Beggars of Life (William A. Wellman, 1928). Released one year after William A. Wellman directed Wings to the first ever Academy Award for Best Picture, this drama sticks close to a pair of thrown together traveling companions (Louise Brooks and Richard Arlen) as they ride the rails with hopes of reaching Canada, in part because the woman committed a murder in self-defense. Their journey is complicated by an encounter with thuggish hoboes, led by a man named Oklahoma Red (Wallace Beery). While certainly of the era, Beggars of Life is reasonably raw in its depiction of the dangers on the dusty byways of the U.S., especially faced by the young woman as she crosses into the sights of lascivious men. Brooks and Arlen skillfully walk the line of between expressiveness and over-emoting that was the key acrobatic feat of silent film actors. Beery is a memorable presence, but he does largely get by on scrunching up his face and rubbing his scrubby head of hair. The plot doesn’t exactly fall apart at the end, but it does noticeably sway on its foundation.

The Crazies (George A. Romero, 1973). Director George A. Romero’s adeptness at incorporating sly social satire in to his horror films is most commonly cited when discussing his various dances with zombies, but this cynical gem is arguably a better demonstration of the feat. With only the bare essentials of backstory and explanation, the plot roars to life. A biochemical weapon developed by the U.S. military infiltrated the water supply of small town, leading the afflicted to descend into jabbering madness on the way to a fatal outcome. A typical gang of plucky survivors tries to escape while the authorities do the convoluted best to cover up the outbreak and develop an antidote, in that order of priority. The performances sometimes veer too close to amateurish, but I found nothing but delight in watching Richard France chomp through his turn as a scientist forcibly (and somewhat randomly) recruited to fight the virus. Romero clearly revels in the mayhem he sets loose, making pointed arguments about the bogged ineffectualness of the military and civic leaders in general.

Brillo Box (3¢ off) (Lisanne Skyler, 2016). In a breezy forty minutes, documentarian Lisanne Skyler mines her own family history for a meditation on art collecting, as hobby and as an act of financial speculation. In the nineteen-sixties and -seventies, Skyler’s parents were casual but prolific art collectors, filling their New York apartment with pieces from emerging artists who would shortly become known as the masters of their day. Among the pieces that artworks that they briefly claimed was on of Andy Warhol’s yellow Brillo boxes, which they inadvertently conferred extra longterm value upon it by insisting the artist sign in. (According to the documentary, the signed yellow Brillo box is one of only three of its kind.) In a tragicomic turn, Skyler’s father traded the piece away well before it skyrocketed in value. He bought it for $1000. Four decades later, it sold for millions. With a remarkably good-natured tone, Skyler’s traces the piece’s long history, with brisk, informative diversions into Warhol’s career, the terrain of modern art, and her own family’s shared biography. Without resorting to overt jokiness or sacrificing a mission to educate, Skyler crafts a brightly entertaining film.