I revisit my top 5 and 10 films periodically, and sometimes I write notes like the following.

04 January 2019, 12:16PM PST

The top 5 didn’t shuffle too much from the last time I wrote some thoughts on film, with only a minor shuffle between “Paprika” and “The Tale of Princess Kaguya” from 3rd to 2nd and 2nd to 3rd, respectively.

“Mad Max: Fury Road” and “Inglourious Basterds” fell off the list because ultimately, I favored these movies for their editing as opposed to the overall effect. They both stand on my “Top 10 for Film Editing Inspiration” (maybe I’ll make a list later, if my psyche irks me enough) but they did not stand the test of time as films that really, truly reverberate with me.

There was definitely an interesting kerfuffle as to what would be in places 6-10 (these standings change the most at each assessment) and while “Minority Report,” “In the Kingdom of Dreams and Madness” and “Ratatouille” ultimately kept their places, there was ample room for ordering and re-ordering and re-re-ordering and re-re-re-ordering (and so forth...) ‘til there was some semblance of a (non)sensical list.

“The Host” and “Rashōmon” join the ranks as films that seem to resonate the most with me at this point in time.

The special mentions list – “Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse”, “Black Panther”, and “Get Out” are unapologetically black films. It took awhile to parse down the special mentions list, and I found it interesting the all three films are centered around Black protagonists who, to a certain extent (some more than others) grapple with their own relationship to American racial politics and/or the post-19th to 20th century slavery and colonization African diaspora legacy. Special mentions are films that I considered very closely to be in top 10 but, for reasons I may not be able to articulate at the moment, did not quite but I still felt warranted a mention. This special mentions list is actually the most interesting I’ve had in a long while.

I am sad and disappointed that, out of my favorite films, only one is directed by a woman (Mami Sunada, who also directed my favorite documentary – maybe another list for “Favorite Documentaries” for another day is waiting).

I am also disappointed that most of these films are from 2002 and onwards, with only one film being from before with Akira Kurosawa’s “Rashōmon” from 1950.

Lastly, I am disappointed that my film preferences are still predominantly East Asian (Japanese, Hong Kong, Korean) and American (Hollywood and American Independent).

I hope with time, this will expand. (I am open to recommendations from anyone who is reading this.) As much as I love film, there’s still so much I don’t know much about, and ideally a year from today, my knowledge will have expanded beyond my current limitations that I’m disappointed with.

Notes on Top 10

#1: The Grandmaster [2013] - dir. Wong Kar-wai

Prior to the new year, I saw a number of posts about how 2018 was a terrible year that people were happy to throw away into a burning garbage dump — similar sentiments thrown at 2017.

Despite all of the current and ongoing tumultuousness, I still consider 2013 to be one of the most defining years of my life. It was easily one of my worst years, and easily one of the most important.

Heart break, economic instability, and workplace bullying consolidated into one giant slap in the face, resulting in me physically collapsing and being forced to take a few days off to recover. Additionally, two people I loved died unexpectedly: Roger Ebert, the man who cultivated my love in film and never once doubted me as a writer and filmmaker; and Bà Ngoại, my maternal grandmother who had survived two wars, experienced heart break of every kind, and always supported me throughout my adolescence and beyond.

All of this happened within 6 months.

“The Grandmaster” was the first movie I watched in theaters after my grandmother died. I accompanied Weinstein’s cut with a glass of whiskey, and cried for the first time after a week of feeling numb.

“The Grandmaster,” for whatever flaws it may hold, has continued to not only comfort me during the saddest and darkest of times, but has also helped me navigate times of uncertainty and instability.

It is flawed, grandiose, and arguably Kar-wai’s most commercial work.

I also learn continuously from it, flaws and strengths and all, and it has shaped my understanding and love of film, history, and how fiction can be more truthful than reality. Each character appears, disappears, re-emerges, and disappears again, imitating life as you may have it: the only constant is change.

Each character, with their own philosophy, stands out on their own, each a story waiting to unfold, and in some cases never revealed more than a whip of a blade.

Circumstances beyond each characters’ control shape them more than anything, and it is only through will, choice (some right, some wrong), and primarily luck that some characters persevere, and others return to the past.

While any character has the potential to be a grandmaster, only one emerges as a confluence of their will, the right choices, and unfounded luck.

C’est la vie.

That, among many other minutiae, is why it is highly unlikely that another movie will ever take its place as my #1.

#2: Paprika [2006] - dir. Satoshi Kon

How is it that Satoshi Kon was so prescient about society’s relationship with technology and personas, and by extension our projections of reality and fantasy?

“Paprika” is not a film that easily sits with one viewing. It is audiovisual fest, similar to a fantastical dream that one feels but has difficulty fully grasping without another viewing.

Fortunately, in the advent of records and media, subsequent viewings of “Paprika” are more than possible, and highly recommended.

“Paprika” is like a fervent, feverish dream, a dream that echoes truths about Japan’s sexism, codification of inferences/non-speak, toxic masculinity (figurative and literal), power dynamics, and projected versus actual love and personalities.

Kon has been one of my favorite animators of all time. I miss him still.

#3: The Tale of Princess Kaguya [2013] - dir. Isao Takahata

I was unsurprised to learn about Isao Takahata’s abusive tendencies and work environment upon his passing last year. Anyone familiar with brilliant minds and talent is also familiar with how that brilliance can be leveraged to excuse atrocious and abusive behavior.

Takahata’s rage against Japan very easily spread to those closest to him, and to what degree he justified this rage, perhaps I’ll never know.

What I do know is that in all of his anger, nothing shook me more than the anger he poured into creating “The Tale of Princess Kaguya,” a feat of Buddhism, beauty, joy, and a level of rage and despair that rises to challenge the level of rage and despair of his previous work, “Grave of the Fireflies.”

It is a tough question as to whether or not we can celebrate the work of an artist once it becomes that they were so abusive that their closest colleagues credit them for killing rising talent.

I think that, in a case against binaries, we can both celebrate and critique the work as it pertains to who its driving artist was.

In the case of Takahata, “The Tale of Princess Kaguya” is a perfect encapsulation of who he was: brilliant and brutal. Brutal, more so than brilliant.

#4: The Wind Rises [2013] - dir. Hayao Miyazaki

Did anyone truly believe Hayato Miyazaki would retire after “The Wind Rises?”

I certainly did, and that’s perhaps why I cried even more after finishing his fictional account of Jiro Horikoshi, the creator of the Japanese Zero during WWII.

I’ve been criticized for finding Miyazaki’s “The Wind Rises” moving given the fact that Horikoshi created an effective and efficient war machine — and, for those who know me, the critique weighs in on the hypocrisy given my stance on war and the military.

I understand the critique, and I understand the hypocrisy, if not the outright irony.

I’d like to believe that Miyazaki understands this critique, hypocrisy, and irony as well. (For those who wonder “how would you know Q?”, I invite you to Google his comments as to why he did not attend the 2002 Oscars to accept the Academy Award for Best Animation for “Spirited Away.”)

Was Horikoshi complicit in war? Was his seeming apolitical-ness a gross privilege? Was the Zero an engineering feat? Was this movie, in detailing the fascism of Imperial Japan, implicitly criticizing the current Abe regime’s continued attempt at historical revisionism?

I would like to argue yes, to all of the above. Because to be human is to be critiqued, hypocritical, and fundamentally ironic.

#5: Moonlight [2016] - dir. Barry Jenkins

How on earth are we ever deserving as someone like Barry Jenkins, especially in this day and age?

I ask myself that question every time I even think about Jenkins’ 2016 masterpiece, “Moonlight.”

I’ve only seen it once, and the moment I walked out of the theater, I knew it would be one of my top 5 favorite films.

As one of the quietest films I’ve ever seen, it is also one of the most powerful statements in cinema as it pertains to masculinity, blackness, queerness, and tenderness.

How does one linger on a gaze that says more than words can convey?

How does the omission of sound at a key moment elicit the key disconnect between trauma and bureaucracy?

How does touch transcend sexuality and into a need for love?

How does one reframe Miami as a landscape of poetry within the abandoned and discarded?

And how do you break boys into men without shattering their spirit, psyche, and very being?

These are all questions that “Moonlight” answers, and more.

#6: Minority Report [2002] - dir. Steven Spielberg

If you were already critical of me loving a movie like “The Wind Rises,” then I do hope you’re more than willing to give me hell for liking “Minority Report.”

Spielberg minimizes the more insidious nature of surveillance that is fundamentally flawed by opting out of actual critique acknowledging the power structures that underlie state enforcement. This cop out is further varnished by a slick Neo-noir cinematography that I have always admired, with specks of foreshadowing red indicating a “shit about to hit the fan” moments.

“Minority Report” is a classic Hollywood take on a Philip K. Dick novel that rudimentarily explores implications and then inexplicably ends without actually addressing the insidiousness of state-sponsored surveillance, incorrectly assuming that state surveillance will simply end on the basis of basic human decency, morality, and ethics (spoiler alert: it probably never will, because people are people).

Lastly, the film arguably glorifies the sleekness of said surveillance, what with its touch screens, looking glasses, automated cars that inspired a generation of iPhones, Oculi and Teslas. How does one dress up such a depressing notion, of a black mirror society in which we must gouge out our eyes in order to truly be free?

With all of this pessimistic analysis cultivated and grown for 17 years, I still hold “Minority Report” dearly in my heart because still, whenever I watch it, I find it worthwhile to watch while understanding how problematic the larger issues surrounding it are. It was, after all, the first movie that really got me thinking about what I was watching, and whether or not I should agree with everything said and implied.

This film taught me that things are not mutually exclusive: that you can explore ideas and still be enjoyable; that you watch something and understand how the implicit ideas are troubling; and that Tom Cruise will always be running.

#7: Ratatouille [2007] - dir. Brad Bird

I was an impressionable, nervous, and insecure 18-year-old about to embark into college when Bird’s “Ratatouille” came out.

I was especially unsure about what I wanted to do in life, as I had just had an existential crisis (yes, this is real) after realizing that, even if I became the best clinician possible, that the US healthcare system would force me to turn away patients who were too poor to afford health insurance.

So there I was, a lost 18-year-old, feeling like I had just thrown away 4 years of high school pre-med studying, and torn between continuing down healthcare or having a “oh fuck it all” and switching gears to film school.

Escaping into Pixar, I was engrossed in the Parisian adventures of Remy, an eccentric and misfit rat trying to break free of tradition by becoming a chef (an eccentricness and misfitedness that I heavily related to).

But what really did me in was Anton Ego’s speech at the end. To this day, I think he may have been a bit too hard on himself, but the sentiment still rings true 12 years later:

“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new.”

“The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations, the new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant.”

“Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.”

#8: In the Kingdom of Dreams and Madness [2013] - dir. Mami Sunada

Mami Sunada accomplishes something quite striking in her documentary: she captures the existential pessimism of Hayao Miyazaki that, unless you read his interviews, would have easily eluded you. Because here’s the thing –

Miyazaki is a curmudgeon, a luddite, and a grump.

But most of all, he’s tired.

He’s tired of Abe, he’s tired of anime, he’s tired of consumerism, he’s tired of people trashing the environment, he’s tired of Japan, he’s tired of people, and he’s tired of life in general.

The only thing more tired than Miyazaki is, perhaps, a rotund white cat.

For all of Miyazaki’s curmudgeonry, Sunada manages to capture moments of sincere joy and tranquility, and more strikingly eases Miyazaki into admitting his own thoughts as unfiltered as possible by Japanese standards.

The ending scene, where Sunada holds the camera to capture the dichotomy between Miyazaki’s pessimism in contrast with the joy of pre-school children, is quite something.

#9: The Host [2006] - dir. Bong Joon-ho

Bong Joon-ho’s “The Host” is such an odd film.

I remember initial American reviewers were mixed, often citing that the movie was an inconsistent bag of emotions, and that traditional monsters don’t show the actual monster 10 minutes into the film.

They are correct on all counts, which is why this movie has stood the test of time for me.

What many American reviewers missed is that Joon-ho’s oddball monster movie is fundamentally about Korean-US international relations after the Korean War, especially with regards to American military presence within South Korea.

This evil exists because American scientists poured formaldehyde into the Han River, and through freak science, a monster is born. People are kidnapped and taken by this monster. Families are quarantined while they are grieving lost members. Old family drama inappropriately unfolds during times relegated for despair. The media and politicians lie.

Yet for awhile, the viewer wonders: is this monster truly evil? We have not seen it eat anyone. Perhaps it is not as horrific as it presents itself?

And that is part of the brilliance of Joon-ho’s film, because later he reaffirms that this monster is actually truly evil incarnate. It has already revealed itself to be evil – why was there any room for doubt?

But that is a fundamentally human mentality, because oftentimes evil is insidious and subtle, rarely revealing itself in broad daylight. Evil relishes in mystery before it kills, so it is understandable that we would find reason to doubt the monster actually kills people even though, in retrospect, the red flags were there.

I will reiterate that the media and politicians lie about the existence of the monster despite first person corroboration – a lie that they desperately work to maintain to the point of nearly performing a lobotomy on the protagonist who only wants to save his daughter from the monster.

The lie that the media and politicians stand by is a testament to society’s larger unwillingness to acknowledge evil when it flashes and smirks is grisly existence into our cornea, and the inherent farce and additional casualties caused when we are slow to respond and react for reasons the exclude morals, ethics, and humanity.

“The Host” is an odd monster movie because it exposes us to our own willingness to ignore evil until it unleashes more collateral than if we had simply admitted ourselves that something truly, unapologetically horrible had brazenly stuck its head in our doors.

Perhaps it’s something we can’t quite make eye contact with.

#10: Rashōmon [1950] - dir. Akira Kurosawa

A few weeks ago, a theology student pulled me aside and asked me what was the one question I wished I could ask my respective deity.

I told her:

“Why do people lie to themselves so they can sleep at night?”

“Rashōmon” addresses this same sentiment, and concludes on a profoundly depressing and stark note about the worser aspects of humanity.

For what are we but beings who will lie just enough to maintain our own narratives that may not align in the face of actual truth?

And if there is no narrator for actual truth, does truth matter?

Kurosawa rips apart the underlying aspects of Japanese society – and humanity at large – in which we will do whatever possible to preserve our own reputations, even if it means risking death, so long as we maintain our own dignity without admitting accountability.

Such is the farce of our own conditions sometimes, I suppose.

Special mentions

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse [2018] - dir. Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, and Rodney Rothman

What a beautiful, radical film. I honestly can’t believe that last year we were blessed with not one, but two beautifully unapologetically black superhero films that addressed different aspects of the Black/African diaspora as a result of 19th and 20th century colonization and slavery.

“Spider-verse” is what I consider an exemplarily radical film since it looks explicitly focuses on the modern demographic of Brooklyn while decentralizing (fridging) Peter Parker with the fundamental idea that anyone – yes, anyone, no matter what you look like, no matter your abilities are – can be heroic. It is as diverse as it is inclusive.

An extra shout out to the positive and supporting male role models. (I am convinced that Mahershala Ali should be in every film at this point.)

And goodness, what a radical breakthrough in animation. I’m sure Satoshi Kon would be proud of the climax. And what a soundtrack.

Black Panther [2018] - dir. Ryan Coogler

I watched this film nine times in theaters (yes, I am the person who helped run MoviePass into the ground and I don’t care) because it is a film that helped me get through some rough patches early last year primarily because of its female characters.

T’Challa is likeable, but Okoye is a whole different level for me: she has been a role model of sorts for me, in many different iterations. (Also, the rhino likes her more.)

And what a soundtrack to match such a cinematography.

Get Out [2017] - dir. Jordan Peele

Jordan Peele’s breakout horror still shakes me to this day, if not even more. It’s one of those films that, with time and age, only further sinks down into how horrific the circumstances that surround the non-white characters.

(Anyone that thinks that it qualifies as a comedy is, quite frankly, missing the fucking point. For fucks sake, this shit is horrific – why the hell would anyone laugh except for some kind of relief from tension?)