Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953). It would take some dedicated hunting through Hollywood history to find another star turn that justifies hanging an entire film upon it as much as the one at the center of this lovely wisp of a romantic comedy. It’s really all about Audrey Hepburn and her swoon-inducing performance as a pampered princess who steals away from her privileged, cloistered world to indulge in a burst of freedom across the streets of Rome. She’s utterly charming in a guileless way, but it’s the levels of personality that she injects into the performance that really sell the work. She hints at layers of longing and beguiling ambition beneath her sullen, even slightly spoiled exterior. As Gregory Peck circles her with his rumbling good cheer, the movie betrays a certain familiar pattern of the headstrong girl being tamed by the stolid man, but it has enough pop to keep it from getting stuck in that particular rut. Wyler’s direction falls prey somewhat to the era’s mandate of showing off the foreign landscapes as if the screen is a gigantic picture postcard, but it also allows room for the performances to take proper command of the proceedings.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 (Tony Scott, 2009). The original adaptation of John Godey’s novel was directed by Joseph Sargent and released in 1974. It’s one of the hidden gems of an era of American cinema that is routinely and justifiably lauded as a high-water mark. To the credit of the various filmmakers behind the 2009 update–and credit will be given only briefly and glancingly in this instance, believe me–they do demonstrate some understanding of what makes the original work so well. The film leans more towards earthbound heroics than the sort of high-gloss, physics-bending action nonsense that’s more of an earmark of Scott’s style. The approach is best demonstrated by Denzel Washington’s turn as the New York City transit dispatcher who’s on the radio talking down the criminals that have hijacked a subway car. If it’s not exactly a fully realized performance, it’s at least primarily defined by a certain working class slouch. By contrast, John Travolta’s acting is so hollow it’s a wonder his line readings aren’t followed by a quick, reverberating echo. Overall, Tony Scott characteristically pushes hard with nothing much to say, grinding the movie into the audience with the subtlety of a knee pressed into a larynx.

Year One (Harold Ramis, 2009). This bizarre buddy comedy about a couple of primitive men and their largely aimless quests is so stubbornly unfunny that its lack of laughs starts to seem like an act of defiance. Both Jack Black and Michael Cera employ their well-worn schticks, bringing nothing else whatsoever to the roles, though it’s highly doubtful they were asked to do anything more than hit their marks with their familiar riffs. The closest the film comes to daring is by having the duo encounter Biblical figures spouting anachronistic dialogue and generally behaving in ways naughtily dedicated to unnerving the pious. Instead, the comedy is so toothless that its hard to imagine anyone taking notice, much less offense.

Stop Making Sense (Jonathan Demme, 1984). This concert film featuring the Talking Heads is so exuberant, so inventive, so bright and brilliant that it stands as a mighty contender in the ongoing debate–best waged late at night while some favorite record is playing in the background–about what title deserves the designation Greatest Concert Film Ever. Part of the credit undoubtedly rests with David Byrne and his cohorts in the band for their own unique, vibrant staging and the thrillingly energetic concert performance. However, that shouldn’t shortchange the absolutely mastery of Jonathan Demme, whose visual sense is astounding. The camera is often in an entirely unexpected place, and yet it’s also always a place that is purely perfect, so much so that it’s hard to conceive of why anyone would want it somewhere else. And he works with editor Lisa Day to stitch the footage together with an alluring rhythm that rivals any of the formidable syncopations of the band they bring to the screen.

Notorious (Alfred Hitchcock, 1946). Hitchcock and star Cary Grant are on sturdy ground with this thriller that slyly exploits post-war nervousness about what all those displaced Nazi scientists might be cooking up in bouts of shifty backroom plotting. Their efforts are rock solid, if a bit familiar and on better display in other collaborations. It’s Ingrid Bergman who’s especially fun to watch as the daughter of a convicted spy who gets pulled into the American effort to bring down the conspirators. This is especially true in early scenes, which allow Bergman to be loose and playful with her character’s despondent debauchery. As the film progresses, it becomes one of those showcases Hitchcock’s casual expertise in making the simplest plot elements, and the props and set dressing that represent them, the stuff of grand suspense.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)