Staff Reports
In the labyrinth of modern movie-making, where CGI wizards cast their technological spells, often overshadowing the sinews of storytelling, it’s refreshing to revisit the classics that knit the moral fabric and cultural ideals of yesteryear. Recently, the perennial debate over essential films has cropped up once again, turning up the dial on both popular and sophisticated critiques. This time, the discussion was sparked by a list possibly concocted over a cup of very serious coffee and a notepad—essentially, a nod to what films one really ought to see if they claim to care about cinema.
Sitting comfortably at the pinnacle of this list is “Casablanca,” where Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman don’t just wander through a haunted romance but somehow capture the entire American spirit during World War II. Ah, Casablanca—where the swirling mists of drama and sentimentality coalesce into a romantic narrative so sweeping that it makes even the most stable heart yearn for a time where moral ambiguity sauntered through life with the lightheartedness of a French chanson. Here, the talk isn’t just about films, but about a reflection of American values and their cinematic transmutation into high art.
Moving down the list, “The Godfather” holds court, illustrating the saga of assimilation, power, and the irresistible call of one’s roots. It’s a tragedy not just of Michael Corleone, who initially tries to distance himself from his family’s criminal enterprise and Sicilian heritage, but also of American ideals, reshaped under the dim lighting of the mobster world. It’s a narrative both poetic and poignant, reminding us that the corruption whispering through democracy’s halls isn’t just a movie trope—it’s practically a sub-genre of its own.
And as if to switch gears, we’re thrust into “High Noon,” a film embraced by both political sides, originally tailored to defend what its creator saw as individual conscience against conformist pressures. Still, it winds up as a testament to individualism, a lone hero standing against the tide when the world would rather sip tea at the sideline. This 90-minute masterpiece hits the clock like a Western rendition of Judeo-Christian morality, asserting that doing the right thing sometimes means you stand alone, a badge of courage pinned against a black-and-white reality.
Then there’s “Rocky,” where Sylvester Stallone’s trademark mumble-talking not only translates into a cinematic punch but also sends waves of underdog energy sprawling through American consciousness. Here, it’s not the victory that matters but the sweat, grit, and refusal to stay down—a comforting message wrapped in that lovable, almost cartoonish guise of Stallone’s persona.
Rounding off this cinematic cornerstone discussion is “Lawrence of Arabia”—a juxtaposition of the old and new, classic and romantic. Peter O’Toole shines with a soul as bared as the sandy expanses he traverses. The film itself marks a cinematic transition from statuesque heroism to introspective soul-searching, where inner turmoil becomes as visually arresting as the sweeping landscapes Lean so deftly captured.
In revisiting these films, the cracks in modern culture begin to show. These classics prompt a look back to foundational values, stark contrasts to today’s cinematic focus on self rather than society. In the end, understanding these celluloid treasures is not just cinephilic indulgence—it’s a necessary schooling in what makes up the cultural DNA of not just movies, but en masse, the society they reflect. Surely, if one subscribes to this school of thought, they might just end up learning a thing or two about what makes life and art compellingly intertwined.
