Valentino: The Last Emperor (Matt Tyrnauer, 2009). This documentary tags along with the legendary designer as he prepares for a gala anniversary celebration, one that is rumored, correctly, as a precursor to retirement. Tyrnauer is given broad access to Valentino as he works, and the camera catches interactions that hint at his brilliance and volatility. The glimpse of the fashion industry at its most grand comes across as either rapturously glamorous or decadently wasteful, depending on the point of view that you tote into the viewing with you. I suppose predispositions will equally shape reactions to the understanding portrayal of Valentino’s relationship with his longtime partner, in every sense of the word, Giancarlo Giammetti, but remaining obstinately opposed to their love for one another in the face of the strength they clearly draw from one another seems especially unkind.

Inglourious Basterds (Quentin Tarantino, 2009). Ever since his triumph with Pulp Fiction, Tarantino has raced into the rabbit hole within his own cineaste enthusiasm, developing an increasingly insular style that exhibits a profound love for movies themselves that often swamps out his capability to create something enlivening and original. With his messy epic World War II movie, Tarantino finds a way to manifest that instinct dramatically–in his revisionist history, movies literally are the instrument that wins the war–and the result is smashing. He stuffs the film with plot and characters, the least effective of which revolves around the rough-hewn mercenaries of the title, the element that is most recognizable a product of Tarantino. Instead, everything that surrounds them–the German actress serving as a double agent, the young Jewish woman who escaped from the Nazis to run a cinema in occupied France, the SS officer whose cunning in hunting his adversaries is matched only by his instinct for self-preservation–is riveting representing simultaneously some of the finest writing Tarantino has realized on film and arguably the strongest, shrewdest work he’s ever done with actors, and that’s one of the aspects of his directing that’s always been admirable. There’s a messiness in place, too, and hints of self-indulgence, but it’s all in service of wildly inventive ambition that’s a thrill to watch.

The Cove (Louie Psihoyos, 2009). It’s transparently an argument for one particular position, angling to expose a wrong rather than illuminate an issue. The director of the film is also one of the main subjects, the organizer of a small band of devoted activists who engage in a commando-style operation to get footage of the vicious slaughter of dolphins that regularly takes place in Japanese waters. Despite this–or perhaps because of it–the film is powerful and unshakable, especially in light of the compelling testimony delivered by former Flipper trainer Ric O’Barry about the intelligence and emotional life of this particular species. The passion of the people onscreen combines with bluntness in the depiction of brutality against innocent animals to effectively transfer the rage of the filmmakers to the viewer.

The House of the Devil (Ti West, 2009). West’s loving homage to the horror films of the late seventies and early eighties is an expert exercise in cinematic patience. A female college student responds to a babysitter flyer stapled up on campus, and is in dire enough financial straits that she accepts the job even when it comes to light that her new employer wasn’t completely honest about his needs, hinting that there may be something even more troubling afoot. As she prowls around the big empty house, West delivers a master class in building tension. At times it feels as if the film is all build-up, the exact opposite of the current trend of launching into headlong action as quickly as possible. Even when West gets around to the mayhem, he presents it in a wild rush, just as it would actually transpire. It’s an inspired conceit and a tremendous piece of directing. If the lead character, played by Jocelin Donahue, is a little bland, even by the standards of the genre, that seems less problematic when the film boasts wonderful supporting turns, especially by Tom Noonan as a man whose gentle, soft-spoken nature carries a hint of menace, and Greta Gerwig, whose rapidly developing indie darling bona fides are strengthened here with a talent for line deliveries that are both genuine and offbeat that is reminiscent of Parker Posey in her livewire prime.

Alfie (Lewis Gilbert, 1966). The film was a key breakthrough for Michael Caine, earning him a completely different level of fame and his first of six Oscar nominations. He plays Alfie Elkins as an unrepentant cad, staring right into the camera and impassively explaining his rationalizations for callous behavior towards the women he slyly collects. The film is hampered by its episodic nature, but the structure undoubtedly seemed more novel in the mid-sixties, especially as it served as a counter-argument to the then burgeoning glamorization of a youthful swinging lifestyle. What endures is the craftiness of Caine, fearlessly playing his role without imploring for sympathy, but still allowing glimmers of vulnerability to show through. This veiled aspect of the character doesn’t make you like him, but it does allow for greater understanding, which is far more valuable.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)