Jordan Cronk: Out of all the original Cahiers du cinema critics-turned-filmmakers, the recently deceased Eric Rohmer is perhaps the least appreciated, despite having arguably the widely accessible (stylistically speaking) catalogue. He was certainly the classicist of the group—and thus perhaps the most subtly groundbreaking—but his body of work is a rather extraordinary, single-minded entity unique to cinema history. And the six films which make up his mid-career “Comedies and Proverbs” series are at once his least seen but to my mind most universal, three dimensional creations. His recently restored 1986 feature The Green Ray—currently touring the States under its original title, Le Rayon Vert—is equal parts centerpiece and standalone masterpiece, the single most moving, mysterious, and transcendent film in a career with no shortage of worthy candidates.

This, of course, is only an opinion that’s very recently begun to take a more prominent foothold in the critical community, many still preferring the more rigidly formalistic style perfected in his early Six Moral Tales series. But I’m curious to hear where you fall on this spectrum, Calum—and to hear how you think The Green Ray fits into such a vast filmmography—since there are arguments and pleasures to be made and appreciated amongst both periods—and that’s to say nothing of the subsequent Tale of Four Seasons series, which is richly rewarding in it’s own right.

In truth, it’s not the simplest of crimes to commit. One has to first contemplate a target, one willing to inspire panic (but not police) in the potential payer - ransom, that is. Next, one must come up with a complex plan to capture and keep them. It can’t be blatant or conspicuous. Holding back one’s identity from both the hostage and the holder of their fate is key. Then there’s the whole care and comfort element matched with the pragmatics of the monetary demands and swap. Cash - or some other valuable commodity - must change hands in way that keeps things from spiraling out of control. Then, and only then, after all these pieces have fallen perfectly into place, can the concept of escape even be considered, the ‘where’ and ‘how’ of hiding out and avoiding justice just as important as picking the proper mark was in the first place.

No wonder so many of these attempted offenses go so horribly, horribly wrong. Even more obvious is how reliable and resilient the subject is as a movie topic. While long a part of literature, the act has become a notoriously 20th century specialty. From the frenzy over the Lindberg baby to the national news hour pastime of the Patty Hearst case, kidnapping has wormed its way into the public consciousness in a way few felonies have managed. Perhaps only serial murder has more mass multimedia meaning. Of course, today, most abductions revolve around nationalities not knowing their place (or political potency) in another’s unsettled land. Indeed, most of the time, terrorism is the tag given to such cases of false imprisonment. What does this all mean? Most of the time, it means boffo box office, baby.

It’s amazing how something becomes embedded in the popular culture, especially something that probably has no legitimate reason to be there in the first place. After all, the item under discussion today began life as a critically derailed affront on the sensibilities of moviegoers everywhere. It was lambasted for its violence, its politics, its questionable casting decisions and performances, and its overall message of drug-fueled frenzied power struggle on the streets of Miami. It was considered a black eye, a too close to home comment on the recent Mariel boatlift, and a stinging over-generalized indictment of the majority of law abiding Cuban citizens and refugees. Oddly enough, some 30 years later, few remember the thousands that came to our shores from Castro’s Communist house cleaning, but few have forgotten the movie that immortalizes it… Scarface.

Ah Scarface, that subtle morality tale about crime not paying—at least, not always and definitely not in the end. Scarface, that supposed update of the Paul Muni ‘classic’ from the height of Hollywood’s original obsession with the crime genre. Scarface, the movie where a man gets a chainsaw to the head. Scarface, more F-bombs and blood splatter than in all of Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese’s canon combined (okay , so that’s probably a bit of an exaggeration). With a gratuitously Grand Guignol script by future conspiracy theorist Oliver Stone and some minor Hitchcock homages by director Brian DePalma, the resulting epic has managed to shake its scandalous initial release to become a kind of blasphemous Bible in home video. Indeed, it’s apparently the Gospel for every wannabe thug and rap impresario in the scene.

For many film fans, Brian De Palma has always been known as the Hitchcock knockoff. Perhaps more harshly, he’s been labeled the wannabe Master of Suspense and/or the pretender to the dread throne of greatness. Yet when one looks back as his creative canon - at least prior to the mid ‘70s, it’s hard to figure out how he earned such a tag. Efforts like Sisters and Carrie were solid horror outing, but neither really relied on the acknowledged auteur’s signature style. In fact, it seems like two films in particular turned the certified member of the post-modern movement into a classified copycat. Obsession, from 1976, was a romanticized thriller riff on Vertigo, and in 1980, De Palma unleashed his most obvious homage, the sexed up Psycho shill known as Dressed to Kill.

Scandalous from the moment it opened (it featured a near full frontal Angie Dickinson - or a body double deception of same), the nutty psychological thriller offered up Nancy Allen, Michael Caine, Keith Gordon, and some unconvincing cross-dressing as the standard surreal murder mystery beats lay waste to the Me Decade. The basic story centers on a married woman - Kate Miller (Dickinson) - who is frustrated with her love life. Cruising museums for illicit trysts, she also tries to resolve her issues on the couch. Specifically, she sees Dr. Robert Elliott (Caine), a sympathetic if practical ear. One day, Kate is killed. The event is witnessed by a prostitute named Liz (Allen). With the help of the victim’s teenage son, the hooker tries to discover the identity of the assailant before they decide to get rid of the only ‘evidence’ to their crime.

My parents go to the movies almost every week, God bless ‘em. Whether there’s a new Harrison Ford movie out or the best offering is a shudder Paul Walker movie, my folks will be sitting in the theater at least 20 minutes early, popcorn in hand, waiting for it to start—and yes, they were disappointed in Cowboys and Aliens, too. They, like most film fanatics, hate the down season. January through April are the months most chock full of schlock, and September usually comes in a close second because it’s too late for summer blockbusters and too early for Oscar contenders.

Last year, the closest we got to a Best Picture nominee was The Town, an admittedly deserving contender. In 2009, however, the best of month #9 was The Informant. 2008 gave us Burn After Reading. It was 2007 that came the closest to week-to-week quality with Eastern Promises, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, and The Darjeeling Limited, but the last two were given limited releases keeping most Americans from seeing them until October or later.

This year actually has a shot at September perfection. That’s not to claim every film will be a 10 out of 10 or even get an Oscar nomination. After all, a pitcher doesn’t have to strike out every batter for a perfect game. Looking at the lineup, though, there’s at least one wide release each week deserving of your dollars. Here’s hoping Mr. and Mrs. Travers agree come October.