would suggest and Crawford especially turns in a performance that I think is worth seeing. Bette Davis risked more, to be sure, and she is rightfully the one who got the credit, but just like in the dramatic representation of Feud, the quieter choice seems harder to pull off. You need both or you don’t have a monster movie, though, and that’s certainly what this is. The best bits are in the middle, which is bittersweet as a commentary on Crawford and Davis as well as the film itself, but that’s how most things go. It’s also fascinating to see what comes after, for people who are willing to envision an “after.”

Is it better than the last movie we looked at? I do think this is a better movie than Aguirre, Wrath of God. Both feature a mad, boiled-over main character who rages at everyone else. Aguirre is even bigger than Baby Jane, mostly because of circumstance and the sword and armor he’s got, but both of them would probably handle each other’s circumstances the same way. These are two similar character studies, but the focus in Herzog’s film on only the character study, with nothing else, limits what that movie can say.

Is it the best movie of all time? Yep, on this short list of three so far, I think so far What Ever Happened to Baby Jane is the current best movie of all time. I don’t really care for the twist ending, which isn’t giving anything away to say, and I really like Roger Ebert’s point in his review that the premise here is a little thin. Why do these people live together and why is “Baby Jane” in charge, given how she barely is able to move around in the world? It doesn’t matter for the panic to feel real, but it would for the thing to hold together completely.

You can watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane for $1.99 on Amazon. You can recommend a movie to me for this series through email at readingatrecess @ or on Twitter @alexbad and I will watch it, no matter what. Try to pick something good.

Is Aguirre, Wrath of God the Best Movie of All Time?

This is Best Movie of All Time, an eternal search for the greatest film ever. Read the full archives here.

It is nothing new to say that the making of Apocalypse Now was a story to rival the movie itself. The cult around how complicated it was and how messy the experience has deepened the mythology of the story and it’s something you have to grapple with as you watch it. It’s one of the greatest movies ever made, no doubt, and the legacy is both the production and the result.

The Academy Awards winners for the year tell a different story about legacy. Apocalypse Now won for cinematography and sound, but the big prizes mostly went to Kramer vs. Kramer. Both are classics, but it’s a bizarre contrast, especially widening the scope to other heavily honored films in the same ceremony such as Norma Rae and Being There. You couldn’t deny Apocalypse Now, but it certainly didn’t fit in with everything else.

Apocalypse Now is the story of Heart of Darkness, a Joseph Conrad novel about going down a river and finding nothing good. It’s much, much more complicated than that, and the internal struggle that comes with external forces is the through-line from the classic novel to the war film. There’s a point between the two, however, and it is Aguirre, Wrath of God.

The creation stories behind Werner Herzog’s 1972 film certainly rival the stories you know about Brando losing his mind in the jungle. The director supposedly (depending on who you ask) threatened his star with a gun and famously screamed at him before most takes to keep his manic performance consistent. There are dozens of stories you could choose to tell the saga of Herzog and Klaus Kinski and I am not familiar enough to give a full summary. It’s enough to say that they were difficult with each other and it comes through on the screen.

What could you say about this performance that would do it justice? I suppose we start with the similarities, as this is another movie about going down a river and being forever changed. Francis Ford Coppola said that it was a huge influence on Apocalypse Now, which is really obvious when you see it, but since they both owe credit to the original novel, saying “influence” gets complicated. All three stories are about the journey of man and the inevitability of that journey’s power over a certain kind of person.

Impossibly, Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) is the craziest character of all three stories. If you’ve only seen Apocalypse Now you might take issue with that, and I’d definitely understand. But you really need to see this to believe it. I don’t find it even one percent difficult to believe the stories about the production, because Kinski seems like he’s about to lose it, possibly in real life as well as his character, from start to finish.

We live in a world where Daniel Day-Lewis sets the modern standard for this kind of tightly wound, powder keg performance. The tight shots in There Will Be Blood give you the sense that this man might come through the screen to attack you at any moment. There’s no zombie or alien that could rival the fear of those moments, the unblinking, sweating Daniel Plainview contemplating his next move.

I don’t have a way to prove this, but I’m guessing he’s a big fan of Aguirre, Wrath of God. Klaus Kinski plays the titular Aguirre, a Spanish conquistador who is part of an expedition to find the fabled city of El Dorado. I don’t need to tell you this, but El Dorado does not exist. You know that, because you’re in the future, and this is a pretty dumb idea, but it’s impossible to not think about that over and over as you watch this. From the opening text, you know that these people will not succeed in their goal. That’s a stark difference from most journeys, where someone might experience at least a mixed success.

The film opens with the crew lugging cannons and other equipment over a mountain and through the jungle. It’s a miserable time and it’s clear that these people have been through a lot. The party splits in two, supposedly to go down the river with a small group to see if this is even possible. Aguirre joins the expedition and starts to establish command. He’s manic, to say the least, but he’s a powerful presence that the others get behind. It’s all doomed, because of course it’s all doomed, but Aguirre’s machinations continue even as the odds get smaller.

When you look at the performances that won Best Actor Oscars in the early 70s, they all look like this one. There’s Patton and The Godfather and this is right up there, at least in intensity, if not in craft. Klaus Kinski and Werner Herzog supposedly disagreed on how Aguirre should be played, but Herzog won out by screaming at Kinski right before every take and filming after he calmed down, but only slightly. The result is a mixture of fury and discomfort. Aguirre distrusts everyone, hates everyone, and yet, needs everyone. He has to hold this whole thing together, in a way, but he can’t stop shaking and bellowing long enough to do that effectively. Even once you realize where this is going, you can’t stop watching him twitch and agonize. Maybe he can will this into happening, after all?

It’s not a perfect film. I have a sick obsession with reading negative reviews of classics, and most of them for Aguirre, Wrath of God take issue with the performances and the production. Most of the other actors don’t get much to do, so they don’t really develop beyond their reaction to Aguirre’s madness. And it’s certainly true that if you don’t find Kinski’s ravings interesting, there is just about nothing here for you. The budget was small and the result is a sort of “forced realism” with no effects and long, difficult passages where the cast really does go through jungles or through tough river terrain. Maybe that sells the experience to you and maybe it frustrates you. It’s a matter of what you want from a movie like this.

I think it’s all worth it, no matter what, for the performance. I’ve found myself coming back to it just for that, even though the journey isn’t necessarily worth following all the time. The ending is something else, too, and while you can guess about how successful it all is, you certainly can’t guess how it ends. You should power through the scenery for that alone.

Is it better than the last movie we looked at? It’s probably crazy to compare a Werner Herzog epic to an anime about dream magic like Paprika, but they both do have similarities. Both are “inspirations” to some degree for better known films (Apocalypse Now and Inception) and both are about main characters realizing a truth about themselves (though that’s maybe debatable in Aguirre’s case). I think both movies suffer a little bit with pacing, but Aguirre even more than Paprika, so I’ll give the nod to Paprika.

Is it the best movie of all time? No, I don’t think so. It’s pretty shaggy, even at 94 minutes. It’s worth your time and I really can’t say enough about Klaus Kinski’s truly crazy performance, but nothing else really stands out for me. It’s a great experience as a film but it doesn’t last, so I don’t think it rises to the level it needs to to be “best.”

You can watch Aguirre, Wrath of God for free on Amazon (if you have Prime). You can recommend a movie to me for this series through email at readingatrecess @ or on Twitter @alexbad and I will watch it, no matter what. Try to pick something good.

Is Paprika the Best Movie of All Time?

This is Best Movie of All Time, an eternal search for the greatest film ever. Read the full archives here.

Where do you start on search for the greatest movie of all time? The temptation to start with Citizen Kane or something similar is strong, but I am going to start with an anime. Wait, c’mon, stick around. I promise, this is all about something you’ve seen. No, really! Just read to the end.

I’m more comfortable talking about things I don’t like than things I do like. I spent a year watching every single movie that ever won Best Picture at the Oscars just to dunk on Crash, which I still think is the worst movie to ever win the Academy’s most prestigious award. Crash opens with a discussion of coffee and spaghetti. I really can’t get into it here, you can read my 90+ part series if you want to know more.

Crash is not the worst movie I’ve ever seen. I grant that title to mother!, which makes me mad to even stylize that way, but director Darren Aronofsky insists that it is lowercase and ends in an exclamation because that symbolizes the climax. I am not going to spend much time on it, but the audience in the theater when I saw it literally laughed and booed at mother! and they were right to do so. It’s a disaster and a divisive allegory that may not be the worst movie ever made, but it’s certainly the experience I enjoyed the least. Aronofsky says it’s about environmentalism, but that seems like an impossible reading of a movie about the power of creative people and how they misuse it. I could spend forever on this, but I’ll just leave my cards on the table and say that’s the bottom of the barrel for me.

I mention it because I think Darren Aronofsky is a great director. Pi is haunting, even all these years later. Requiem for a Dream is a masterpiece. But I want to talk about Black Swan.

Black Swan is a movie about ambition. You’ve probably seen it, but even if you haven’t we aren’t going to spend much time on it. It’s about a ballerina trying to reach professional heights and the fears and challenges that come along with that journey. It deserves a lot more space, but this is all an introduction to another movie. It’s not even an Aronofsky movie! What are we doing?

Black Swan is not a shot-for-shot remake, but it borrows really, really heavily from the anime Perfect Blue. You can watch YouTube essays if you want to know more, but it’s enough to say that Perfect Blue is a horror movie about a star reaching for more and finding the journey more complex than anticipated. It’s definitely not a “rip off” or anything, but it’s clear that Aronofsky saw Perfect Blue and made his own version. He says that’s not what happened, but you can watch for yourself. Black Swan is an excellent movie and I don’t personally think it matters that he got some inspiration from an anime, but he seems to be pretty touchy about it.

This is how we get to Paprika. Satoshi Kon directed both Perfect Blue and Paprika, among other movies and series, and he was asked about the similarities in major Hollywood fare and his movies somewhat often. You can look up his reactions, but it seems to me like he always acknowledged the similarities but didn’t seem to care. Quentin Tarantino has made an entire career out of “homage” which can border on “theft” and directors seem to do the same thing to Kon.

Inception steals some images directly from Paprika. Several content creators have done a better job than I could do proving it, but the most striking is a scene where Elliot Page approaches a mirror and ruins the illusion of the dream in Inception. This is directly, exactly, lifted from Paprika, where it happens for the same reason. Does that matter? It’s weird, to be sure, especially if you’ve seen Paprika first.

I hated Inception when I saw it new. It felt impossible to follow and it felt deliberately messy. I rewatched it this year and liked it a great deal more, but it still feels like it forces you to look really closely at the magic eye drawing it presents and it doesn’t necessarily reward you for “getting it” so much as it does string you along. I am finding myself less and less interested in what Christopher Nolan has to say as a filmmaker, but even with that caveat I think Inception is better as an action movie than it is as a puzzle.

Paprika, then. It’s an anime from 2006, from Satoshi Kon, who also made Perfect Blue, Tokyo Godfathers, and Millennium Actress. Paprika is about a technology that allows people to go inside dreams. Inception is deeply concerned with the “how” and spends a tremendous amount of time making sure you follow how it’s all possible. Paprika doesn’t give a damn. Put this headset on, it’s time for a parade.

I think that’s why Paprika works. It’s enough that we buy that this is possible because some handwaving, technical explanations from science-types tells us it’s possible. That’s how it would actually work, anyway. We wouldn’t need someone to take us in a dream and tell us a long story about the physics of dreams, we’d just see it on Twitter and accept it. Paprika spends more time on the experience and ends up being a more enjoyable film as a result.

Christopher Nolan clearly saw Paprika. Both movies are about going in dreams and solving a problem. Both movies are about getting lost in an experience. Both movies are about the hero being the one person who can navigate this impossible, mysterious space. But it all kinda ends there.

Inception is dark and horrible. Everything is black and gray. Everyone has an assault riffle and everyone works for a shady military organization. Everyone has a tie. Everything is Extremely Serious All The Time. That’s Christopher Nolan’s whole aesthetic and it seems to be working for him, Tenet excluded.

The character Paprika in Paprika is the dream avatar of our main heroine and it works exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in Inception. The difference is that she seems to be still having fun with it, transforming into multiple forms and dancing around in a red shirt and constantly smirking through the dreams she invades. The tone isn’t all that different in the two movies, but the presentation couldn’t be more different. The nightmare in Paprika isn’t a train crashing through a city block, it’s a parade of frogs and statues that sings a happy nonsense tune. It’s dire, obviously, but what fun!

If Inception has a message, it seems to be that dreams are sacred. Our characters muck around in someone else’s experience and are forever changed. Paprika also wonders if this is something we all should be doing, but finds a slightly different answer. Satoshi Kon isn’t Christopher Nolan, but you probably got that from the box art. I recommend you watch both. It’s a better transformation than Aronofsky was able to make, at least.

Paprika is all about the visuals. It’s an explosion, from start to finish, and the logic behind it never really matters all that much. We learn about the bad guy late in the narrative and his motives never go beyond surface level. It’s all about what you see and how they render it. Anime can tell a story, obviously, but it is best when it does so in a way that live action cannot. The medium matters here and I think it’s a great first watch even if you’re not the kind of person that would normally watch something like this. Christopher Nolan certainly did.

Is it better than the last movie we looked at? It is the first one. In future entries, we’ll answer this question, starting with Paprika.

Is it the best movie of all time? It is the first one we’ve looked at, so yes, for now, Paprika is the best movie of all time.

You can watch Paprika on Amazon for $2.99, at the time of this writing. You can also watch Inception for free on Amazon (if you have Prime). You can recommend a movie to me for this series through email at readingatrecess @ or on Twitter @alexbad and I will watch it, no matter what. Try to pick something good.