Tag: cinema

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Is 1989 Was the Most Important Year in Movie History?

If you want to understand modern movies, you have to understand 1989. It wasn’t just a good year for cinema; it was a seismic shift that broke the mold and recast everything  in ways we are still living with today.

To give you some context: I recently sat on a panel titled “1989: The Year Nobody Left the Theater.” That title is only half a joke. The average American in 1989 bought two and a half times as many theater tickets as people do today. The volume of films released was staggering, and the appetite for them was voracious.

But beyond the raw numbers, 1989 fundamentally altered what movies get made. Case in point: Tim Burton’s Batman. It wasn’t just a hit; it was, for better or worse, and inescapable cultural monolith that ushered in the age of the superhero industrial complex. It pulled in over $400 million worldwide—that is over a billion in today’s dollars—and proved that a darker, style-heavy vision could sell tickets and merchandise in equal measure.

While Burton was redefining the mainstream, the margins were moving toward the center. Steven Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape single-handedly transformed Sundance from a quiet, regional arts festival into the high-stakes marketplace for indie cinema that we know today.

Simultaneously, The Little Mermaid snapped a decades-long losing streak for the House of Mouse. It didn’t just save a struggling animation department; it kickstarted the “Disney Renaissance,” a period of unprecedented critical and commercial dominance.

The shift was happening in non-fiction, too. 1989 moved the documentary away from objective observation toward urgent, personality-driven activism. Michael Moore’s Roger & Me proved that a documentary could be abrasive, funny, and—crucially—commercially viable.

In Asia, the landscape was equally volatile. John Woo’s The Killer became the cornerstone of the “Heroic Bloodshed” genre, influencing the visual language of action cinema globally. Meanwhile, Chow Yun-Fat’s other hit, God of Gamblers, became the year’s highest-grossing film in Hong Kong. While it didn’t cross over to the West the way Woo’s gun-fu did, it launched a massive wave of gambling-themed cinema across Asia.


Finally, we have A City of Sadness, a monumental achievement that tackled the history of Taiwan’s White Terror, a story that would have been taboo before the censorship of martial law was lifted. Looking back, this film feels prophetic, anticipating how two major events of 1989 would shape the future.

First, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet system meant that European cinema would spend the next quarter-century unpacking that trauma in an almost endless stream of noteworthy films . Second, on the other side of the world, the repression following the Tiananmen Square massacre inadvertently birthed the “Sixth Generation” of Chinese filmmakers—artists who turned to cheap digital video to document a gritty urban reality without state approval.

There are so many significant films from 1989 I haven’t even touched on—Do the Right Thing, Heathers, Star Trek V… actually, scratch that last one. But the films I’ve mentioned are the ones that shifted the tectonic plates, establishing the geography of contemporary cinema.

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Lost in Translation: Beautiful, Messy, Enduring

Lost in Translation captures a ghost of a moment. It exists in suspended animation, showing  the shifting landscape of globalization in the immediate shadow of 9/11, dwelling on a specific, analog loneliness that existed just before the era of digital saturation.

The story is sparse. Two Americans find themselves isolated and adrift in Tokyo, attempting to escape personal crises through withdrawal and observational detachment. Bob and Charlotte meet as strangers in the Park Hyatt; over the course of a few days, they forge a meaningful intimacy—one that is defined by its own impermanence.

This film explores our experiences of displacement and our search for authentic connection. It is an essential film because Coppola explores these themes with impeccably controlled formal choices.

Coppola and cinematographer Lance Acord use visual language to evoke the characters’ internal states. Early in the film, the framing uses negative space and wide shots to emphasize isolation. We see them dwarfed by the city or trapped behind glass. Later, as Bob and Charlotte move through Tokyo together, the camera logic shifts. We begin to see shared point-of-view shots,.

Johansson and Murray deliver performances that rely on texture as much as speech—communicating through glances, body language, and physical proximity..

At the time of release, critics fixated on Murray’s pivot to vulnerability. But twenty years on, what stands out to me are the grace notes that call back to his broadly comic roots. There is a specific physicality to his weariness. While he is often credited here for pivoting to sophisticated sadness, a contemporary re-watch reveals just how many “SNL moments” remain: the slapstick flailing on the exercise bike, or his first, over the top attempt at Kareoke..

The editing favors long takes that allow scenes to breathe. The rhythm mirrors the characters’ internal clocks, dragging slowly through their jet-lagged dislocation and accelerating only slightly as their connection deepens.


However, the film is not without baggage. It has been validly criticized for utilizing Orientalist stereotypes and treating Tokyo merely as a neon backdrop for American self-discovery. There are undeniable low points, particularly scenes that derive humor from Japanese characters struggling with English pronunciation.

Yet, we must remember the context: this is a story about American tourists who are depressed, self-centered, and trapped in a bubble of their own making. If the protagonists are dismissive of the culture they encounter, the film can often be said to be observing that insularity rather than endorsing it.

Furthermore, the film frequently invites us to laugh at the white characters. Perhaps the most excruciatingly cringeworthy moment in the film isn’t a cultural misunderstanding, but Anna Faris’s character, Peggy, butchering the song “Nobody Does It Better.” It is a fierce performance that highlights the oblivious absurdity of the American interlopers.
Two decades later, Lost in Translation remains a mirror where audiences can still recognize their own uncertainty and hunger for contact. The film’s longevity suggests that Coppola succeeded in capturing not just what it felt like to live in 2003, but something fundamental to the human experience of being alone, together.

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How Buster Keaton Broke His Neck & Reinvented Cinema: The Story of Sherlock Jr.

Imagine a man running on the edge of a rushing locomotive, staring up at a torrent of water about to crash over him-knowing he’s about to risk his life, not for glory, but for a laugh. This was Buster Keaton: the silent era’s daredevil, stone-faced genius, and master of audacious stunts.

Keaton’s journey began before he could read, working the rough-and-tumble vaudeville circuit at the age of three. Billed as “The Little Boy Who Can’t Be Damaged,” his act involved playing a child whose antics provoked his father into physically throwing him across the stage – smashing into the scenery, tumbling into the orchestra pit, sometimes even tossed into the startled audience.

While such a spectacle would horrify modern sensibilities, this hazardous upbringing cultivated in Keaton an exceptional physical resilience and an almost supernatural comprehension of comic timing. It served as perhaps the most rigorous and unconventional apprenticeship conceivable for any auteur. By the 1920s. Keaton was a writer, director, and luminous star.

His 1924 film Sherlock Jr. is a testament to both his artistry and his appetite for danger. Keaton plays a humble film projectionist with two aspirations:to learn the deductive skills of a master detective, and to win the affection of a young woman billed simply as “The Girl”. When a rival frames him for theft, Keaton’s character retreats to the theater where he works. As the film flickers before him, he succumbs to sleep, and here, the story takes a surreal and innovative turn. He dreams himself into the very film he was projecting, transforming into the sophisticated, heroic detective he yearns to be, suavely navigating a fictional world.

What unfolds within this “film within a film” is a cascade of thrilling action sequences and astonishing comic set pieces, all famously performed by Keaton himself.

The dangers were genuine. During the iconic water tank sequence the deluge drove Keaton down into the tracks below. Unaware of the severity of his injury, ignoring his blinding pain, Keaton simply continued, completing the film. His broken neck would only be diagnosed years later by X-ray, a stark testament to his unparalleled physical commitment and stoicism.
Yet, Sherlock Jr. is more than a collection of amazing stunts. The technical ingenuity required to realize the film’s central conceit: a dreaming projectionist attempting to navigate the constantly shifting cinematic landscape – demanded meticulous planning and mathematical precision. This playful yet profound exploration of the porous boundary between the audience and narrative, between perceived reality and cinematic fiction, marks the film as startlingly meta-cinematic, anticipating theoretical discussions by decades.
Too surreal for audiences in 1924 – achieving moderate success rather than the blockbuster status of Keaton’s broader comedies – Sherlock Jr. is now hailed by critics and arthouse audiences. Its audacious blend of physical prowess, narrative invention, and cinematic self-awareness led to its preservation in the United States National Film Registry in 1991.

Fortunately, Sherlock Jr. is in the public domain, allowing me to share a few grainy glimpses of its magic. However, to truly appreciate the startling genius of Keaton’s vision, I recommend experiencing the beautifully restored version available on the Criterion Channel.

Keaton’s legacy is not bruises and broken bones, but the way he expanded the language of film, inviting us to dream with our eyes wide open. What’s your favorite Keaton film? Let me know in the comments below.