Atlantic City (Louis Malle, 1980). Malle’s film is about the ways in the which the glimmers of remaining light at the end of the day can lure the most desperate into believing it’s actually the unexpected emergence of a new dawn. Burt Lancaster plays the old-time small-timer at the heart of the film, conveying his forlorn desperation and self-deluding rejuvenation with great delicacy. You can feel the character shift as his opportunities the become the big operator he’s always fancied himself begin to come to pass. But the film is about reality rather than aspirations. Malle keeps it all grounded, sometimes painfully so, as the people onscreen go through the motions against the backdrop of a city marked by crumbling vestiges of brighter, bolder times. The seediness of the film is overpowering and genuine, not the sort of soundstage grit that marked an earlier era or films or the slickly contrived, art directed dark corners that would fill the frame now. It makes for the perfect visual manifestation of the crumbling existence of the main character.

Grey Gardens (David Maysles, Albert Maysles, Ellen Hovde and Muffie Meyer, 1975). A fascinating slice of cinema in that it is prying but restrained, the documentary provides an intimate look at the lives of the Beales, an older mother and daughter living in a decrepit mansion in the Hamptons. The filmmakers bring their cameras into their home, into their lives and simply let it run, taking in all their idiosyncrasies. There is little form to the construction, no real attempt to try and build a narrative. The film is unvarnished and unadorned, making for an odd but enticing viewing experience. I can only imagine what it felt like to watch this film upon its release in 1975, before the entirety of American pop culture had shifted to the point where off-kilter behavior became the fastest route to celebrity. Held up against the aggressively needy behavior of the denizens of modern reality programming, the harmless delusions of the Beales, singing songs to each other and dancing around the house in a daffy state of sustained high society performance, is almost quaint.

The Tracey Fragments (Bruce McDonald, 2008). The simple story of sad teenage girl who loses track of her little brother is presented as an intentional visual hash in McDonald’s experimental feature. Nearly the entire film is presented as a jumbled composite shot, with multiple images competing for attention and, ostensibly, reflecting the conflicted nature of the title character. Unfortunately, the film is all experiment with no purpose. It’s hard to glean any sort of enhancement the relentless technique gives to the story, the characters or the overall emotional impact of the piece. Ellen Page plays the title character with her customary commitment. She may not elevate the character beyond the limitations of what she was given on the page, but she certainly gives it her all.

Broadway Danny Rose (Woody Allen, 1984). A fairly insignificant offering from Allen, especially considering it arrived between the twin triumphs of Zelig and The Purple Rose of Cairo. To be fair, this was during the stretch of his career when insignificant offerings still held some charm, as opposed to the brutal missteps of recent years. Allen casts himself in the title role, a anxious talent agent whose roster is a patchwork quilt of misfit vaudevillians. In order to prop up a client crooner with an unexpected shot at a big break, Danny Rose must cajole the blowzy, brassy dame who he canoodles with to come to his performance. That character represents the most interesting part of the film, considering its probably the juiciest role Allen handed over to Mia Farrow during their thirteen film collaboration. Farrow handles it capably, but, in the end, the performance, like the film, is amusing but forgettable.

Prizzi’s Honor (John Huston, 1985). A big, sturdy slab of movie, befitting the towering figure who directed it. Huston’s penultimate feature is a dark comedy thick with plot about the twists and turns within a crime family. Huston doesn’t push too hard. He assembles all the complications and nuanced shadings with resolute patience and care, leaving plenty of room for his gifted cast to carry the storytelling burden with the potency of their interactions. Jack Nicholson balances the thickness of his character role with a deft, almost offhand insight. This film also represents Kathleen Turner at the peak of her considerable powers, commanding the screen with a feline self-assurance, looking for all the world like not only the cat that just ate the canary, but the cat that managed to cajole some poor fool to hand-feed the prized bird to her, fingers trembling with enthralled anticipation as he did so. Still, the best performance remains the Oscar-winning game changer by Anjelica Huston, whose crooked grin is the front for a heart and sensibility similarly skewed, but no less shrewd because of it.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)