High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks

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High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: April 2012

Thu Apr 26, 2012 at 05:10 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Fun Stuff, Steven Cohen (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

With bookmarking capabilities allowing viewers to save their favorite scenes becoming such a common extra among many Blu-ray releases, we here at High-Def Digest thought it might be fun to take inspiration from this popular feature by spotlighting some of the scenes that we've personally bookmarked.

We're talking about the kind of scenes that literally reach out and grab you, that make you forget you're just watching lifeless pixels ignite and fade, that make your house rumble and eyes open wide with wonder. The type of scenes that simply make you smile from the sheer, infectious passion for filmmaking in their images and sounds.

In February I covered a tense plea for mercy in an empty woods, a horrifically comical battle between a man and his own hand, a hauntingly bizarre rendition of a classic Roy Orbison tune, an endearing and exciting homage to moviemaking, and a very infamous box's tragic contents. If you missed them, be sure to check out the February, the January, the November, the October, the September, the August, the July, and the June bookmark lists.

This month I'll be covering an iconic main title sequence, a soon to be forgotten monologue, fun zombie mayhem set to the vocal stylings of Freddie Mercury, a hero's call to action, and an honorable man's last stand. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Superman: The Movie' (Ch.1, 00:00:00 - 00:05:18) - Yes, I know what you might be thinking, and you're right, this isn't even really a scene at all, it's just the film's opening title sequence -- but what a title sequence it is. With 'Superman: The Movie' Richard Donner basically invented the big budget comic book film, triumphantly ushering in a heroic age of spandex-clad cinema. An age first introduced to audiences through simple, soaring text and a now iconic theme.

After a brief prologue featuring a child reading from a comic book, we transition directly into the world of the film. The music starts to gently rumble, giving us our first tantalizing hints of Williams' brilliant score. Suddenly, towering blue letters literally fly by, swooshing toward the audience like a bird, or a plane, or, uh… giant blue letters! As each new cast and crew credit flows over the backdrop of zooming stars and swirling cosmos, the powerful melody builds and builds. Finally, the theme explodes in an epic crescendo just as the red Superman symbol proudly appears. The stirring score serves as an exuberant call to the imagination, evoking all the magic and excitement of the character in just a few notes. Now synonymous with "the man of steel," it's a truly heroic theme if there ever was one.

As a kid I can remember sitting glued to the TV, my eyes mere inches from the screen as my parents popped in a VHS copy of the movie. As soon as those notes played, a huge, uncontrollable smile would form on my face. I knew what was coming and it filled my little heart with wonder. It was all I needed. Just those soaring, larger-than-life words and that lifting, epic music. Before I even saw Christopher Reeve don his red and blue tights, I already believed a man could fly, and to this day when those titles start to roll… I still do.

'Memento' (Ch.6, 00:36:19 - 00:39:26) - With its inspired twist on traditional film noir structure, 'Memento' is a truly innovative and brilliantly crafted thriller. While its unconventional chronology is certainly impressive, it's really the film's unique protagonist and his tragic plight that end up carrying the picture. Through the memory deficient Leonard Shelby, Christopher Nolan presents a man literally incapable of creating new experiences, incapable of moving on. To him every day is marred by the fresh sting of loss. This somber reality is perhaps no better enumerated than in a brief, reflective scene that sees the brooding insurance investigator lament on his unfortunate condition.

The sequence begins with Leonard (Guy Pearce) resting in bed with Natalie (Carrie-Anne Moss) seemingly asleep across his lap. Dimly lit in cold hues, he just stares ahead with an almost dazed expression on his face. Eventually, he speaks quietly to himself. His words come out in a gentle whisper, soft and fragile, as if in a dream. He reflects on his condition, on the pain of losing his wife. The camera slowly drifts in as his monologue continues, following the solemn rhythm of his words, getting closer as his sad emotions ramp up. Melancholy music creeps in, subtly enhancing the mood without overpowering the striking simplicity of Nolan's staging. Leonard goes on, describing how it feels like his murdered wife just left, that it always feels like she just left. If he could touch her side of the bed and feel that it was cold, he'd be able to understand the passage of time, but he can't. Unable to hold on to new memories, his perception is off. The camera cuts to Natalie, secretly awake and listening to every heartbreaking word. Leonard pauses for a moment as he comes to a profound realization. He then speaks the film's most insightful, poignant lines, "How am I supposed to heal… if I can't feel time?" Indeed, it is said that time heals all wounds, but poor Leonard doesn't have that luxury. His pain can't ease or dull, it's always fresh, always new.

The bittersweet music continues to perfectly underscore the minimalist imagery. Leonard gets up and leaves the room. Natalie feels the other side of the bed, still warm. She's experienced loss too, but Leonard doesn't realize she aims to manipulate him, not help. Understated and delicate, the scene strips down the film's protagonist bare, revealing his vulnerable core while expanding upon his unusual, tortured dilemma with moving insight.

'Shaun of the Dead' (Ch.30, 01:10:42 - 01:13:30) - A loving mishmash of horror and comedy, 'Shaun of the Dead' is a fun celebration of genre mayhem. A big screen evolution of the style they developed on their wonderful sitcom, 'Spaced,' Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg come away with a humorous, gory, and absolutely charming flick. The film's juggling act of tones comes to a head in one particularly memorable sequence that uses a classic Queen track as the backdrop for some kickass zombie action.

Trapped in a pub, our rag-tag group of survivors attempt to wait out the zombie epidemic. The camera ominously cuts between the group, each one bracing for the worst with nowhere to go and nowhere to run. Suddenly, a zombie pops up out of nowhere and the characters scramble, preparing to defend themselves. Just as things are starting to look bad for our heroes, the jukebox in the corner kicks in and Queen's "Don't Stop me Now" starts to play. The jaunty tune perfectly juxtaposes against the dire situation, undercutting some of the drama with a playful burst of humor. Wright then turns up the style knob on his directing chair to eleven, throwing in some kinetic camera movements and quick cutting. The song continues to play as Shaun (Simon Pegg), Ed (Nick Frost), and Liz (Kate Ashfield) attempt to fight back against their undead enemy. With nothing else handy, they use pool cues as weapons. They circle the zombie and bash it over and over again in unison, each hit perfectly timed with the beat of the music. The lights flicker as one character fiddles with the fuse box, again, completely in unison with the song. The whole scene becomes a kind of gleeful zombie music video. Some of the characters even get into the spirit of the track and move along to the rhythm. As the humorous chaos ramps up, more common pub items are used as deadly weapons, including a fire extinguisher and darts. The scene ends when the zombie's head is smashed into the jukebox, abruptly concluding the song.

The entire sequence perfectly encapsulates the movie's fun mixture of tones and genres, balancing excitement, scares and tongue-in-cheek humor, all to the timeless, rocking beats of Queen. When the inevitable zombie apocalypse comes, I now know exactly what to load up on my iPod as I bash in some undead skulls. I suggest you do the same.

'Unbreakable ' (Ch.22, 01:17:34 - 01:22:19) - Though M. Night Shyamalan has been the recipient of some much deserved vitriol for his last few lackluster efforts, for me, even the laughable aftertaste of 'The Happening' can't quite sully the strong work he did on 'Unbreakable.' A low-key deconstruction of superhero mythology, the film weaves a slow burn narrative that sees an unassuming, reluctant man finally discover and embrace his place in the world. The moment a hero truly accepts his destiny is always an important and memorable milestone, and David Dunn's call to action is no different.

After finally admitting to Elijah (Samuel L. Jackson) that he's never been injured or sick, David (Bruce Willis) enters a train station ready to take the next step. First masked in shadow, he walks out into the light, prepared to use his gift. The camera tracks overhead, giving us a good look at the bustling station filled with citizens. David peers around, wearing his simple work attire -- a raincoat and hat -- a perfect real world stand-in for a cape and cowl. As people move by, David stands still, studying the situation. He scans the crowd and then bumps into a lady dressed in red. Instantly we flash to a vision from her past, revealing a crime she committed. Back in the station, she walks away, disappearing into an anonymous sea of people. James Newton Howard's powerful score propels us forward as David realizes what he must do. The camera closes in on his arms while they slowly extend out into the crowd. The messianic image evokes thoughts of self sacrifice with David literally opening himself up to the sins and transgressions of his surrounding brothers and sisters.

While he makes contact with more commuters, Shyamalan once again flashes to quick glimpses of their misdeeds, revealing an instance of hateful racism. Wardrobe color is again used to spotlight and single out the wrongdoers in the crowd, separating them from the innocent. David's head bursts up. He's getting the hang of his powers and grows determined. Howard's music hits a new rousing beat, putting us in sync with the character's increasing drive and heroic momentum. We cut to another flash, this time to a rape. The drums kick in, ramping up the urgency and gravitas. The camera dramatically circles David as he plans his next move, deciding who to go after. While walking back, he bumps into a janitor, transitioning us to the worst crime of the bunch -- a home invasion and murder, but there is still time to save the victims. The camera shoots up from David's shocked expression toward the ceiling and a screaming effect bursts from the soundtrack, giving visual and auditory form to the character's distress. He's found his target and follows him, determined. The once triumphant music eases into a solemn melody, espousing the heavy burden and lonely responsibility that comes with seeking justice.

Throughout much of the film, David Dunn seems rather listless and unfulfilled. In this scene, for the first time we see a spark of purpose ignite within him. As a hero in a corrupt world, his is a path laden with many hardships, but he accepts and embraces this destiny with courage and bravery, and Shyamalan reflects this through the very form of his filmmaking. Through the director's camera tracks and cuts we are thrust into a pivotal turning point for the character, realized brilliantly with heroic bravado.

'Game of Thrones: The Complete First Season' - Episode 9 "Baelor" (Ch.8, 00:50:00 - 00:55:10) - Love or honor. That's the essential choice that Ned Stark (Sean Bean) is forced to make in HBO's masterful series 'Game of Thrones.' Throughout the entire season, Ned stands tall as a shining beacon of virtue in a world rife with corruption. As the serpents and sharks around him vie for power and control, he chooses a different path altogether, seeking truth and justice. He understands how the "game" is played, but he refuses to play it. Unfortunately, as the season nears its end, the character's stalwart ethics place him in a very precarious situation. He must proclaim allegiance to a false king, brand himself a traitor and accept exile, or face execution. Based on everything we know about the character, the choice seems simple at first. After all, Ned does not fear death, and it's clear that to this proud northerner, dishonor is a fate far worse than any mere beheading -- and yet, the situation is not as simple as it first seems, for it's not just Ned's life on the line, but his two young daughters' as well. The dilemma comes to a head in the closing minutes of the series' ninth episode, resulting in a breathtakingly staged and utterly devastating sequence where Lord Eddard Stark is forced to finally choose between love and honor.

As a crowd gathers to hear Ned's confession, Arya (Maisie Williams) scans through the commotion, desperately looking for her father. The poor, disheveled girl climbs under a statue of Baelor that rests in the center of the square, giving her a good view of the action. Ned is then brought out cuffed. While being dragged through the angry mob, he spots his daughter by the statue. Ned is clearly concerned, not wanting Arya to witness what might soon transpire. Right before reaching the stage, Ned sees Yoren, a loyal Night's Watch recruiter. He calls out to him, screaming "Baelor," then glances toward the statue. Yoren turns, sees Arya, and gets the message. Ned is then positioned upon the platform, forced to address the hateful crowd. At this point, it's still not clear what he will do or say -- possibly even to the man himself. He turns to each of his daughters, and seeing no other option, he finally decides -- choosing love, choosing family. Slow moving shots across the square and dramatic crowd POVs draw out the tension and drama. The delicate, swooping camera movements present a false sense of calm, masking a slight air of discomfort that lurks just beneath the surface. Ned takes one last look out at the angry crowd, and then speaks. He does exactly what he was told to do. He confesses to a treason he did not commit. He hails Joffrey as the rightful king, putting a pompous smile on the little bastard's face. Sorrowful music underscores the action, as we all mourn the once steadfast honor of Lord Eddard Stark. Or do we? After all, is there anything more honorable than protecting one's family?

The filmmakers continuously cut between Ned, the angry crowd, and his worried daughters, perfectly engendering a sense of uncertainty and chaos through editing. Though things seem fine for the time being, the rhythm of the cuts creates an unshakeable, nagging feeling that the mood could change at any moment. Accepting Ned's confession, Joffrey reveals the sentence the Queen has set for the Lord of Winterfell. He is to be shown mercy, but he must join the Night's Watch and live in exile at The Wall. For a brief moment, it seems like tragedy might actually be averted. It doesn't last. Suddenly, Joffrey's demeanor changes. He claims that the Queen and Sansa have the "soft hearts of women," and that under his rule treason shall not go unpunished. Before we even have a chance to readjust to the shifting tides, Joffrey calls for Ned's head. The music grows tense. We dramatically circle Arya as she watches the blood thirsty crowd. Much like the camera itself, the situation is spiraling out of control. She pushes her way through the mob, ready to defend her father, ready to put her "dancing" lessons to good use. As impossible and farfetched as it seems, as a viewer we want it to happen, we're practically trained for it to happen -- we want the little girl to leap to the stage and single handily vanquish evil. We want her to… but we know she can't. The guards push Ned down. Once again, the tempo of the editing creates a level of confusion, chaos, and tension. Everything is happening so quickly we barely have time to fully process it or brace ourselves for the bloodshed. Yoren grabs Arya before she can reach her father and tells her not to look. Ned's own massive blade is brought out.

Everyone pleads for the madness to stop, and it has to -- doesn't it? This is the star of the show. This is the protagonist of the story. He can't die? Can he? Alas, it is soon clear that there will be no last minute reprieve for Eddard Stark. No sudden deus ex machina to save our hero. HBO really is about to kill off its leading man, once again daring to go where few networks tread -- fully willing to shoulder potential audience backlash in favor of undiluted storytelling. The sound dulls, becoming almost muted, placing us within Ned's state of mind as time slows down. He looks to Sansa, scans over the violent crowd, and then spots the statue of Baelor -- Arya now gone. At least he knows his daughter is safe. Deep, isolated breaths fill the soundtrack, easing us toward the inevitable tragedy. The sword is lifted. Ned looks down, accepting his fate. Arya closes her eyes. The blade descends, and the camera cuts away right as it slices cleanly through Ned's neck, giving us an almost subliminal hint of brutality that leaves most of the horror to our imagination. We see Arya, eyes closed. The sound of the sword slicing still fills the air. Birds take flight. The young girl looks up and sees them fly. Their soft, fluttering wings are all we hear. She closes her eyes and the screen gently fades to black. Perfectly paced, acted, shot, mixed and scored, the scene offers a tragic but powerful end for a truly memorable and beloved character. Though Eddard Stark is gone, his death and memory continue to have a lasting impact on the events of the show. In the end, with his daughters' lives on the line, Ned chooses love. It was the honorable thing to do.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: February 2012

Tue Feb 28, 2012 at 03:40 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Fun Stuff, Steven Cohen (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered the destruction and rebirth of a fantasy world, one man's descent into paranoia, an achingly beautiful montage of love, a time traveling doctor's sacrifice, and an ape's monumental first words. If you missed them, be sure to check out the January, the November, the October, the September, the August, the July, and the June bookmark lists.

This month I'll be covering a tense plea for mercy in an empty woods, a horrifically comical battle between a man and his own hand, a hauntingly bizarre rendition of a classic Roy Orbison tune, an endearing and exciting homage to moviemaking, and a very infamous box's tragic contents. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Miller's Crossing' (Ch.15, 00:58:23 - 01:01:46) - A twisting, winding gangster film from the Coen Brothers, 'Miller's Crossing' remains my favorite flick from the talented siblings and one of my favorite movies period. As Tom Reagan attempts to maneuver through a maze of criminal politics, he eventually forges his own path, playing his enemies against each other. Not all of his dealings seem to go as planned, however, and a particularly dramatic decision in one of the film's most famous and important scenes proves to have long lasting ramifications.

After arriving at Miller's Crossing, gangster advisor, Tom Reagan (Gabriel Byrne), is charged with whacking the troublesome Bernie Bernbaum (John Turturro). Not used to getting his hands dirty, Tom is hesitant at first but eventually relents, slowly leading the terrified man out into the woods. The music grows ominous as the camera focuses on Tom's emotionless face, his hat partially obscuring his eyes, making it hard to completely read the character. Bernie desperately pleas as they slowly trudge along, trying to appeal to Tom's humanity. The camera will periodically cut back to Tom's blank stare, as if searching for any sign of humanity, of any sign that Bernie's words are getting through. If they are, he doesn't show it. Tom says nothing. He just remains silent, continuing the pair's dark descent into the deep woods. Tension increases as Turturro's performance becomes increasingly impassioned. Bernie pathetically begs for his life, "I can't die out here in the woods like a dumb animal!" The camera returns to Tom, his expression remains steady, he continues to hold the gun. The music grows more threatening. Bernie continues to grovel, "I'm praying to you!" The cuts back and forth between his feeble prayers and Tom's icy gaze are expertly timed, creating an escalating rhythm. The pair ultimately stops and we transition to a wide shot of Bernie kneeling before his would be executioner. The gun is pointed down at Turturro's character and nothing surrounds them but empty woods, emphasizing the apparent certainty of his impending fate. Bernie makes one last plea, "Look into your heart." The line seems to bounce right off of Tom and will be the source of an absolutely chilling callback in the film's final act. Tom readies his gun and holds it suspended, thinking. Throughout the whole movie the character's true motivations remain ambiguous, even to him, making it hard for the audience to anticipate his actions, ramping up the suspense. We close in on his steady face, and then hear a loud, permeating gunshot.

Suddenly the camera is back on Bernie, his eyes tightly closed but completely unharmed. He looks around, realizes he's still alive and then thanks his reluctant savior. They agree Bernie must disappear and then he flees through the wilderness. Tom stands still, lets out a few more shots into the trees, unsure whether he's made the right play. Perfectly paced, shot, and acted, the scene remains one of the film's most memorable and oft-referenced sequences. It serves as a dramatic turning point for the script with consequences that inform every subsequent scene. Turturro's sniveling, desperate performance is powerful, and Byrne is able to evoke so much by revealing so little. Even after the credits role, it's hard to completely grasp the full scope of Tom's various machinations and motivations, making it unclear how much was truly planned and why. Mercy or manipulation, we may never know for sure, but a clue might be found in Tom's delayed response to one of Bernie's desperate pleas -- "What heart?"

'Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn: 25th Anniversary Edition' (Ch.6, 00:28:24 - 00:30:34) - A highly influence horror classic, 'Evil Dead II' helped to pioneer an entire subgenre of humorous terror that fused slapstick comedy with gross-out thrills. Led by Sam Raimi's exciting direction and a wild performance from Bruce Campbell, the movie remains as shockingly hilarious as ever. Though filled with numerous examples of over-the-top, blood splattered comedy, perhaps no scene is as indicative of Raimi's unique blend of styles than the movie's famous duel between a man and his demonically possessed hand.

Following a skirmish with the severed head of his undead girlfriend, Ash (Bruce Campbell) nurses a nasty bite on his hand. Unfortunately for him, said bite has caused said appendage to become demonically possessed, taking on a life of its own. The character heads to the kitchen where he attempts to wash the wound, but suddenly his hand grabs some nearby plates and proceeds to smash them over his head one by one. This marks the beginning of a Looney Tunes-esque display of physical comedy from Campbell that's bolstered by Raimi's kinetic, frantic camera work and some amusingly exaggerated sound effects. Ash wrestles with his hand, which then smashes his head into the wall. Campbell starts to punch himself, and then in a rather impressive display of physical dexterity, he actually flips himself over onto the ground. Throughout it all, the actor totally sells the outlandish scenario with amusing sincerity, revealing a genius sense of comedic timing and physicality. The hand really does appear to become an entirely different character, independent from Ash. Campbell essentially becomes a one man Three Stooges act with a horror twist, engendering simultaneous gasps and laughs from the audience. Eventually the evil hand manages to knock the character unconscious. Seizing the opportunity, it slowly claws its way toward a nearby hatchet. Before the hand can grab the weapon, Ash stabs it with a knife, pinning the evil appendage to the ground.

Campbell's eyes go wide with insanity as he maniacally asks, "Who's laughing now?!" It's at this point that the character grabs a chainsaw and proceeds to cut off the five fingered nuisance, creating one of the film's most iconic images. Instead of showing the full brunt of the gruesome carnage, Raimi instead closes in on Campbell's crazed expression, blood splattering all over his face as he continues to scream and laugh. The over-the-top reality of Ash's reaction to the event proves to be even more powerful and entertaining than actually showing the hand's removal. The perfect marriage of a director's unique vision and an actor's willingness to go all-out, the scene really makes the movie and cements Ash as one of the horror genre's greatest characters.

'Blue Velvet' (Ch.18, 01:13:40 - 01:21:16) - A darkly disturbing descent into suburbia's hidden underworld, 'Blue Velvet' gnaws at the brain like a surreal fever dream. Culled from the inexplicable mind of David Lynch, the film moves in and out of reality, presenting a slightly skewed reflection of our own world. While the movie is home to several notable sequences, there is no denying the lasting impact of one particularly eerie musical number.

The scene begins after Frank (Dennis Hopper) catches Jeffery (Kyle MacLachlan) and Dorothy (Isabella Rossellini) together. He takes the pair to visit Ben (Dean Stockwell), an eccentric friend of his. From the moment we enter Ben's apartment, it's as if we are suddenly transported into a slightly skewed universe. The room is full of an odd assortment of bizarre characters simply sitting around, seemingly misplaced in space and time with very little moving behind their eyes. Ben greets his guests in a subdued, dreamy haze. Stockwell's lethargic, laidback performance perfectly counterbalances Hopper's uneasy, manic temperament. As the gang gets situated, Frank's thugs playfully taunt and threaten Jeffery, creating a sense of uncertainty. Various odd interactions enhance the uncomfortable, strange mood with non-sequiturs and random bursts of rage. Ben attempts to calm Frank down with his "suave" demeanor, resulting in mixed success. Eventually Frank lashes out violently at Jeffery. Again, it seems like Ben might placate the situation as he starts to kindly console MacLachlan's character. After lulling the poor man into a false sense of security, Ben casually punches Jeffery in the stomach. Immediately all bets are off and the unease ramps up. In this world even the seemingly innocuous characters are prone to fits of cruelty, shattering the illusion of safety. There is no one to turn to.

While all this insanity continues, Dorothy's child is kept in the backroom, unseen and separated, but still part of the insane environment. Ultimately, Dorothy is allowed to visit the child, and the camera creepily pushes in toward the closed door as an eerie music cue plays on, marking a tonal shift. Lynch doesn't let us see what transpires on the other side, we simply hear Dorothy desperately plead with her child, furthering a disturbing air of mystery. Back in the main room, Frank puts on a tape of Roy Orbison's "In Dreams." Ben begins to lip sync to the song in an almost otherworldly performance. He holds up a light bulb to his face like a microphone, illuminating his pale skin. The haunting performance plays on like some kind of phantom theater distilled from a parallel world, faintly out of phase with our own. Frank moves his lips along, overcome with sadness. Jeffery simply stands and watches, unsure what to make of the bizarre situation. All the while, Lynch employs a dreamy but slightly retrained visual style with simple cuts, letting the inherent madness of the scene speak for itself.

The sequence ends with Frank abruptly entering a fit of rage, stopping the song. The group leaves the apartment, and Hopper promises his companions a "joy ride." The whole scene feels like a deceptively mundane nightmare, with its more disturbing elements boiling just beneath the surface, hidden between outwardly harmless nooks and crannies. At first glance the room and characters almost resemble our own world, but upon closer inspection they reveal their true, unsettling nature, making the whole scenario much more disturbing. As the characters leave the apartment, they end their brief stopover in the "twilight zone," before descending into even darker territories.

'Super 8 ' (Ch.3, 00:11:03 - 00:19:25) - J.J. Abrams' heartfelt homage to all things Spielbergian, 'Super 8,' is littered with an unbridled passion for filmmaking. By mixing a sweet family story with extraterrestrial excitement, Abrams evokes all of the "Bearded One's" most memorable classics while imbuing every frame with a genuine love for the craft. This is perhaps no better evident than in an early scene which sees our misfit gang of characters attempt to shoot their own amateur film.

The group arrives by the train tracks and sets up all of their makeshift equipment for the shoot. Each young character sparkles with personality and excitement, and the cast plays brilliantly off of one another with natural, unaffected performances. Lots of tongue-in-cheek references are made as the various characters practice their clichéd lines and argue over the director's approach to the scene. The sheer, collaborative joy of moviemaking is perfectly distilled through the kids' interactions, illuminating the friendly conflicts and mutual triumphs of the art form. Eventually the young actors get in position, the camera rolls, and the magic begins. Alice (Elle Fanning) starts to recite her lines and gradually her acting proves to be surprisingly moving. The camera slowly closes in on her impassioned performance and the humorous mood slowly changes. The other kids look on in awe, blown away by her talent. Suddenly, an actual train comes by, and not wanting to miss an opportunity for genuine production value, Charles (Riley Griffiths) scrambles to get it in the shot. It's at this point that the scene takes a dramatic turn and all hell breaks loose.

What started out as an amateur, endearing homage to genre filmmaking now becomes a big budget embodiment of just that. The scene literally transforms into the cinematic big brother of the kids' makeshift production, showcasing moviemaking at its most simple and innocent, and at its most extreme and spectacular. The train goes off the tracks and crashes, creating an all-out audio/visual explosion and genuine treat for the senses. By seamlessly juxtaposing the two polar opposites of film production, Abrams affectionately celebrates everything we love about moviemaking while illuminating the ageless, innocent, thrilling joys that the medium has to offer. In a sweet, exciting, and very personal scene, we see the type of movie the director once made as a kid, with all of the simple tools and toys he had at his disposal, immediately followed by an example of what he can make now, with all of the much more expensive tools and toys at his disposal. Thankfully, the scene, and film as a whole, demonstrate that Abrams has yet to lose his inner child, resulting in a kind of wish fulfillment for his twelve year old self.

'Se7en' (Ch.36, 01:56:56 - 02:00:57) - David Fincher's rain soaked, noir influenced thriller, 'Se7en,' takes its audience through a disturbing mystery seeped in sin. A kind of counterpoint to the first scene on this list, even after seventeen years, the movie's shocking climax remains as powerful as ever. While Tom Reagan spared Bernie from execution (at least momentarily), John Doe is not so lucky, but the toll his death takes on his killer might prove costly.

The scene begins with Somerset (Morgan Freeman) opening the film's infamous box. Fincher doesn't show us its contents, but already we can start to form our own tragic conjectures. Somerset looks back to Mills (Brad Pitt) who holds a gun toward murder suspect John Doe (Kevin Spacey). The mood immediately changes as Somerset races off toward the duo. Doe starts to toy with Mills, subtly planting the seeds for his big reveal. Fincher employs a series of uncomfortable angles, quick cuts, and frantic camera movements, putting the audience on edge, placing us within Mills' own uncertain frame of mind. Spacey's creepy, lifeless performance fuels the fire as Mills starts to put the pieces together. Somerset finally reaches the pair, but it's too late. Mills brandishes the gun around recklessly as a barrage of emotions swell and build within him. "What's in the box?" he asks, repeatedly, each time growing more certain of the answer. Doe reveals that he's murdered the detective's wife, becoming the embodiment of envy. Mills refuses to believe the confession as his rage grows. Somerset attempts to talk him down. Just when it seems like he might relent, Doe tells the distraught man that his wife was pregnant. It's enough to push him over the edge, and with that, Mills becomes wrath.

Fincher cuts to a close-up of Pitt, his face oscillating between unspeakable rage and total anguish. The music builds and builds, and after a quick image of Tracy (Gwyneth Paltrow) flashes on the screen, Mills becomes resolute. Doe closes his eyes, satisfied, and is then executed on the spot. Mills shoots him several more times, emptying his rage onto the lifeless murderer. Somerset simply stands, helpless to intervene. Mills looks around as if in a daze and then walks off. We cut to a wide, overhead shot, emphasizing the extreme physical and figurative gulf between Mills and Somerset, reinforcing the tragic path the former has now chosen. Led by Fincher's tense editing and Pitt's heartbreaking performance, the scene literally grabs hold of the audience and doesn't let go, leaving us breathless in the process. All the while, we never explicitly see what's in the box, letting our imagination fill in the blanks, making its tragic contents all the more devastating.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: January 2012

Wed Jan 04, 2012 at 03:55 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

In November I covered one mad man's refusal to take it anymore, an infamous outlaw's assassination, a gangster's nostalgic remembrance, a lawyer's stand against corruption, and a moonlit courtship between two lovers. If you missed them, be sure to check out the November, the October, the September, the August, the July, and the June bookmark lists.

This month I'll be covering the destruction and rebirth of a fantasy world, one man's descent into paranoia, an achingly beautiful montage of love, a time traveling doctor's sacrifice, and an ape's monumental first words. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'The Neverending Story' (Ch.24, 01:17:43 – Ch.29 01:28:28) – Wolfgang Petersen's beloved fantasy classic, 'The Neverending Story,' is a childhood staple for many who grew up in the eighties. A wonderful blend of action, adventure, and of course magic, the film is home to many memorable sequences that stir the imagination (and one particularly devastating scene involving a horse that's left a permanent emotional scar on most who've seen it). Since I'm not a sadistic bastard, I'll leave the tragedy that occurs in the Swamps of Sadness alone, and instead focus on the film's ultimately triumphant climax.

After failing to stop the destructive force known only as "The Nothing," Atreyu (Noah Hathaway) is saved by his trusty Luck Dragon, Falcor, and the pair soon find themselves floating through a vast celestial sea of rubble. The once great kingdom of Fantasia is now reduced to nothing more than drifting chunks of rock flowing among a void of darkness. Somber music plays out as our downtrodden hero looks upon the tragic results of his apparent defeat. This prevailing mood of melancholy presents a rather sad predicament. After all, heroes are supposed to win, no matter what, and by placing our noble protagonist in the midst of failure (even if it's only temporary) Petersen displays a rare level respect for his young audience (a respect that is sadly missing from many modern efforts). As the two friends lament their great loss, the mystical Orin lights up and guides them toward whatever remains of the Ivory Tower. A beacon of glowing light still standing tall and proud atop a floating rock, we see the castle emerge from the debris as the music swells triumphantly in a rousing burst of jubilation. It seems that all hope is not lost after all. From here Petersen cuts to Bastian (Barret Oliver), the child reading the story, as his eyes stay fixated on the book before him, practically glued to the page, a perfect onscreen surrogate for the movie-watching audience.

Atreyu confronts the Childlike Empress (Tami Stronach) and as the walls of the tower begin to quake and thunder bellows from the darkness, she reveals Fantasia's only hope for salvation. Through her gentle words she breaks the invisible wall separating the realities of the film, connecting the "story world" and the "real world," illuminating the symbiotic relationship between art and artist, story and reader, film and viewer. While a book or movie may have one direct author, in the end, it is the audience who gives the work life, who infuses their own emotions and interpretations, who fills the pages or frames with meaning. In order to save an imaginary world, one only needs to use their imagination, and so Bastian does, giving the nameless Empress a name as Fantasia is torn asunder by the haunting devastation of apathy... leaving us in darkness. Surrounded by black, Bastian finds himself face to face with the Empress. "In the beginning, it is always dark," she says, holding a tiny, glowing grain of sand, all that's left of her kingdom. While only a morsel of greatness lost, in Bastian's innocent, passionate hands, the seemingly insignificant speck is more than enough. With one final wish, he remakes the world as only a child could, using his limitless imagination to fuel his creation. A celebration of the power and necessity of storytelling, the scene presents a stirring visual account of destruction and rebirth, of endings and new beginnings that has stayed with me vividly since childhood.

'The Conversation' (Ch.12, 01:45:59 - 01:53:47) – While it might be the least popular of his string of 1970s masterpieces, Francis Ford Coppola's 'The Conversation' is every bit as powerful and memorable as his other defining works. A tense examination of paranoia and perception, the film is home to some highly influential editing work and an exceptional performance by Gene Hackman. As isolated, impersonal surveillance expert, Harry Caul, Hackman carries us down a slow descent into anxiety induced seclusion and the film's closing scene is an expertly cut visual representation of just that.

In the aftermath of the movie's winding plot, Harry Caul finds himself alone in his apartment, peacefully playing his saxophone. This respite from conflict is short lived, however, and a ringing phone soon intrudes upon Caul's relaxation. Coppola employs simple, slow pans with the camera as Caul picks up the receiver, stretching out the event to increase tension. There is no answer on the other end and a reluctant Caul hangs up. Though Harry seems content enough to move on, the shot itself lingers on the silent phone ominously, foreshadowing the obsession that will soon commence. It rings again and this time Caul is not greeted with silence, but instead threatening words warning him to keep quiet about what he knows. Before he hangs up, the voice informs Harry that his place is bugged, and just like that, the character's last fragile thread of peaceful reality is cut. Caul instantly goes to work, combing his entire apartment for hidden devices. After a series of cuts and camera movements, we circle closely with Harry as he scans his environment, the camera itself drawn into Caul like a satellite in orbit unable to break away from his all encompassing draw and obsession. Methodically he gets back to business, taking apart the air conditioner, light fixtures, blinds and various trinkets.

Finally he comes across a tiny stature of the Virgin Marry resting on a shelf. He thinks for a moment, knowing that once he crosses this line there is no going back. The score fades away and ominous sound effects echo throughout the mix, creating an eerie electronic embodiment of Harry's state of mind. Suddenly, without hesitation Caul smashes the statue and finds... nothing. Music returns to the soundtrack but now the melody plays on in an almost mocking manner, undercutting Caul's seemingly futile efforts. The rhythm of the scene builds and builds as quicker cuts pile upon one another, showing Caul as he literally destroys the room, tearing apart the floors and the walls themselves. The creepy sound design continues to reinforce the paranoid mood until finally the montage of images stops, leaving a single, solitary shot of Harry sitting alone in the ruins of his apartment.

The film's final image is a simple panning shot, as the camera slowly sways across the dilapidated room, a visual representation of Caul's own fractured, traumatized psyche. We flow through the devastation and briefly land on Harry playing his saxophone. David Shire's haunting piano melody creeps in over Hackman's sax playing, sending the camera once again creeping across the rubble. The credits start to role over the image as the frame teeters back once more to Caul. Understated and perfectly executed by the filmmakers, this lingering image is a literal portrait of defeat, displaying the full tragic scope of Harry's paranoid behavior and personality.

'Cinema Paradiso' (Ch.20, 01:58:23 - 02:01:40) – Featuring one of the most famous and emotional finales in motion picture history, Giuseppe Tornatore's 'Cinema Paradiso' is a bittersweet celebration of passion and cinematic romance. A love letter to all things nostalgic, the film's tear-jerking climax is an almost peerless representation of the nameless, intangible magic that sparkles in between each flickering grain on a silver screen.

With Alfredo's (Philippe Noiret) gift in hand, Toto (Jacques Perrin) enters a screening room and hands off the mysterious reel of film to the projectionist. The lights dim and the movie ignites across the screen. Tornatore slowly closes in on Toto, only framing his reaction while keeping the actual identity of the images he views out of sight. Though we can't see what he sees, the glint of bittersweet nostalgia in the character's eyes speaks volumes, and before we even cut to the screen, we already know what's waiting for us. The actor's expression of sheer heartbreaking sadness and joy, coupled with Morricone's heart-tugging score are enough to clue us in, increasing anticipation for the eventual reveal. Finally, we cut from Toto's reaction and see the source of his great emotion -- a montage of black and white ecstasy, a visual chorus of excised passion. All of the censored footage of onscreen romance Alfredo was forced to cut from every film he ever exhibited plays on the screen in a collage of discarded magic. Kiss after kiss flickers before our eyes. Seductive glances, sensual caresses, and gently pressing lips form a parade of love through images flowing at twenty four frames per second. In an instant, the pain of lost youth is made palpable once more, and a disillusioned middle-aged man is reminded how to dream again. Tornatore periodically cuts back to Toto's reactions as he sees the beauty of life reflected in the footage. The music sweeps and soars along with the visuals in a kind of wistful majesty illuminating the true, unadulterated power of cinema.

As I mentioned in my full review of the film, the scene comes dangerously close to becoming overly sentimental, but thankfully doesn't. Instead, it's an achingly sweet hymn to movies, revealing film's power to reflect our own triumphs and losses. Through this unassuming montage, Tornatore presents a testament to the indefinable glory of motion pictures. The scene is, as Alfredo intended, simply a gift.

'Doctor Who: The Complete Fifth Series – The Big Bang' (Ch.9, 00:34:51 - Ch.10, 00:42:49) – With a new creative team and cast, season five of 'Doctor Who' had a lot to prove. Thankfully, head writer Steven Moffat was more than up for the challenge, turning in a strong series of episodes that ranks among the long running show's very best. With a mixture of imaginative stand-alone tales and ongoing serialized storylines, Moffat weaves an epic and emotional overarching plot for the over nine hundred year old alien time traveler, full of the writer's trademark "timey-wimey" genius. Playing fast and light with the implications of cause and effect, the climactic two-parter which caps of the season is a real highlight, and the finale, titled "The Big Bang," certainly lives up to its name with many memorable scenes. The sequence in question here, features the Doctor's attempts to restart the universe, leading to his own gradual demise... or so it would seem.

Strapped into the fabled Pandorica, the Doctor (Matt Smith), propels himself into a massive explosion caused by his own TARDIS, hoping to set off a second big bang in order to seal up some very pesky cracks in the universe. Leaving his friends with one final message, "Geronimo," his catchphrase of sorts, the ancient alien once again embarks on a one-way journey of self sacrifice. The moment is full of excitement, drama and emotion all elevated to an almost grandiose level by Murray Gold's operatic score. After the music swells and our fateful hero explodes, the Doctor inexplicably finds himself alive and well standing in his beloved TARDIS. All is not what it seems, however, and soon we realize that the Doctor is simply bearing witness to his life in reverse, forced to watch his very existence rewind before him as he circles the drain toward oblivion. As previous scenes from the season quickly flash before our eyes, Moffat chooses to freeze on one moment in particular, and suddenly we begin to understand the full extent of his brilliant, long form storytelling. A scene which made little sense from a previous installment, "Flesh and Stone," is now played back in an entirely new context. Shed in this new light, it's now revealed that it was actually this future Doctor rewinding through his life that spoke to Amy, urging her to remember what he said to her when she was a little girl. What did he say to her exactly? Well, in the next flash we find out just that, as the Doctor ends up face to face with a seven year old Amy Pond on the night he left her.

Sweet and innocent, we find "The Girl Who Waited," exemplifying her namesake, peacefully sleeping beside a packed suitcase outside, patiently waiting for her "Raggedy Doctor" to show her the stars. The Timelord picks up Amelia and tucks her into bed. Tired and out of options, he collapses in a nearby chair and gives one final farewell to the sleeping girl. The subsequent monologue spoken by Smith and written by Moffat, is a beautifully realized, wistful piece that finds the Doctor quietly detailing his own tale. "We're all stories in the end," he whispers, before recounting his own whimsical history. He tells Amy about how he "borrowed" the TARDIS, how it's "brand new and ancient," and the "bluest blue ever." The gentle, melancholy words carry a magical, poetic quality, and Murray Gold's accompanying music is full of somber mystery and wonder. In Steven Moffat's hands, the Doctor's life is distilled into a sweet little bedtime story, and it's perfect. With the cracks closing, the Doctor decides to skip the rest of his rewind. The last image of the scene shows Smith as nothing more than a shadow on Amy's wall cascading over her room as she sleeps. Slowly but surely the shadow fades away and the crack closes up, leaving Amy's "Raggedy Doctor" nothing more than a half remembered dream..

Of course, the story doesn't end there, and the Doctor does make an eventual, triumphant return, perhaps thanks to some choice words in his seemingly innocuous bedtime story. At her wedding Amy does indeed remember what the Doctor told her when she was seven, and her memory of "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue," is enough to bring him and his big old blue box back into existence. Was the Doctor's story really part of an intentional plot to plant the seeds to his own resurrection or just a daft old man's final, parting words? Perhaps the answer rests in a quote from the show's recently aired Christmas special. With the Timelord caught in a dangerous situation he tells his companions to do what he usually does, "...hold tight and pretend it's a plan." Even when he doesn't know what he's doing, he does, and conversely even when he does, he probably doesn't -- and isn't that why we love him?

'Rise of the Planet of the Apes' (Ch.22, 01:11:53 - 01:13:43) – A great example of an intelligent franchise reboot, 'Rise of the Planet of the Apes' is a fantastic and surprisingly thought provoking examination of the consequences of man's hubris and cruelty. Keeping only the good elements and basic mythology of the previous movies, the filmmakers reinvent the series for a new audience, presenting one of the most interesting mainstream science films to come along in quite some time. Inspired by references made in the original franchise, the entire story is actually built around one important moment -- and what a moment it is. Though fans of the series expected it, there is no denying the raw power that accompanies Caesar's first words.

The scene begins with Dodge (Tom Felton) discovering Caesar (Andy Serkis) out of his cage. Tired of the cruel treatment that he and his fellow ape companions are subjected to, Caesar stands up to the mean-spirited young man. Defiant and brave, the ape keeps his ground as Dodge charges up a stun baton. The other animals watch on, unsure what to make of the situation. Dodge lunges at Caesar, stunning him with an electric shock. The audience of apes screeches in horror, worried for their new leader. Caesar recovers and fights back. As he comes down to strike him again with another shock, the ape grabs Dodge's arm. In a not so subtle homage to the original film, Dodge recites Charlton Heston's famous line, "Get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape!" A literal reversal of the classic film's roles, this tongue-in-cheek reference carries a slightly humorous quality that is then immediately squelched by the movie's most dramatic moment. Caesar leans up as the camera rises with him and he shouts, "No!" Even though I was expecting it, the line is still shocking and powerful. By throwing in an almost jokey reference immediately preceding the monumental instance, the filmmakers brilliantly subvert our expectations and somehow make the scene even more surprising and resonant. The raw animal voice forming human words for the first time sends a tidal wave of emotion around the room. The other apes begin to celebrate as Caesar knocks Dodge unconscious. The camera circles the triumphant simian revolutionary in a dramatic spin while he chants "no" over and over again in a chorus of freedom.

While the moment where Caesar speaks is certainly powerful, it's actually a quick reaction shot that occurs afterward that sticks with me the most. After uttering his first words, the movie cuts to a brief shot of a nearby gorilla, and the animal's facial expression is incredible. A complicated mixture of fear, awe, and hope, it's as if we can see years of oppression and mistreatment ease away in one heartbreaking instant. The amount of emotion revealed in such a fleeting quiver of a mouth and twitch of an eye is astounding and really demonstrates the full potential of motion capture technology. When I first saw the trailer for the film I was not exactly impressed with the computer generated, motion captured monkeys. They simply looked fake and unnatural to me. After watching the film (and this scene in particular), that initial opinion has been completely changed, and though some aspects of the CG work still look questionable to me, the level of nuance that the actor's bring to their performances is simply mesmerizing. Powerful, allegorical, and technically groundbreaking this scene represents science fiction and motion capture at its very best.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

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High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: November 2011

Tue Nov 29, 2011 at 04:00 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered an eclectic mix of scenes that included a beautiful woman's arrival in the old west, a stirring moment of romance in a shadowy, sci-fi world, a hitman's final gift to his son, a time suspended realization of love, and a ballerina's mesmerizing dance. If you missed them, be sure to check out the October, the September, the August, the July, and the June bookmark lists.

This month I'll be covering one mad man's refusal to take it anymore, an infamous outlaw's assassination, a gangster's nostalgic remembrance, a lawyer's stand against corruption, and a moonlit courtship between two lovers. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Network' (Ch.15, 00:53:26 - 00:57:39) – Sidney Lumet's satirical masterpiece, 'Network,' is an intelligent and thought provoking examination of greed, mass media culture, and the dangers of worshiping at the altar of television. Through the character of Howard Beale, screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky and actor Peter Finch created an iconic and indelible onscreen persona, and in the film's most memorable sequence they give timeless voice to a generation of discontent.

The famous scene begins when previously suicidal news reporter, Howard Beale (Peter Finch), walks into the UBS television studio soaking wet. He nonchalantly greets the stagehands and casually walks over to his desk. The cameras start to role, the broadcast goes live and almost immediately Howard's eyes light up with a kind of crazed awareness. The man starts to rant, giving voice to concerns that every citizen watching holds, detailing the sad state of affairs in the country, lamenting on the financial and cultural depression that plagues the world. As his diatribe continues, Beale becomes a kind of ran-soaked prophet, a madman in a trench coat and pajamas preaching the truth, a rage filled alternative to the gospel of consumerism and greed. The vitriol continues to spew against injustice and isolation and suddenly Beale's speech reaches a kind of crescendo. He stands up and appeals to his viewers, urging them to get mad. It's at this point that he raises his hands in the air and speaks one of the most famous and memorable lines in all of film history, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!" He continues to chant it like a mantra, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!" Like a rallying cry to arms, he pleads with his viewers to join him as he roams around the studio.

Lumet then cuts backstage as Diana (Faye Dunaway) scrambles, unsure whether to start damage control or break out into celebration. We see various reactions as viewers watch the broadcast transfixed, including Howard's friend Max Schumacher (William Holden) who looks on apprehensively. As news of the positive reactions spread, Diana and the producers smile with glee, jumping at the chance to take advantage of Howard like vultures, using his ratings to further everything that the poor man is preaching against. All the while, the chorus of discontent spreads like wildfire. Eventually, Lumet takes us outside as numerous citizens stick their heads out of their windows and chant Howard's words, creating a choir of unrest, a symphony of angry voices bolstered by billowing thunder and flashing lightning, giving visual form to their boiling emotions. The scene ends with Schumacher sadly shaking his head, unsure where this will all lead.

A powerful and oft-referenced sequence, the scene is just as pertinent today as it was in 1976. As violence, greed and corruption still run rampant and protesters line the streets, Howard Beale's anthem is perhaps more relevant now than ever. As long as there is injustice in the world, there will always be a voice ready to shout, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!," and likewise there will always be seedy individuals ready to manipulate and skew such sincere sentiments into empty platitudes and easily consumable catchphrases for the masses to eat up in droves.

'The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford' (Ch.30, 02:09:18 - 02:12:59) – An underrated, lyrical meditation on the perplexities of fame and betrayal, 'The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford,' is home to several beautifully somber and visually poetic sequences. The climax of the film, which features the infamous assassination referenced in the movie's title, is perhaps its most effective and powerful scene, displaying a beautiful fusion of composition, score, performance and pacing. As the "coward" Robert Ford readies his pistol, tragedy and destiny join together, forever locked in tandem through the simple pull of a trigger.

The scene (and film as a whole) features a very slow, rhythmic quality, that, coupled with the thoughtful compositions, blown out contrast and subdued color palette, give the images a melancholy, dreamy tone. As soon as Jesse James (Brad Pitt) enters the room it's immediately apparent that his demeanor is lethargic and in a sense almost defeated, foreshadowing the events that will soon take place. While Jesse wanders through the room, Bob (Casey Affleck) broods in a nearby rocking chair. His face is almost ghost-white and his expression is littered with anxiety as he mulls over his impending actions. All of the conflicted emotions of the complex character are perfectly realized by Affleck in a truly multifaceted performance. Jesse gazes outside a blown out window, as an almost ethereal glow surrounds him, creating an ominous but peaceful air that lulls the viewer into a false sense of calm. Tensions start to rise as Bob looks on, hand against his temple, struggling to summon up the nerve to move to action. An uncomfortable angle frames James from behind, his back to the camera, unable to see whatever potential threats lurk nearby. The slow cuts and deceptively serene atmosphere continue to form a somber rhythm that feels slightly off, as if something terrible is merely seconds away. James takes off his gun and turns toward a hanging picture. Those familiar with the story behind the gunslinger's death know what his glance signals, and director Andrew Dominik plays up this fact, injecting the cuts with a kind of laid back gravitas, making each insignificant action feel almost monumental. James comments that the frame looks a bit dusty and slowly walks toward it. The way the scene is staged almost seems to imply that James knows what's coming, as he moves toward the picture in an almost zombie-like trance, being pulled by unseen forces toward a predestined fate.

A sad piano melody kicks in, signaling the point of no return. The scene is now almost silent, save for the gentle score. Bob gets up as Jesse continues his way toward the picture, his face still a portrait of conflicted emotion. The painterly images and slow rhythm take on a kind of drifting quality, slowly carrying the audience and characters toward inevitable doom. Bob pulls out his pistol and aims it at Jesse, his face now blank. We cut to a POV shot of the gun circling the infamous outlaw and tensions reach their boiling point. We all know what's going to happen and Dominik milks the tension by prolonging the inevitable. Before he pulls the trigger, the director makes it clear that Jesse sees Bob in the reflection of the picture frame, an important and quite revelatory detail. In this version of the story, it would seem that James somehow accepts and perhaps even embraces his fate, resisting the urge to fight back in the face of death. A loud gunshot fills the room and the somber score fades away. Blood spews from James' head as he hits the picture frame and falls to the ground. While the buildup was littered with artistic and dramatic flourishes, the death itself is presented in a purely matter-of-fact, completely unromanticized manner. Just like that, the mythic gunslinger is no more.

A beautifully staged and timed sequence, the scene presents the outlaw's death in a style that is both poetic and mundane. The buildup is full of tension and artistry but the eventual shooting is almost anticlimactic, reinforcing the indignity and simplicity of death, even for so called "legends." While he may have exuded an almost untouchable quality in life, all it took to kill the great Jesse James was a simple bullet to the head, but as the film goes on to demonstrate, his legend will live on in perpetuity, books will be written about the assassination, and movies will be made.

'Once Upon a Time in America' (Ch.10, 00:35:03 - 00:40:06) – A dense and ambiguous work, Sergio Leone's 'Once Upon a Time in America' features a sprawling scope with numerous flashback sequences that blend past and present together. These various cuts between time periods allow the filmmakers to form creative visual transitions, easing the viewer from one decade to the next in oftentimes creative and emotionally resonant ways. The scene in question here features such a segue and offers an achingly powerful moment of remembrance onscreen, literally guiding the viewer through time.

After returning home, an elder David "Noodles" Aaronson (Robert De Niro) visits the restaurant where he spent much of his youth. As the aging gangster makes his way around the room, Ennio Morricone's elegiac score fills the room, gently leading Noodles and the camera itself in a slow, meditative rhythm. The camera moves from old photographs on the wall to Noodles' sad, aged face, illuminating the vast distance between what once was and what now is. Aaronson enters the bathroom, carefully stands on the toilet and suddenly removes a small piece of the wall, revealing a peep hole of sorts, allowing him to see into the backroom. A golden hued light cascades over Noodles' eyes. Leone then starts to employ what will become a series of slow push-ins that form a melancholic, visual syntax for the scene. As Noodles peers into the other room, we cut to a shot of his eyes and slowly close in on his sad expression, a nostalgic glint in his pupils, though we still can't see what he sees. Joseph LaCalle's "Amapola" creeps into the scene and with the help of the music to ease the transition, we finally cut to Noodles' perspective revealing a young girl, Deborah (Jennifer Connelly), dressed as a ballerina as she practices a dance. Dust swirls in shafts of sepia soaked light, and its clear that this shot is from a different time period entirely.

Through Noodles' perspective we have literally been transported through time, and Leone once again uses a slowly creeping camera to close in on the image of Deborah through the peep hole. We then cut back to a shot of Noodles' eyes peering in, but now they are those of a child, not an old man, firmly grounding us in the past and severing all ties to the present. Deborah pretends not to notice her clandestine admirer and continues to dance around the room with an angelic quality. Leone manages to maintain a sweet and innocent air while still adding a certain voyeuristic element to the scene, as Noodles continues to watch the young girl transfixed. Eventually Deborah's brother interrupts her practice and she stops the record, ending the music and the sequence.

An emotional fusion of past and present, Leone constructs a scene full of bittersweet nostalgia and innocent love. As an old man's remembrance gently transports the audience through time, the director presents a simple and effortless visual transition that relies on compositions, movements, cuts and the emotions of the characters themselves, rather than overly flashy and imposing techniques.

'Michael Clayton' (Ch.26, 01:47:55 - 01:56:02) – More than just an intriguing dramatic thriller, 'Michael Clayton' is an interesting and fairly nuanced character study. As played by George Clooney, the title character is a complex man of ambiguous moral integrity. As various twists and turns are revealed and seedy behavior is exposed, the character goes through a transformation of sorts. When he ultimately reaches his boiling point, Clayton explodes in a powerfully understated climax that oozes tension, as the calm and collected "fixer" unleashes his fury.

The scene begins with Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton) exiting a meeting. Essentially under the impression that she has gotten away with murder and successfully covered up U-North's transgressions, she is surprised to find Michael (George Clooney) waiting for her in the hall. The two start talking and Clayton begins to taunt Crowder with a mixture of smug bravado and justified vengeance. Karen's face goes pale as the conversation continues and Clayton reveals that he's put all the pieces together and knows about the whole conspiracy. He verbally attacks her, making each accusation sting. Swinton plays the scene brilliantly, unsuccessfully trying to hide her fear. Clooney then reaches the climax of his slow burn performance, culminating in a brilliantly delivered and written line, "I'm not the guy that you kill, I'm the guy that you buy!" In an instant the character is summed up simply and concisely, and indeed much of what we've seen of Clayton might imply that such a tactic could have worked in the past. Crowder realizes the grave error that she's made and simply stands, unsure what to say. "Don't you know who I am?" he asks with a hint of self-loathing behind his words. His anger escalates and he asks for money in exchange for his silence. Crowder acquiesces in squirmy, weaselly desperation. Clayton smiles, informs her that she's screwed and then takes a picture of her defeated, deer in headlights expression with his phone. It's revealed that he was transmitting the conversation to the police the whole time. In response to the murder of his friend, the murders of countless innocents at the hands of U-North, and his own attempted murder, Clayton has finally done the right thing.

Despite his own proclamation that he's "the man you buy," in the end the character chooses a different path, and the slow boil toward his explosive awakening is handled perfectly by director Tony Gilroy and George Clooney. The whole scene is shot with simple, basic coverage with stationary angles, letting the escalating anger of Clooney's performance do all the work. As the police enter and Clayton walks away, Gilroy employs a long take that sustains the momentum of Clooney's fiery speech by following the character as he slowly walks away, his face full of uncertain emotions. The scene, and film itself, finally ends with a single shot of Clayton sitting in the backseat of a taxi in silence as the credits start to role over the image. The unbroken, simple shot becomes a perfect form of decompression for both the character and the audience, capping off a very memorable, powerful conclusion and a truly defining moment for the character.

'Barry Lyndon' (Ch.15, 01:06:49 - 01:22:13) – Though not among his most popular works, Stanley Kubrick's romantic period piece, 'Barry Lyndon,' is perhaps my favorite of the director's very celebrated and varied filmography. A picaresque tale about a roguish adventurer, the film is primarily remembered for its groundbreaking and stunning cinematography which features beautiful compositions, scenery and several noteworthy shots illuminated by candlelight alone. Like many great director's, Kubrick often relies only on images to convey story and emotion, and the scene discussed here is a perfect example of such a tactic. With very little dialogue, the director is able to say all that needs to be said through editing, movement and the subtle facial expressions of his actors.

The sequence starts with Redmond Barry (Ryan O'Neal) behind a card table populated with gamblers and wealthy aristocrats. Softly lit by candles, the scene has a gentle, warm glow. Across from Barry, is the beautiful Lady Lyndon (Marisa Berenson). As the game continues, Kubrick cuts back and forth between simple medium shots and closeups of Lyndon and Barry as the two coyly make eye contact with one another. The two never say anything, and instead their wide, penetrating gazes convey their flirtation in a purely visual and very subtle manner. Passion is expressed not through words or action, but through facial expression alone. Schubert's Piano Trio in E Flat plays throughout the scene as the rogue and Lady continue their wordless courtship. The music brilliantly scores the rising emotions and as Lady Lyndon announces she's stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, the melody carries us on into the second stage of the sequence.

Lady Lyndon walks out into the night air, cast in blue moonlight. The camera slowly tracks with her as she makes her way toward the edge of the terrace, each step perfectly in beat with the music. The camera stays fixed on a medium shot of Lyndon as she waits in the foreground. Behind her in the same shot we can see Barry approach. We then cut to a medium shot of Barry slowly walking toward Lyndon, the camera now tracking with him. He reaches his destination and stands behind the enchanting aristocrat. At first she refuses to turn to look at him, and again Kubrick lingers on his shots, drawing out the scene with a slow, passionate tempo. Finally, she turns, their eyes lock and they gently kiss without speaking a word, concluding Barry and the director's silent seduction.

The scene has an almost poetic beauty to it and Kubrick manages to form a perfect harmony between his lingering shots, purposeful cuts and slow camera movements. The visual form on screen mirrors the tempo of the music and the emotions of the characters, forging a sequence that becomes a visual and auditory waltz of temptation.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: October 2011

Wed Oct 26, 2011 at 06:55 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered an eclectic mix of scenes that included a triumphant lift-off toward the stars, a filmmaker's personal struggles, the origin of a superhero, two lovers growing old together, and the birth of a "starchild." If you missed them, be sure to check out the September, August, July, and June bookmark lists.

This month I'll be covering a beautiful woman's arrival in the Old West, a stirring moment of romance in a shadowy, sci-fi world, a hitman's final gift to his son, a time suspended realization of love, and a ballerina's mesmerizing dance. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Once Upon a Time in the West' (Ch.5, 00:24:39 - 00:29:50) - An operatic ballet of drawn out standoffs and widescreen shootouts, Sergio Leone's masterpiece, 'Once Upon a Time in the West,' is full of numerous, memorable iconic sequences. From the film's famous, rhythmic opening to its revenge fueled climax, Leone demonstrates a mastery of pacing, composition, and tone. This control of cinematic technique extends far beyond the big set pieces, however, and makes even the film's quieter moments great examples of meaningful direction. This includes the scene in question here, our first introduction to the movie's female star, Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale).

The sequence begins with an out of focus shot and a loud, permeating screech. As the frame comes into focus, the image reveals itself to be a train pulling into a station. The locomotive comes to a stop and out exits Jill, face smiling, hopeful and excited to greet her new husband and family, who she expects to be waiting for her. Leone uses a slow push in toward the optimistic woman, emphasizing her mood and emotions which will soon gradually change. As passengers disembark and meet up with their loved ones and friends, Jill listlessly wanders around the station, a sense of uncertainty slowly creeping in. Utilizing a long take, Leone captures the beautiful woman's movements through the station uninterrupted, using the character's blocking within the environment and the camera's movement to reframe the shot from wide to close-up as necessary, giving us a sense of place and atmosphere while sustaining the character's increasing apprehension. Suddenly we cut to a clock, and all sound fades. The commotion and bustle of the station is stripped away, instead slowly replaced with a gentle, wistful melody. From the clock we cut to a close-up of Cardinale. All that needs to be said is expressed solely through her distraught expression and Morricone's building score. When we cut back to a wide shot of the station, it's now almost deserted, the happy air of travelers returning home replaced by the desolation of being abandoned.

This leads to the sequence's most impressive shot, as we follow Jill from the train platform into the station's main office. When the character enters the building, the camera stays outside, filming her through the window. We can see Jill move toward the exit, and as she leaves, the camera shifts upward, slowly rising right over the building itself. Morricone's gorgeous music builds with the rising camera, pairing the melody's own movement with the image's. The escalation continues until a perfectly timed crescendo as the shot at last reaches its destination, revealing a wide shot of a lively, Old West town. The score swells with melancholic bravado, perfectly juxtaposing the somber music with the harsh environment, just as Jill herself is now shuttled around the town, her delicate beauty itself a stark contrast as she becomes a clear fish out of water. With no dialogue, the director is able to perfectly introduce the audience to an important character through images and sound alone. The scene may not hold the same iconic status as some of the film's other well known sequences, but it remains a perfect example of Leone's powerful direction and the integral role of Morricone's elegiac score.

'Dark City: Director's Cut' (Ch.12, 01:13:23 - 01:15:38) - Like many of the best films that the science fiction genre has to offer, 'Dark City' deals with several heady questions pertaining to the human condition itself, focusing on what makes us unique, what makes us individuals, and what makes us who we truly are. Are we more than mere impulses and learned behavior? Are we more than the sum of our experiences and memories? Is there something else past the outer surface of our identities, within our hearts and souls that goes beyond the clinical mechanisms of the mind alone? All of these questions come to an emotional head in a very brief, simple, and beautifully understated sequence that remains one of the film's most powerful moments.

After being arrested and interrogated under the suspicion of murder, kind-hearted amnesiac John Murdoch (Rufus Sewell) is visited by his supposedly estranged wife, Emma (Jennifer Connelly). The two are separated by a glass partition, forced to communicate through telephone receivers. As the pair converses, they start to put the pieces together, realizing that there is some sort of greater manipulation at play. Indeed, they may not be who they think they are, and in reality they may not have actually met before the previous night. Emma has a hard time accepting the unbelievable conjecture, confessing that she vividly remembers meeting and falling in love with John. The officers attempt to cut the visit short and start to pull John away, but Emma pleads with them, and they ultimately relent (after all, who could say no to Jennifer Connelly?). She struggles to make sense of the situation but finally comes to a simple, matter of fact realization. "I love you," she says, and then continues, "You can't fake something like that." They stare into each other's eyes, and though he's aware that she's not really his wife, and that they in fact barely know each other, he agrees.

Instantly and effortlessly one of the film's central thematic concepts is summed up. The "Strangers" might be able to manipulate thoughts and memories, but can any being really force one to love or hate? They tried to make John a murderer but his very core rejected the possibility. A sentiment can be implanted intellectually, compelled upon our minds, but true emotion is much more than just an idea. It is the intangible, and the unknowable. As John looks upon Emma, he realizes that what he feels is not just a lingering impulse from some failed implant. It's real, and powerful. He slowly reaches out his hand, and fueled by love, reshapes the very world around him, shattering the glass between the two as the music soars. John leans over and they passionately kiss, forming a palpably romantic image made all the more potent thanks to the subtle magic of science fiction. The scene is short and quick, but perfectly sums up what the film is really about, utilizing a brief fantastical element to heighten universal themes of romance and humanity.

'Road to Perdition' (Ch.23, 01:46:12 - 01:50:34) - Sam Mendes' 'Road to Perdition' is a powerful examination of fathers and sons as filtered through the tragic and violent world of crime. The film's bittersweet climax presents some of its most potent and innovative visuals, with the director and cinematographer using sound design and composition to bolster and enhance the mood, drama, and subtext of the scene. After surviving a perilous journey across the country, Michael (Tom Hanks) and Michael Jr. (Tyler Hoechlin) finally reach the fabled shores of Perdition.

As his son happily explores the serene beach, Michael enters the nearby house. The sound of the waves peacefully going in and out is all that we hear in the background, underscoring the mood of the scene in a way that no traditional music ever could. Michael walks into a clinically white room, empty and silent, with the blooming light of the outside world pouring in through a wide, open window. The hitman slowly approaches the edge of the room and peers out, finally able to relax, simply breath, and watch the water gently break across the shore. We now cut to a masterfully composed shot, which will become our sole vantage point for the scene's most important action. From outside, we focus on Hanks's character as he gazes through the window. We can see him standing inside through the glass, and also the reflection of the beach itself overlaid across the window. Through this reflection Mendes and famed cinematographer Conrad Hall are essentially able to create multiple shots within the same frame, naturally layering images on top of one another. This lets the scene play out with two distinct vantage points within one unbroken shot, while simultaneously connecting the separate images in an intimate and meaningful way.

The peaceful waters cascading over Michael's tired face, coupled with the constant rhythm of the flowing waves, lulls us into a false sense of calm. We can see Michael Jr. on the shore, waving to his father in the reflection on the window. Before he can wave back, a gunshot disrupts the peaceful atmosphere, splattering blood across the window, corrupting both layers of the once peaceful canvas with crimson hued dread. In the background, the waves continue to ease in and out, perfectly undercutting the violence. We see Michael Jr. run out of the shot in the corner of the reflection, a minor detail that will soon hold important ramifications. Hanks falls to his knees, revealing his attacker, Maguire (Jude Law), sitting behind him nonchalantly in the corner of the room. Through this all, we stay fixed on the same, single, stationary shot, as a new layer is added to the composition. There is Maguire sitting in the far background, Hanks fallen in the middleground, and the blood soaked window in the foreground -- which itself gives way to an entirely separate reflection of the beach. The meticulously, brilliantly staged framing allows the audience to see all that it needs to see in a significant and visually inventive manner.

We finally cut from the suspended shot and enter the room itself. Maguire sets up his camera and prepares to finish off Hanks's character. All the while, the audience knows something that he doesn't -- Michael Jr. is still unaccounted for. Suddenly, the missing boy appears in the doorway, pointing a gun at his father's would-be killer. He readies the weapon, but hesitates. Before Maguire can capitalize on the boy's fears, a shot fills the room. Using his last ounce of strength, Hanks has given his son one final gift, sparing his need to kill, saving him from the same fate of violence that ruined his own life. Michael Jr. rushes to his dying father's side, as gentle music fills the scene. "I couldn’t do it," he says. "I know," his father replies in a slow but joyful whisper. The last shot of the scene is a slow track out of the once clinically white room, now stained red with blood, capping off a masterfully executed display of careful composition and staging that ranks among the film's most memorable and striking sequences.

'Fallen Angels' (Ch.14, 00:55:09 - 00:57:38) - Like most Wong Kar Wai films, 'Fallen Angels' is full of striking cinematic ingenuity. The director loves to experiment with angles, shutter speed, frame rate, and exposure to create unique filmic images that signal a stark departure from our own usual perception of reality. Though the film has many instances of such experimentation, one scene in particular stands out for its unique visuals. A direct reflection of one character's internal emotions, the manipulation of time evident in the sequence actually gives cinematic form to once intangible concepts.

After the film's quirky mute protagonist, He Zhiwu (Takeshi Kaneshiro) meets Charlie (Charlie Yeung), he instantly becomes smitten. Filmed as one black and white shot, Zhiwu sits down with his dream girl as rain drips across the window that rests between them and the camera. A brief voice over plays out revealing the mute's newfound feelings, but quickly fades away, as the image itself is more than enough to convey all that the director has to express. In the foreground the mute slowly admires Charlie as she remains comically oblivious. Water flows across the screen, subtly distorting the picture, and a crowd of moving strangers stutters on behind the two potential lovers. Through some innovative in-camera trickery, cinematographer Christopher Doyle creates a rather amazing effect that makes it look as if Zhiwu and Charlie are moving in slow motion, while the world behind them appears to almost fast-forward on. The filmmakers have managed to create a separate sense of time and motion throughout the different planes of the frame, placing due emphasis on Zhiwu's own distorted and stretched out perception as he falls in love. This manipulation of screen time creates a moment almost, but not quite frozen, a brief instance that is elongated and presented not as it occurred in reality but as the character actually felt it. The importance and emotion of the scene is heightened and revealed by its actual stylistic presentation. While some of Wong Kar Wai's images can come across as mere superficial exercises in visual experimentation, here, the techniques on display perfectly complement the content, presenting emotions in a visually potent and meaningful way.

'The Red Shoes' (Ch.15, 01:06:49 - 01:22:13) - A dazzling display of color and artistic obsession, Powell and Pressburger's 'The Red Shoes' is a breathtaking display of Technicolor wizardry. This is perhaps no better evident than in the film's extended detour into the fictional story within the story. As the characters finally put on their diligently prepared production of 'The Red Shoes,' the filmmakers take us on a cinematically mesmerizing journey into the unknown.

The scene begins, appropriately enough, with curtains rising, giving way to a stage. At first the sequence plays out as nothing more than a straight representation of what the audience in the theater would have seen. The ballet begins and Victoria (Moira Shearer) starts to dance about. Gradually, though, we cut closer in on the action, capturing angles that the spectators could never hope to see with lively camera movements. On top of these techniques, little bits of magic are tossed into the production, signaling a clear break from the mere reality of a simple stage show, while foreshadowing the fantasy that will soon commence. We see the ballerina superimposed in a store window, and when she puts the infamous red shoes on, it's as if they strap themselves up. As the show continues, the atmosphere grows increasingly abstract and the sets become more elaborate and all encompassing, taking on a dimension that would otherwise be impossible. Before long, we are thrust into an almost surreal, otherworldly tapestry of dance, color, and spectacle. Slow motion shots create a dreamy air, and characters within the ballet suddenly become characters from the actual film, drawing direct thematic parallels between both dueling stories, while we descend further and further into Victoria's own mind, revealing her complicated desires, fears, and hopes. When the internal and external production comes to an end, the curtains close and the audience erupts in applause.

The sequence is not a literal translation of the performance, but a kind of halfway point between reality and illusion. The astonishing imagery, as shot by the legendary Jack Cardiff, is full of flashing lights, swirling kaleidoscopes of popping colors, and bits of dreamlike flourishes. The grandeur of the stage is mixed with the magic of film, fusing the strengths of both art forms into one. In the hands of lesser filmmakers, the scene could have simply been a straight rendition of the performance, but under "The Archers," the sequence takes on a cinematic life of its own, solidifying an important and memorable place in motion picture history.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: September 2011

Tue Sep 27, 2011 at 03:40 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered an eclectic mix of scenes that included an android's rain soaked last words, a flashy, dizzying introduction to a very unconventional family, a powerful, emotional confession by a wounded soul, an "errand boy" who finally collects his bill, and a tense journey through a warzone that sees the very future of mankind on the line. If you missed them, be sure to check out the August bookmark list, the July bookmark list, and the June bookmark list.

This month I'll be covering a triumphant lift-off toward the stars, a filmmaker's personal struggles, the origin of a superhero, two lovers growing old together, and the birth of a "star child." For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Gattaca' (Ch.16, 01:40:04 - 01:42:49) - A celebratory hymn to the human spirit, Andrew Niccol's 'Gattaca' is everything science fiction should be. By presenting a world where our DNA defines success, the director paints a disturbingly prophetic warning of possible things to come. Despite his biological predisposition to fail, the character of Vincent (Ethan Hawke) proves that the will of man has no quantifiable limit, and that the spark that rests in all our hearts defies mere scientific understanding. After conquering seemingly insurmountable odds, the film ends with Vincent finally attaining his goal, and in a beautifully shot and edited sequence, we watch as the so called "invalid" makes one last reach for the stars.

The scene begins with Vincent slowly walking through a clinically white, cylindrical corridor that leads to the rocket that will carry him toward his dream. His face is almost blank, but we can see the faint hints of passion that lurk behind his habitually restrained demeanor of forced stoicism. It is at this point, that the scene features the first of what will become a series of significant parallel cuts, that perfectly juxtapose Vincent's voyage into the unknown with Jerome's (Jude Law) tragic suicide. As Vincent takes his last steps through the sterile hall, we cut to Jerome as he carefully lifts himself into an incinerator, linking their final actions on Earth through editing. All the while, Michael Nyman's gorgeous music steadily builds, flowing slowly with the contrasting images on screen. Vincent enters the rocket and the hatch is closed, signaling a firm, metallic thud, which leads to an expertly timed cut of Jerome shutting the door to the incinerator, securing himself in the soon to be fiery tomb. The sound and images of both closing doors echo each other, creating a thematic and contextual connection between the two events. Jerome places his silver medal around his neck, finally able to accept and perhaps even embrace his status as "second best." The music starts to swell and the rockets ignite, propelling the craft toward the cosmos. In another meaningful parallel cut, the flaming thrusters give way to a shot of the incinerator commencing, as both men mark an end and a beginning through fire. A slow moving shot pans across Vincent's anonymous crewmates, while miles away flickering flames continue to engulf Jerome.

We finally rest on Vincent, an ethereal light swaying across his face, as he opens one last gift from his departing friend, a lock of hair, no longer a mere contractual DNA sample, but an actual gesture of love. Nyman's music reaches the last crescendo of its longing melody, propelling Vincent into the vast unknown. The last image we see is a slow tracking shot of the porthole of the spacecraft, revealing a sea of stars. Voice over from Vincent ponders the origins of the universe, as the character begins his journey toward the celestial tapestry from which we all, so very long ago, began. A bittersweet but ultimately uplifting fusion of images and sounds, the scene is an emotional and fitting finale to a thought provoking and increasingly relevant science fiction marvel.

'8 1/2' (Ch.24, 01:56:47 - 02:03:15) - Federico Fellini's dizzying circus act of artistic creation, '8 ½,' is home to many memorable and indelible images and sequences. With exaggerated and fantastical situations that involve everything from a harem of lovers to a festive carnival of friends and family, the scene in question here is comparatively restrained, simply featuring a quiet conversation between a director and his actress. While many sequences might be more lively, surreal, or cinematically inventive, for me, this relatively soft spoken exchange is actually the most revealing and telling scene in the entire film, essentially cutting right down to the core of Guido's (Marcello Mastroianni) complicated character.

After being repeatedly mentioned and glimpsed at in dreamy visions, the mythical Claudia (Claudia Cardinale) finally arrives in the flesh. First revealed in shadow, with the light of a movie's projector shooting overhead, the beautiful actress, dressed in black, greets her anxious director, and the two soon decide to go for a drive. While in the car, Fellini uses light and shadow to enhance the thematic and emotional subtext of the scene. Guido is masked in darkness, with only his eyes visible in harsh light, bolstering the internal doubt and stress that plagues him. In contrast, Claudia and her almost otherworldly beauty are awash in radiance, practically glowing next to the struggling filmmaker. After gushing about her magnificence, Guido starts to emotionally unload on the actress, opening up about his troubled state of mind by posing hypothetical quandaries dealing with his insatiable desires. It seems he somehow expects the angelic woman to have all the answers, to somehow know exactly what to say to alleviate his heavy burdens, but her ultimate response may not bring the desired outcome.

Eventually, the pair reaches a potential filming location for the director's movie, and they park the car so Guido can describe the possible scene in question. With little fanfare and no warning, Fellini then eases into a dreamy enactment of the proposed movie within a movie, featuring Claudia, now dressed in white, almost floating through the setting. The ethereal, silent images are captivating and mysterious and all too fleeting, eventually giving way back to reality. Once again in black, Claudia starts to criticize the planned film and its main character, who she finds to be unsympathetic. As a faint wind blows in the background, Guido defends his creation, who we all really know is just a thinly veiled projection of himself. It's at this point, that Claudia, with a faint, bittersweet smile across her face, speaks the film's most insightful and enlightening lines. As Guido continues to defend his fictional alter ego's behavior and choices, claiming he's a man who's tired of lies, Claudia effortlessly rebuts each of his assertions with one simple sentence, "Because he doesn't know how to love." The words flow like a self evident mantra, again and again, "Because he doesn't know how to love." No matter what he argues, its instantly negated, "Because he doesn't know how to love." Indeed, this seemingly uncomplicated observation is the key to Guido's character and all of his problems, but is it really true? Is Guido really incapable of love? After all, as we've seen throughout the film, Guido is not only capable of love, he is actually in danger of having an overabundance of it. A womanizing egomaniac, he literally can't be satisfied, and while he cares for and even "loves" all of his mistresses, they are never enough. In reality, Guido actually loves in excess, but it's not the right kind of love. Claudia's deceptively harmless observation sums up the character perfectly, and distills the source of all his conflicts.

Before the scene concludes, the actress reveals that she doesn't care for the location, claiming that it doesn't feel real, reinforcing many of the film's themes of illusion and reality. Guido, of course, loves it. The telling sequence then comes to an abrupt end, when the director's producers literally invade upon the scene, unraveling Guido's momentary respite from the storm that is his life. With the audience now fitted with important new insights, the character is forced back into his spiraling existence, and the madness once again continues, paving the way for the film's chaotic and joyous conclusion.

'Watchmen: Director's Cut' (Ch.18, 01:11:22 - 01:21:47) - In a slight break from my usual approach to scenes in these articles, I'm actually going to take a more critical stance on this particular sequence. While on the surface an extremely faithful adaptation of the comic book masterpiece and certainly a solid film, Zach Snyder's 'Watchmen' is in many ways a missed opportunity, with the filmmaker technically hitting all the right notes, but with unfortunately little meaning, or cinematic ingenuity behind them. This relatively superficial and uninspired approach to the material is perhaps no better evident than in Dr. Manhattan's origin scene. Though it is my favorite sequence in the film, and is a pretty remarkable scene in its own right, in many ways it exemplifies all the weaknesses of the director's approach to the material.

For the most part, the scene becomes a literal translation of its comic book counterpart, playing out in a series of dreamy flashbacks to Dr. Manhattan's life, tracing the varied succession of events that lead to his fateful transformation. Through a series of rhythmically building slow motion shots set to soft spoken narration by Billy Crudup, and a fitting piece of music written by minimalist composer Philip Glass, Snyder effectively creates a powerful and escalating montage of moments. Unfortunately though, the director fails to capitalize on one key facet of the comic book scene, and in effect, the character of Dr. Manhattan in general. One of the most interesting aspects of the godlike entity is the way in which he experiences time. Instead of living out moments in a linear progression, Dr. Manhattan experiences the whole of his existence simultaneously, living all the events of his life concurrently. Though this is certainly touched upon and discussed by the character in the film, this scene would have been a perfect opportunity to visually demonstrate this unique concept. Alas, for the most part, that is simply not the case.

The issue in the comic makes it clear that Dr. Manhattan is not just remembering these various moments in his life, he's literally living them, and the film seems to skirt around this. Instead, the scene mostly plays out like a series of traditional flashbacks, and I'm sort of baffled by this decision. Film is perhaps the perfect medium to experiment with our perception of time (see the final inclusion on this list for a good example) and there are countless cinematic techniques and tools that Snyder could have used to visually convey Manhattan's unique temporal existence, in ways that even the source material couldn't. Split screen could have been employed, piling the various events of his life together in the same frame, making it clear that he experiences them all in tandem. Various dissolves or superimpositions could have also merged moments together, and dialogue and effects from different time periods could have been spliced on top of one another at key intervals to reinforce Manhattan's perception. To be honest, the possibilities are endless, but instead Snyder seems to abandon the concept altogether and goes for the most straightforward approach.

Despite all that criticism, I actually really do like the scene, and as a huge fan of the comic book, I find myself revisiting it often. Though I wish more was done with it, there is no denying the beauty of Snyder's images, and the character's doomed origin makes for an incredible audio/video experience. As a whole, the director definitely does enough right to make the sequence (and the film in general) a success. I just can't help but wonder what a less rigidly faithful and more visually inventive approach might have added to the proceedings.

'Up' (Ch.3, 00:07:14 - 00:11:37) - An exciting and emotionally charged adventure, Pixar's 'Up' is a modern animation classic. Though it's filled with many wonderful scenes, perhaps none are as memorable or heartbreakingly powerful as the dialogue free montage that sets up the story. A simple but potent visual summation of one couples' entire relationship, featuring all the highs and lows of life, the scene is so well executed and realized, that it could very easily stand alone as a short film unto itself.

The sequence begins with Carl and Ellie's wedding, and from there cuts to various stages in the happy pairs' life. Tied together by Michael Giacchino's beautiful music, the wordless montage features charming bits of physical comedy and various, repeated visual motifs that hark back to the early, uncomplicated days of classic animation. Not everything is so cheery, however, and Pixar doesn't shy away from sadness, showing a great respect for its younger audience. Though many cartoon filmmakers tend to dumb down the subject matter of their stories, Pixar understands that children are capable of understanding and embracing a full gamut of emotion. When tragedy does strike, the couple makes the best of their situation, and through love, they endure. The montage continues, showing Carl and Ellie growing old together as they try to save up money for a great adventure to Paradise Falls. Unfortunately, the ups and downs of life constantly get in the way and delay their plans. After a particularly heartbreaking shot involving a hill, which may stand among the most devastating images I've ever seen, the sequence ends on a very somber note, as we watch Ellie succumb to old age, leaving Carl... alone. It's an absolutely tear-jerking conclusion, and its power is a testament to the amazing storytelling skills of the filmmakers.

In a little over four minutes, with no words, Pixar is able to convey more emotion and insight than most feature films can in their entire running time. All the joy and pain of a lifetime of experiences is essentially captured in a series of simple images and interactions. Marriage can be many things, but above all it is a partnership, and by stringing the important beats of their life together, that is exactly what the filmmakers show us. Before even starting the main plot, Pixar has already taken us on a complete emotional journey, and this scene remains one of the most effective and powerful of any of their films.

'2001: A Space Odyssey' (Ch.32, 02:11:33 - 02:20:33) - An esoteric and infinitely mystifying masterpiece, Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey' is one of the greatest films of all time. Cryptic and inherently unknowable, the movie's mesmerizing climax is a singular cinematic experience, that chronicles the end of humanity and the birth of something else.

After traveling beyond the infinite, astronaut Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea) inexplicably finds himself inside an opulently decorated room, which becomes the unlikely setting for mankind's final days. After exiting his space pod, the astronaut slowly explores his surroundings, the white floors of the room literally glowing with light. Strange, ambient effects and discordant sounds and voices come in and out, bolstering the ethereal mood and images. Bowman's heavy, labored breathing remains a constant auditory motif, creating a rhythm for the movements and cuts to follow. As he explores the odd environment, the astronaut suddenly catches a glimpse of himself, now older, eating a meal across the room. With a POV shot of his younger self's vantage point, and a simple cut, Kubrick effectively passes the temporal baton from one phase to the next, and we are now suddenly with the older Bowman. By seeing his future self, he becomes his future self. Looking back to where he once stood, the younger man is now gone, and the aging astronaut continues with his meal. At one point he accidentally drops his glass, and when he leans over to deal with the mess, he again catches a glimpse of himself, now literally on his deathbed. Like before, a POV shot and a simple cut effortlessly thrust us through the years, placing us firmly with the now dying man. Through a slow, deliberate pace, key sound effects, and deceptively straightforward editing techniques, Kubrick is able to literally bend time through the very syntax of his filmmaking.

The dying Bowman takes his last breaths as the infamous black monolith suddenly appears before him. An evolutionary herald of sorts, the imposing structure ushers in humanity's gentle passing, and when Bowman dies, he is literally reborn again as a floating, cosmic fetus. The film ends with a grandiose image of the "star child" hovering over the Earth, marking the next step in mankind's cosmic voyage through the infinite. Full of rich imagery and deep, ambiguous meaning, the scene carries new significance upon each repeated viewing. Densely layered and expertly constructed, it is among the most perfectly orchestrated and calculatingly vague sequences ever put to film.

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High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: August 2011

Wed Aug 24, 2011 at 03:10 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered an eclectic mix of scenes that included a professional hitman with a gentle soul, a clairvoyant chase through a shopping mall, a demonic talking goat, a madman's emotional breakthrough, and an esoteric journey through space and time. If you missed them, be sure to check out the July bookmark list and the June bookmark list.

This month I'll be covering an android's rain soaked last words, a flashy, dizzying introduction to a very unconventional family, a powerful, emotional confession by a wounded soul, an "errand boy" who finally collects his bill, and a tense journey through a warzone that sees the very future of mankind on the line. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Blade Runner: The Final Cut' (Ch.34, 01:45:56 - 01:49:04) - Drenched in a perpetual downpour of melancholy rain, and lit by the bold, neon sparks of a dying future world, Ridley's Scott's 1982 masterpiece, 'Blade Runner,' is a visually arresting and ever enduring staple of science-fiction. Though it's influenced countless derivative works, many critics of the film condemn the story for what they perceive as a cold and detached narrative. I, however, disagree with that negative assertion, and feel that the picture does indeed carry a powerful, deep, and thought provoking emotional center. This is perhaps clearer than in the scene in question here, that takes place at tail end of the movie's tense and harrowing climax. In the very memorable sequence, a replicant named Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) quietly accepts an unavoidable fate, as his wounded and battered would-be hunter, Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), watches transfixed.

After a violent physical confrontation that's left Deckard barely alive, Batty actually saves his attacker from certain death in a surprising display of compassion. The two apparent enemies collapse on a rooftop as rain gently pours from the sky. It is here that Batty delivers his famous "tears in rain" monologue, and through his gentle words and contemplative demeanor, we're suddenly left questioning who the true villains really are. Beneath his hostile, murderous exterior, a more gentle, human interior is revealed, and Hauer's solemn delivery of his lines is simply perfect. Each syllable oozes with a somber, lyrical poignancy, and each new word feels like a tiny struggle, as the last bits of life extinguish in the artificial man. Partly improvised by the actor himself, in the face of certain death, Hauer has never shined so brightly on screen, only to so slowly fade. Ford simply watches, saying nothing, letting his tired, ambiguous expressions say all that needs to be said. Scott infuses the scene with the same stylistic prowess that permeates the entire film, but restrains himself slightly, simply casting the image in the blue hues of an overcast dawn, and allowing the monologue to carry on with few cuts. As Batty lets out his last breath, a dove flies toward the heavens (admittedly not the most subtle image, but it still works). With all the escaped replicants now dead, Deckard has, as the character Gaff (Edward James Olmos) so simply declares, "… done a man's job." Or has he?

The scene really exemplifies one of the movie's central thematic quandaries. What really makes us human? Our hero is cast in the same mold of many classic film noir protagonists, carrying a cynical, brooding, and at times emotionless demeanor. For much of the picture this is our great testament to humanity (even if he is a replicant himself, as Scott implies, he still serves this function), our shining example of man's compassion and brilliance. If that's the case, then perhaps the replicants truly are "more human than human." The scene demonstrates that these manufactured men are capable of more compassion and humanity than the so called human characters who hunt them. What truly drives these androids to their murderous acts? The answer, revealed through the sentiments and tone of Batty's last words is rather poignant and nearly justifiable. They simply want more life. Their crime is a desire to live, to change and to grow. Four years is all they get. Just as they begin to feel, their cells deteriorate. As their souls bloom, their bodies wither.

The scene ends with one last bit of insight from the usually silent Gaff. In reference to Deckard's love interest, Rachel (Sean Young), he tells the Blade Runner, "It’s too bad she won’t live… but then again, who does?" It seems the distinction between man and machine may not be so important after all. Replicant or human, we all reach our eventual "time to die," and the years we get in between are rarely ever enough.

'Boogie Nights' (Ch.1, 00:00:57 - 00:03:49) - A strange and unique portrait of friendship and family, Paul Thomas Anderson's 'Boogie Nights' is a wonderful mixture of multifaceted characters, drama, comedy, and stylistic bravado. Inspired by the works of filmmakers like Martin Scorsese, Anderson litters the film with several long, tracking shots which serve to enhance the mood and atmosphere of the proceedings. The movie's opening sequence is a perfect example that showcases the director's strong visual flare and command of camera movement.

The scene begins with a shot of the film's title itself as seen on the entrance to a club. From here the camera spins around to the ground and starts to follow two of the story's main characters, Jack (Burt Reynolds), and Amber (Julianne Moore), as they enter the crowded, lively nightclub. Before even stepping foot into the building, just through the set design and extras on the street alone, Anderson already perfectly establishes a strong sense of time and place, effectively thrusting the viewer into the film's 1970s setting. The shot eventually continues into the club, uninterrupted, as the constantly reframing camera gradually introduces the audience to the film’s cast of characters while implying and revealing connections between them all. The sequence initially follows Jack, Amber, and the club's owner Maurice (Luis Guzman) but soon branches off to other supporting players in a cinematic relay race that sees the baton get passed from actor to actor. The constantly moving camera weaves in and out of the club, organically shifting from the entrance, to the dance floor, to the tables, and then back through the dance floor. The unbroken aspect of the shot creates a living, breathing world. It’s as if the reframing lens draws an invisible guiding line from person to person, naturally setting up the relationships that will be developed over the course of the movie. The full implication of the sequence, however, isn’t revealed until its conclusion.

As the scene comes to a close the camera trails off from the fun happenings of the dance floor and finds a new character, a busboy named Eddie (Mark Wahlberg). It's here that for perhaps the first time, the shot settles in place, implying that its intended destination has finally been met, punctuating its journey by focusing on a lowly worker, seemingly unrelated to the glamorous characters we saw on the journey that led to him. Though socially disjointed from the group we were just introduced to, Eddie is in effect already linked to them by the camera itself, foreshadowing some type of eventual relationship between them all. Forgetting the artistic aspects of the scene, from a purely technical standpoint it's also very impressive, and Anderson goes on to fill the movie with several more extended shots. For me though, the opening scene still resonates the most, with a fun burst of energy and style that sets it all into motion.

'Paris, Texas' (Ch.13, 01:58:59 - 02:19:45) - Slow, contemplative, and heartbreakingly beautiful, Wim Wender's 'Paris, Texas' is a bittersweet ode to love and loss. Throughout the entire film we are left wondering what our isolated, wounded protagonist, Travis (Harry Dean Stanton), once did to end up wandering alone with no memory in the vast desert wasteland of the American west. What caused the seemingly kind man to lose his family? What was he running from? These questions linger throughout and are all finally answered in the movie's most powerful and memorable scene. Shot in a series of simple, yet artfully composed shots with few cuts and little camera movement, the sequence is a raw display of acting and writing that is perfectly complemented by restrained but still potent direction.

After locating his long estranged wife, Jane (Nastassja Kinski), who is working at a seedy peepshow, Travis decides to finally confront her so that she may be reunited with her young son. In a genius bit of set design, the peepshow itself is divided into two rooms with a two-way mirror between them. Travis can see Jane but she can't see him, and actually has no idea that he's on the other side. The scene is essentially comprised of two monologues, the first by Travis, and the second from Jane, that together reveal the truth behind their separation. The first monologue starts when Travis sits down and picks up the telephone used to communicate with Jane. Though she technically can't see him, he turns his chair around, unable to look at her as he speaks, foreshadowing the shameful truth he is about to reveal. As his story begins we slowly push in on the character, adding visual weight to his somber words. We occasionally cut to Jane, showing her reaction as the monologue slowly becomes more specific, and she starts to recognize similarities in the tale. Throughout it all, Stanton's delivery remains stripped down and honest, almost naked in its tone, and the words themselves, written by Sam Shepard, are seeped in loneliness, longing, and despair, painting a devastating portrait of beauty, decay, and deep regret. More subtle cuts are employed, moving from medium-shots to two-shots with Wenders carefully deciding which points to feature only one or both of the characters in frame. These choices work to either enhance or mitigate the figurative distance between them and places emphasis on their individual internal beats. Each cut and each new angle always serves the emotional rhythm of the monologue, and signals a new internal revelation or realization without ever upstaging the performances of the actors.

When Jane finally realizes that the story being told to her, by an apparent stranger, is actually her own, and that the stranger is actually her husband, we cut to a close-up of Kinski as tears start to pool in her eyes. For the first time in the lengthy scene, gentle music creeps in, subtly complementing the images and emotions. Again, the sparse cuts all move with the narrative beats and subtext of the sequence. When Travis's story of love, jealousy, pain, madness, and cruelty comes to its tragic conclusion, we are left with a full understanding of the mysterious man. We now know what he was running from all this time… himself.

With his story concluded he turns back to Jane, and the two approach the mirror, shut off the lights, and look into each other's eyes for the first time in years. In a powerful but delicately composed shot, their faces become superimposed on the glass, as their images fuse and the healing begins. Jane turns around, just as Travis did, and begins her own monologue. She explains how even after he left, Travis continued to affect her life, remaining a constant presence in her thoughts. As she speaks, his image literally lingers in the background, solemnly listening behind the glass. The scene ends with a promise from Jane to meet with her son, completing Travis's mission. Unable to forgive himself for his past cruelty, he decides he must once again disappear from their lives, perhaps returning to where he emerged, a vast expanse of desert and ancient rock. A place with no name. Bittersweet, stripped down, and elegiac in composition, tone, and rhythm, the scene sits among the most powerful and understated sequences ever put to celluloid, and continues to reveal new intricacies and nuances in performance and editing upon every repeat viewing.

'Children of Men' (Ch.17, 01:23:51 - 01:34:19) - Alfonso Cuaron's 'Children of Men' presents us with a world in global unrest, literally without a future, slowly circling the drain. Like 'Boogie Nights,' the movie is also known for its use of long, uninterrupted, single shots, but Cuaron uses the technique in a slightly different manner. Here, the main goal behind the unbroken cinematic style is to heighten and bolster the tension of the scenes, presenting an atmosphere of unending and unrelenting danger. The movie's climactic, single shot sequence is among its most technically and artistically impressive. After delivering Kee's (Clare-Hope Ashitey) child, Theo (Clive Owen) guides the miracle mother and her baby through a violent, chaotic warzone.

The camera follows the group as Kee is taken prisoner by a gang of activists who wish to use the child for their own purposes. Theo desperately makes his way through the battlefield, avoiding enemy fire and explosions, trying to save the kidnapped mother and child. All the while, the camera never cuts away, following Theo through the chaos and barrage of bullets. By never cutting, Cuaron effectively prolongs the tension and drama. A whole new level of anxiety is added to the proceedings, as the uninterrupted take reveals a lively, bustling world that continues to exist far beyond the edges of the film frame. A sense of uncertainty and unpredictability is engendered by the actual cinematic syntax, as new dangers and obstacles may be lurking around each corner, capable of striking even before we have a chance to see them. Just like there is no rest for the characters throughout their tense journey, there is also no rest for the camera itself, never taking time to cut away, but instead following them uninterrupted. Blood even splashes on the lens, but Cuaron hammers on, keeping the momentum of the drama sustained. Eventually, Theo carefully makes his way through a decaying building littered with wounded and dying strangers, and it is here that he finally finds Kee. When the two reunite, Cuaron employs the scene's first visible cut, signaling a dramatic, stylistic, and emotional shift that reverberates strongly as the characters make their way out of the building.

With the now crying baby in hand, the pair descend down the steps, and suddenly the crowd around them hears the baby's cries. All of the spectators stop dead in their tracks, and look on in awe and amazement. Gentle music plays on in the background emphasizing the almost mystical quality of the scene. When they make their way toward the fighting soldiers, the hardened men cease firing, stand perfectly still, and look on with eyes wide. In that one, simple sound, a sound that hasn't been heard in years, it all comes rushing back. They are reminded of hope, and optimism, and innocence. They are reminded of all they've lost and all they once fought for. They are reminded of what they once were, and in that instant the world stops. They exit the building and outside the effect is the same. Soldiers kneel before the child, and for a moment it seems like all it took to end a war, all it took for peace, was the single cry of one baby. For a moment, at least. When an explosion goes off in the distance, the battle resumes, not skipping a beat, as if the child never was. The brief respite from violence ends, and mankind once again chooses to forget. Theo and Kee race on away from the chaos and toward possible salvation, but the power of the scene lingers on, cementing the true essence of the film in a masterful display of movement and tension that demands repeated viewings.

'Apocalypse Now Redux' (Ch.18, 03:03:10 - 03:10:11) - A dense, complex, brilliant work of moviemaking, Francis Ford Coppola's 'Apocalypse Now' reveals the horrors and absurdities of war and its devastating toll on the human soul. Though full of memorable and powerful scenes, its startling and disturbing assassination sequence remains its most potent. As Willard's journey down the river and into the "heart of darkness" comes to its end, he is at last confronted with the mad despot Colonel Kurtz, and must finally go through with his deadly mission.

After witnessing the insane ruler's god-like influence over the native people, Willard prepares for battle, and Coppola joins him, readying an arsenal of cinematic tools. The sequence begins with the natives arranging a ritual slaughter of a water buffalo. We watch as the crowd gathers and starts to dance around the animal, celebrating. Through these images, Coppola begins to establish a rhythm and visual motif. We cut to Willard deciding what to do, and once again Sheen's tired, world-weary voice-over creeps in, creating a cynical, dreary mood. The celebration continues and the atmosphere intensifies. Suddenly, "The End" by The Doors fills the speakers, calling back the opening of the movie and bringing things full circle for its conclusion. The mood grows bleaker and darker, as a storm brews. Lightning strikes, and in one of the film's most iconic images, Willard slowly emerges from swampy waters with his face covered in camouflage and eyes seemingly possessed, now baptized by the dark river as death incarnate. The natives continue to circle their prey, perfectly mirroring Willard's own gradual journey toward Kurtz. The lightning continues to strike, as nature wrestles against the madness of man. Shadows dance around the frame and bursts of muddy, golden hues cascade over the determined killer, reshaping his human form into something more wild and primal.

The pacing builds and builds along with the music. Willard reaches Kurtz and strikes violently. The images of his assassination are now juxtaposed against the sacrifice of the water buffalo, drawing parallels between the two actions through an expert use of dialectical montage. Each cut between the two brutal events implies meaning, but leaves the audience in control of inferring the implications themselves. The images come quicker and the music comes harder as the disturbing visuals reach their peak. The innocent animal is slashed to pieces and Kurtz falls helpless to the ground. The ritual comes to its conclusion and Willard emerges from the shadows drenched in blood, his dark deed now complete. On the floor, dying, Kurtz delivers his last words and the film's most famous line, summing up the entire effort in a whispered cry of terror, "The horror… the horror…" The scene ends, but its images continue to simmer, proving time and time again to be just as impactful regardless of how many times they're seen.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: July 2011

Tue Jul 26, 2011 at 04:25 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Welcome back to another edition of High-Def Digest's favorite bookmarks, where we spotlight some great scenes from various Blu-ray titles that we've found ourselves revisiting again and again.

Last month I covered an eclectic mix of scenes that included a lovelorn robot, a famous Ferris wheel, an eleven year old "superhero," Don Corleone himself, and some no good Nazis. If you missed it, be sure to check out the July bookmark list.

This month I'll be covering a professional hitman with a gentle soul, a clairvoyant chase through a shopping mall, a demonic talking goat, a madman's emotional breakthrough, and an esoteric journey through space and time. For those who haven't seen the titles featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Léon: The Professional' (Ch.14, 01:25:08 - 01:33:29) - Luc Besson's action packed masterpiece is loaded with great sequences, but perhaps none more memorable than its explosive and emotionally charged climax. Throughout the entire film we have seen contract killer Léon (Jean Reno), pull off some amazing stunts, effortlessly displaying a cool, collected aura of deadly control, taking out his targets with precision and stealth. Little did we know that all this time, he was actually holding back. Here, Besson unleashes his creation's full, unrestrained rage, giving the lonely hitman true motivation not only to kill, but much more importantly… to live.

The scene starts off with a heavily armed SWAT team knocking on the Italian assassin's door. Just around the corner they have Léon's young protégé, Mathilda (Natalie Portman), captured. The door slowly opens and the team cautiously enters. Besson expertly chooses his angles for maximum suspense, showing only what he wants us to see. We don't know where Léon is exactly, but we know he's in the room. Suddenly, a previously hidden hand comes down from the ceiling and gently closes the door. With this tiny, beautifully chosen detail, the director has revealed where our hero has been hiding, while still keeping his location a secret to his enemies. We now know exactly what's coming, but they have no idea. This leads to another great directorial decision, where Besson stays fixed on the closed door as a barrage of bullets blast through. By not showing us exactly what happens on the other side, the director is able to prolong the suspense while adding an almost mythic layer of mystery to Léon's actions. The door slowly opens, and as the camera catches a glimpse of the bloody aftermath, we, and the SWAT team, start to understand the full gravity of the situation. A couple of cops are simply no match for the killer that waits patiently inside. To even stand a chance, they're going to need, "EVERYONE!"

The wonderful score by Eric Serra fits perfectly here, carrying us through the escalating ballet of bullets and blood, while staying completely in tandem with the flowing camera movements and marching cuts. Mathilda is set free and rushes to Léon, and the building's sprinklers get set off, adding a whole new layer of visual drama, drenching the scene in chaos and confusion. The unlikely pair scrambles for an exit, as ominous red beams bounce around the room, promising quick death. While Léon prepares Mathilda's escape, and the two share a heartfelt, emotional farewell, Besson cuts to a rocket launcher being assembled, juxtaposing their goodbye against the immediate threat that lurks just around the corner. Again, we the audience now know what's coming, and the director knows exactly how to frame his shots, move the camera, and transition between the footage for the most potent and powerful effect. The scene ends with a literal explosion, and for the first time we see Léon totally bare, stripped of his usual calm, full of rage, and ready for war, as he belts out a primal, passionate scream. The sequence is a masterful display of stylized violence that is not only exciting but emotionally relevant, for we are now fully invested in the characters and their relationship. The scene works as well as its does because each gun shot fired carries real stakes. This is violence with purpose, and an endlessly re-watchable artistic achievement in action filmmaking.

'Minority Report' (Ch.17, 01:35:42 - 01:39:08) - Based on the short story written by Philip K. Dick, Steven Spielberg's 'Minority Report' is home to several demo worthy sequences, but the scene in question, is actually one of the film's quieter set pieces. After kidnapping Agatha (Samantha Morton), fugitive John Anderton (Tom Cruise) flees from the police through a shopping mall, and it is here that the movie displays some of its most clever and intelligent scripting.

As the pair attempt to outrun their pursuers, Agatha puts her precognitive skills to good use, allowing her to see several steps ahead of the game. Each decision they make, each suggestion she gives, is a carefully, fully calculated maneuver that perfectly sets up their future escape. Each stride is an important piece to a larger puzzle, developing right before Agatha's eyes, giving the audience a creative peek into the immediate benefits of seeing the future, creating one of the most unique and interesting cat and mouse sequences in modern cinema.

A perfectly timed stop behind a man holding balloons is enough to keep the duo out of harm's way, and another deliberately judged drop of some change buys just the right amount of precious seconds needed to slip by the police. The sequence is then beautifully capped off by the helpful use of a once seemingly unnecessary umbrella, that ends up masking the pair in a faceless crowd.

Though the scene may not have the visual flash or sonic immersion of some of the movie's more aggressive action sequences, its creative and genuinely smart writing is a perfect illustration of how to use high concept science fiction ideas in an exciting and intelligent manner, giving the audience a unique and memorable experience that has garnered numerous repeated viewings on my player.

'Drag Me to Hell' (Ch.34, 01:10:48 - 01:17:53) - A deliciously fun mixture of classic horror genre sensibilities and slapstick, gross-out humor, Sam Raimi's 'Drag Me to Hell' is a darkly funny and thrilling throwback to the director's early work. The séance scene, which sees Christine (Alison Lohman) and her accomplices attempt to conjure up the infamous Lamia, is a great showcase of the director's unique blend of styles and cinematic techniques, making it one of the most memorable and technically impressive sequences in the film

The scene begins by playing with classic horror film conventions, and Raimi infuses the séance with just about every tried and true bullet point from the supernatural thriller playbook. You want shaking furniture? Rattling doors? Billowing drapes? How about creepy laughs permeating the soundstage? Well, you got it. As the group commences its communication with the dearly departed, lingering spirits wreak mostly harmless havoc around the room, evoking other classic scenes from cinema's ghostly past. Really though, this is all just light, cinematic foreplay, whetting our appetite for the main attraction.

Once the actual Lamia is called upon from beyond, Raimi kicks it into overdrive, immediately throwing in some of his trademark POV tracking shots and shaky camera tricks, adding a new dimension of visceral energy to the scene. As the demon possesses the medium's body, Christine attempts to transfer the evil spirit to another host so that it may be killed. That other host of course, happens to be a goat, which brings us to the real reason this scene made the list -- it features a demonically possessed, trash talking, evil goat. It's bizarre, absurd, hilarious, and somehow fits in perfectly with the rest of the irreverent, gooey mayhem Raimi has injected the film with. As if the evil goat wasn't enough, the proceedings escalate even further into slapstick terror, as the demon transfers to another human host and begins to maniacally dance in midair, taunting his victims with his ridiculous convulsions. As a grand finale, the Lamia confronts a terrified Christine and proceeds to spit up a dead cat directly on our heroine. It's a perfect and wonderfully grotesque way to finish off the frenzied sequence, enthusiastically cementing the return of the 'Evil Dead' era madness that the director was once known for.

'Mad Men: Season One' - Episode 13 "The Wheel" (Ch.4, 00:38:10 - 00:41:36) - Don Draper (Jon Hamm) is a complicated man (so complicated in fact, that Don Draper isn't even his real name), and throughout the thirteen episodes that make up the first season of AMC's critically acclaimed 'Mad Men,' we slowly get to know him. As each new layer of mysterious back-story is revealed, and each new, cryptic, ambiguous, intimate conversation plays out, the series begins to paint the picture of a contradictory soul, capable of simultaneous great strength, and glaring weakness. The season finale, titled "The Wheel," features an important, defining scene for the character that is riddled with subtext and emotion. As the expert adman pitches a campaign for Kodak's new slide projector, the outward walls that mask his emotions slowly crumble, giving the audience a brief but potent look into his core.

Don demonstrates the device by showcasing slides from his own family, while espousing its incredible link to the limitless influence of nostalgia. His words are soft and comforting, and the music subtlety underscores the melancholy twinkle that sparks from the visuals and speech. Each image that flashes before the screen is a snapshot of a happier time, and a brief reminder of everything that the character has fought so hard to earn, and now stands so easily to lose. In many ways, the entire season has been building to this one moment of catharsis, as Don looks upon the flickering images of his loved ones and finally seems to understand what truly matters.

Or then again, perhaps not. The man is paid to lie, after all, and he is quite good at it. It's possible that he was merely caught up in his own pitch, momentarily sold on the empty manipulations that he swindles day in and day out. Still, despite his faults, Draper's telling, misty eyes speak volumes, and even if it doesn't last, his fleeting epiphany does seem genuine. The scene ends with one copy writer exiting the room in a burst of tears, and the clients nearly speechless. After such a heartfelt and eloquently written presentation, it's certainly no surprise. In just a few brief moments, the writers are able to capture the true essence of the character, making this a memorable scene that demonstrates all the nuance and emotion that the series is capable of.

'The Fountain' (Ch.20, 01:19:53 - 01:30:04) - A dense and occasionally impenetrable film, 'The Fountain' tends to be a love it or hate it type of movie. With its selection here, I think it's safe to assume which side of the fence I fall on. A bold and visually arresting rumination on grief and the impermanence of life, director Darren Aronofsky weaves a multi-narrative web about everlasting love and the unstoppable hunger for immortality. The director has a habit of concluding his films with powerful, rhythmic montages ('Requiem for a Dream,' 'Black Swan') and 'The Fountain' is no different, leading to an awe-inspiring conclusion that sees past, present, and future collide into a symphony of esoteric imagery and dazzling music.

The scene begins with space traveling future Tom (Hugh Jackman) still haunted by his long since deceased love (Rachel Weisz). Her bittersweet words flow all around the soundscape, pleading for the ageless man to finally, "finish it," and with a deep breath, he does. Memories blur into one another and Aronofsky cuts freely between time periods, fusing the film's mixed chronology of fact and fiction into a single story, which like all tales, needs and end. As Tom continues to write the conclusion he has put off for far too long, Clint Mansell's amazing score starts to quietly build beneath the surface, guiding the visuals and cuts, pulling the very strings of the characters themselves, forcing them forward even where they might otherwise hesitate. Otherworldly images of future Tom floating within a star-blazing bubble, like some sort of bald temporal monk, are juxtaposed against present day Tom, revisiting a memory he refuses to let play out, and the past Tomas, finally reaching his destination. As the three worlds merge, future Tom literally invades the story of the past, writing his own destiny. Tomas reaches the Tree of Life and proceeds to gorge upon its precious nectar, suffering the heavy price of immortality. The music explodes with the imagery, thrusting us one final time into the distant future.

The score momentarily dies down, and with the past now dealt with, we can only look forward. Future Tom heads toward a dying star, extends his arms, and finally embraces his fate. The screen condenses into a single white dot, like the first atom of creation itself, ready to expel. Silence fills the soundscape, and then… the music bursts forth in a thunderous climax as Tom burns apart in a fiery supernova. The final image of present day Tom bidding farewell to his dead wife, provides an ambiguous but thematically rich conclusion that gently rides the last of Mansell's fading notes to a gradual fade to white. The scene as a whole is a mesmerizing marriage of image and sound, and though its full meaning may remain elusive, the visuals themselves weave a kind of understanding of their own, evoking emotions and ideas through pure cinematic mastery, making this a sequence worthy of numerous interpretations and viewings.

We'll be back next month with some more of our favorite bookmarks, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

See what people are saying about this story in our forums area, or check out other recent discussions.

High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks: June 2011

Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 03:25 PM ET
Tags: High-Def Digest's Favorite Bookmarks, Steven Cohen , Fun Stuff (all tags)

by Steven Cohen

Each month I'll go through an in depth analysis of a few select sequences from a variety of titles and examine what makes the scenes so memorable, cinematically important, impressive on the Blu-ray format, and worthy of your bookmark.

This month I'll be covering an eclectic mix of scenes that include a lovelorn robot, a famous Ferris wheel, an eleven year old "superhero," Don Corleone himself, and some no good Nazis. For those who haven't seen the films featured, be warned that there are of course major spoilers ahead.

'Inglorious Basterds' (Ch.2, 00:01:51 - 00:21:20) - While many are quick to judge Quentin Tarantino for his sometimes liberal cribbing of plot points and shots from other films, for the most part, I find that these loving homages can inject a certain charm and awareness into his movies. At best they can even create an almost instant reference point for the director and audience to build upon, which can then be evolved and taken in interesting and sometimes unexpected ways. The opening of 'Inglorious Basterds' is a perfect example of this and has become a scene that I've found myself revisiting many times on Blu-ray.

The sequence begins with a beautiful wide shot, showcasing a peaceful French farm as a cavalry of Nazis embark upon the territory. The framing immediately evokes the likes of Sergio Leone and the score reinforces this connection with stirring music written by frequent Leone collaborator Ennio Morricone. Tarantino purposefully uses this association to recall the style and mood of past films, but then wisely expands upon it with his own unique cinematic identity. As Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) interrogates an unimposing dairy farmer, the sequence becomes an expert display of tension, beautifully crafted dialogue, little bits of comedy, and character moments, all wonderfully brought to life on Blu-ray through exquisite video and audio presentations. In just a single conversation, Waltz's performance of sinister, restrained glee, tells us everything we'll ever need to know about the character. Though mostly dialogue driven, Tarantino infuses little visual touches and carefully selected camera movements. As Landa gradually breaks the poor farmer down, we slowly close in on their faces, revealing the sweaty, weathered brow of a man who can no longer hold onto his secrets, and the almost giddy expression of evil itself getting the answers it craves.

When the hiding Jewish family is finally exposed to Landa and the audience, the music starts to quietly build. Soldiers are brought in and once they start to fire, the soundtrack becomes an explosion of bullets flying, displaying an impressive level of dynamic range and immersion that disrupts the once silent atmosphere. The scene ends with Landa seemingly letting the young Shoshanna (Melanie Laurent) escape, bloodied, traumatized, but not defeated, skillfully setting up the remainder of the film through powerful and exciting imagery. While the movie as a whole is filled with great sequences, it's still this opening scene, steeped in both the glory of film history and Tarantino's own trademark stylings, that I feel proves to be among the most memorable and worthy of a bookmark.

'Wall•E' (Ch. 22, 00:58:41 - 01:02:14) - Through their tale of a lonely robot desperate for affection, Pixar pulled off a beautiful, sweet little love story that successfully probed the rather deep and complicated mysteries of the heart. The particular scene bookmarked here is the wonderfully realized "Space Walk" sequence, that sees Wall•E and EVE dance among the stars.

What makes this scene so special and worthy of repeated viewings, is its ability to evoke so much through so little. With almost no dialogue, the filmmakers are able to create a stirring visual metaphor for falling in love. There is a playful innocence to the characters' relationship and an old school comedic charm to Wall•E's actions that instantly endears him to the audience. Even from a visual standpoint alone, this is a more than admirable sequence, displaying an amazing level of detail in the animation. Every particle of the fire extinguisher being expelled and every star shining in the background is perfectly visible, creating a sometimes startling level of depth and precision. The music and sound effects also balance beautifully with the images, coming through with crystal clear fidelity to form a fully encompassing soundscape of cosmic heartstrings.

As the robotic pair waltz and twirl their way through the ship's thrusters, the visuals and sounds on screen take on an almost magical quality, giving form to thoughts and emotions that can't truly be expressed in words alone. The movie as a whole is a praiseworthy accomplishment, but this is certainly a standout scene that shines especially bright on Blu-ray.

'The Third Man' (Ch. 19, 01:15:00 - 01:21:57) - There are many great scenes in Carol Reed's 1949 masterpiece 'The Third Man,' but only one is home to some of the most famous words ever uttered in all of film history. As the mysterious Harry Lime (Orson Welles) finally steps out of the shadows and into the light of day, we see him at first only from a distance. With the film's trademark upbeat zither score ironically playing along, Lime jauntily approaches his old friend Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton) like some sort of happy-go-lucky specter without a care in the world. Going along with the deceptively childlike atmosphere, the two decide to take their serious conversation into the interior of a Ferris wheel, where Martins finally confronts Lime about his nefarious actions.

The directing and acting on display in this scene is simply mesmerizing. As Lime defends himself, Welles is able to imbue an effortless charm into his unsavory character, making him likeable and charismatic, even when behaving like a complete bastard. Little touches, like his constant indigestion hint at more, but Lime's darker aspects always lurk just beneath the surface, and Welles implies so much with just a mere look in his eyes. Lime's equation of human beings to little insignificant dots is chilling, and Holly's slow realization that his friend isn't the man he thought he was is powerful. After literally and figuratively going around in one big circle, the characters end up exactly where they started, unfortunately accomplishing nothing. Before leaving us again, Welles delivers his famous "Cuckoo Clock" speech, and in those brief indelible lines, he distills the very essence of his character's skewed world view. The jaunty zither music returns, and Harry Lime skips off into the distance just as mysteriously as he appeared, showing no remorse for his actions, and leaving Martins with very few options.

The black and white photography in this scene and the film itself look simply stunning on Blu-ray and give the sequence a wonderfully textured quality. The mono audio track respectfully delivers the powerful dialogue without missing a beat. In the end, what makes this scene so worthy of repeated viewings are the tiny nuances in Welles and Cotton's performances. Each time I watch this sequence I notice a fleeting glance here, or a little inflection there, that all add an entirely new layer of subtext to the conversation.

'Kick-Ass' (Ch. 11, 01:26:50 - 01:29:59) - Matthew Vaughn's stylistically explosive action film is home to several standout and demo worthy sequences. The bookmark in question here, is the scene in which Hit-Girl (Chloe Moretz) stages a dramatic attempt to rescue her father (Nicolas Cage). Packed to the brim with just about every visual technique in the book, the sequence starts off with a bang, sending a bullet right through the head of a thug. From there the screen goes black and Vaughn utilizes darkness to create tension and thrills not through what we actually see, but through what the director decides not to show us. Whispers and cries of panic fill the soundscape, as the criminals are picked off one by one by their unseen, pre-teen assailant. A videogame inspired first person perspective is used, placing the audience directly into Hit-Girl's vantage point as she effortlessly takes out her victims. Strobe lights join the fun and the scene becomes a barrage of flashing chaos, freezing specific moments of carnage like panels in a comic book, all while bullets dance about your living room. When the massacre is finally done, the scene ends just as it began, with another gunshot, though this time straight through the camera itself.

While I'm usually not a huge fan of composers repurposing tracks written for previous films (in this case Danny Boyle's 'Sunshine') the music is undeniably effective here, and works great with the images on screen. The power of Vaughn's exciting style and impressive command of tone, somehow manage to create a world in which the audience accepts that it's actually an eleven year old girl behind the trigger. To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure how he pulled that one off. While I could have just as easily singled out any number of other action sequences throughout the film, this scene has one major distinction that sets it high above the rest: Nicolas Cage's insane comic book quoting ramblings as he throws out instructions to his daughter. The sheer awesomeness of hearing Cage yell something like, "Now switch to Kryptonite!" or, "Go to Robin's Revenge!" should never be underestimated.

'The Godfather: Part II' (Ch. 16, 01:59:00 - 02:06:56) - Last but certainly not least, is this amazing sequence from 'The Godfather: Part II.' The scene takes place in 1920 during a parade and religious celebration, and features a young Vito Corleone (Robert De Niro) as he prepares to assassinate Don Fanucci. We watch as the camera tracks with the feared and respected Don, making his way through the rowdy celebration, commanding attention and adoration from all those that he passes. Through these shots, Coppola vividly foreshadows all the power that Vito will soon have for himself. Various religious images from the parade are intercut throughout, evoking symbols of sacrifice and sin. The music swells like a rallying cry to arms, a march toward action. The camera finds Vito high upon the rooftops overlooking the Don. We track with the young Godfather now as he stalks his prey, the framing keeping him all the way to the left, almost as if the camera itself is slightly ahead of his steps, anticipating what is to come. Through Coppola's lens the tracking movement acts as a visual embodiment of the shifting dynamics and the unstoppable current of change that is now set in motion, thrusting the audience forward.

Vito enters a building and prepares himself, hiding in shadow. The marching score fades to silence and with his eyes masked in darkness through flickering lights, he shoots the Don with a bullet straight to the face. The moment offers no romantic thrills and is presented as an almost matter of fact burst of violence. Outside, the crowd celebrates, setting off fireworks, perfectly juxtaposed against Vito's own triumph. Corleone returns to the rooftops, disposes of his weapon and reemerges on the streets as a changed man. The victorious music returns and Vito makes his way against the flowing crowd. Sparks fly behind him, as he eagerly struggles toward something in the distance. And where does he end up? What is he fighting so hard to get back to? Where does Coppola choose to end the scene, and the first half of the film itself? Why, with Vito Corleone in the arms of his loving family, holding baby Michael close, after murdering a man in cold blood, of course. In one scene, in one brilliantly executed sequence, Coppola has essentially summed up the entire core of his saga with violence, sin, love, and above all else, family, cementing it as a sequence which demands to be permanently bookmarked on your player.

We'll be sharing our favorite bookmarks each month, but for now, what do you think of these picks? What are some of your own favorite bookmarks?

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