Alphaville, 1962, dir. Jean-Luc Godard. Spooky doom-laden sci-fi noir that radiates atmosphere, pessimism, and deadpan humor. J.G. Ballard once named Alphaville as one of the ten best science-fiction films of all time, and while I might not have agreed with other entries (Silent Running?), I think he's right on the money here. Hard-boiled private detective Lemmy Caution (Eddie Constantin) travels to the far-off "planet" of Alphaville in his Ford Galaxy, investigating the disappearance of a semi-mad scientist and the power-mad computer (Alpha 60) that rules its population. Alphaville is indistinguishable from modern-day Paris--all the characters dress in ordinary early-60s street clothes, backing up my assertion that this is science fiction without outlandish silver costumes or special effects. Its appeal is to the imagination, not the retina. Apparently Godard's intention was to devise a science-fiction distopia that touched base with pop art, comic strips and American kitsch culture: the original title was Tarzan vs. IBM, which wouldn't have been easily turned into a new wave band name. It's a cold, black-and-white film that unspooled in my head while taking aimless walks along the Seine in 1998...from my vantage point, Paris looked an awful lot like Alphaville. "C'est Zeroville!"

American Graffitti, 1972, dir. George Lucas. Yes, it's true...George Lucas' big breakthrough effort, his overrated THX-1138 nonwithstanding. It's the movie that earned him sufficient studio clout to get Star Wars made as a low-budget feature. The movie that kicked off 1950s nostalgia almost single-handedly (even though the story actually takes place in the early 60s). The movie that Modesto grabbed on to immediately to provide a ready-made identity for itself. If you know me at all, then you know that Lucas and I grew up in that same San Joaquin Valley town--in fact, Lucas and I went to the same high school (and probably shared the same gym locker). Before he cashed in big-time and had Thought One about Ewoks or Gungans, Lucas was a lean-and-hungry film kid who yearned to make a movie about the dead-end life kids lived in his home burg. The endless cruises and bored malt-shop evenings. Graffitti is loaded with references that any Modesto kid would understand (Mackenzie Phillips' "Dewey High" t-shirt, among them), and buzzes with excitement, kicks and even knowing irony. Ron Howard is pitch-perfect here as the straight-shooting Downey High jock, Richard Dreyfuss keeps his East Coast angst under wraps, and Harrison Ford steals the picture as Hayseed Horror Bob Falfa. Some would call it trash, I'd call it a subtle and knowing acknowledgement that things change a hell of a lot in the 10 years after you get outta high school. We'll always have Laverne & Shirley.

Blade Runner, 1982, dir. Ridley Scott. Another Harrison Ford performance, here. I'd be whitewashing the truth if I denied that this film wasn't one of my all-time filmic pleasures (I'm talking mainly "director's cut" here, though I do enjoy Harrison Ford's voice-over narration in the original theatrical release). I've spent many a melancholy night, whiskey-and-water in hand, pretending that I was Rick Deckard plunking on his baby grand piano as he muses over the fate of his Replicant quarry. I just wish that I could have a fancy computer with voice-activated Photoshop, like he does. The summer it was released was all about E.T. and Poltergeist for me (I admit it freely)--I wouldn't have been able to get into an R-rated film anyway. This pic has improved with age, its themes are still relevant to an audience actually living in the 21st century, and Douglass Trumbull's fantastic special effects still inspire and amaze.

The Blue Dahlia, 1946, dir. George Marshall. Why does the Blue Dahlia work for me when so many films noir wither and drop off the vine?

Blue Velvet, 1985, dir. David Lynch. A movie that I used to quote endlessly around 1988 or '89. I'm not sure that I understood the more delicate elements of the plot as a teenager, but was really into the slick David Lynch style--and I related somehow with the character of Jeffrey Baumont, played by a post-Dune Kyle MacLachlan.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1919, dir. Robert Weine. Black-and-white nightmare, told in erratically-moving pictures.

The Day the Earth Stood Still, 1951, dir. Robert Wise. Another film that ranks among the greatest of the science-fiction genre. Directed by the same man that brought you The Sound of Music and Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Day the Earth Stood Still merges awe-inspiring UFOs, chromium robots and omnipotent aliens to themes of world peace, tolerance and responsibility. It also boasts one of the best Theremin-driven scores of all time, thanks to über-composer Bernard Herrmann (must be heard to be believed). At this late date, the story's a familiar one: a flying saucer sets down within spitting distance of the Washington Monument, and is soon surrounded by a human tide of photgraphers, reporters, gawkers, and army men with guns and tanks. A masked, humanoid (?) being emerges, only to be immediately shot by a trigger-happy commando. Fortunately, he's got a little backup: giant, silver-plated robot Gort, who zaps first and asks questions never. The plot has the wounded alien go native among the human population, keeping his identity secret as he attempts to figure out what makes us earthlings tick, and decide whether we've gotten too big for our cosmic britches. The Day the Earth Stood Still is one of the best movies ever (genre or otherwise), and it's treatment of fear and ignorance vs. understanding is as timely now as it was in '51.

La Dolce Vita, 1962, dir. Federico Fellini. One of the richer filmic experiences you're gonna have, in this life or another. I unfortunately was first exposed to the film on a gurgly, worn-out VHS cassette rented from the Video Nook at Cole and Carl in San Francisco--a lot of the black-and-white majesty of the original was lost under a layer of hisses, pops and scratches (at one point, the words "La Dolce Vita, Reel 7" appear over the scene!). Maybe not the best first impression, but the flick still hooked me in a big way.

Double Indemnity, 1944, dir. Billy Wilder. A movie that offers the best dialogue ever to issue from the mouth of Edward G. Robinson, Barbara Stanwyck, or even lunkheaded Fred MacMurray. James M. Cain's novel was adapted to the screen by everybody's fave hard-boiled scribe, Raymond Chandler--the sharp-edged words couldn't have come from anyone else, and any reader of his Philip Marlowe books will immediately spot the connection. It's a classic tale of love and betrayal, with Barbara Stanwyck as the archetypal femme fatale and MacMurray as a shifty sap head over heels in what he thinks is love.

The Final Programme, 1973, dir. Robert Fuest. Few people have seen it: most don't even know it exists. Michael Moorcock's first Jerry Cornelius novel was adapted to the screen and directed by Robert Fuest, who had earned acclaim with his work on The Avengers TV series and the camp-driven, pastel-tinted Abominable Dr. Phibes. His eye for setpieces and snappy patter suits the material well: apparently Moorcock was displeased with the adaption, though he had turned down the opportunity to write the screenplay himself. For what it's worth, The Final Programme is a wild-and-wooly affair with some cool one-liners courtesy Moorcock's source material ("I suspect I'll use Napalm...you know what a traditionalist I am") and kicky costumes outfitting the likes of Jenny Runacre, John Finch and Patrick Magee.

Forbidden Planet, 1956, dir. Fred McLeod Wilcox. Some first-time viewers can't handle the fact that Commander J.J. Adams is portrayed by everyone's favorite bumbling deadpan punster Leslie Nielsen (for what it's worth, he's great in the film). Others can't hang with the anachronistic take on future space travel, where flying saucers piloted by WWII-era skyboys tote around a ship's cook (a young Earl Holliman) dressed in a white apron and toque. Yeah, the ship's doctor refers to a household disintegration unit as "a housewife's dream," and some of the dialogue dates it to the 50s. Forbidden Planet is still one of the seminal classics of science fiction cinema, and one of the first American SF pics to delve deeper than Bug-Eyed Aliens and Space Chicks in Bikinis. It's an updated telling of Shakespeare's Tempest--one that substites an alien world for a desert island, a crew of astronauts for the shipwrecked mariners, and Dr. Edward Morbius (Walter Pidgeon) for Prospero. The real innovation here was the choice to make Caliban an externalized force conjured up by the over-protective Morbius to defend his daughter Altaira against the perceived threat of randy space-jockeys. This flick makes me want to roll around in the aisles--it's that colorful, that stylish, that exciting and that fresh. See it on a big screen if you ever get the opportunity.

Frankenstein, 1931, dir. James Whale. The much-loved classic of Universal Horror, featuring Henry "Boris Karloff" Pratt in the role of Misunderstood Monster and Colin Clive as the manically-obsessed Henry Frankenstein. Some would tell you that the sequel Bride of Frankenstein is the superior film--while I dig it as much as any of them, my heart's in the Origin Tale. Any similarities between this breezy, confident James Whale effort and the glacially-paced Mary Shelly novel are coincidental, but it still addresses the whole "man oversteps his natural boundaries" theme more successfully than most/any films that followed in its lumbering footsteps. One of the most remarkable aspects of this very early talkie is how filmic it really is: the camera moves, pans, and shifts through scenes, sets are large and expansive, and things are shown rather than just described (as they definitely were in Tod Browning's Dracula, a movie that offers a few kicks but can't compare to Whale's effort). The first appearance of Karloff's Monster--through an open door, after much buildup and mounting tension--is one of the greatest introductions in the history of pictures (moving or otherwise).

La Jetee, 1963, dir. Chris Marker. Less a movie than it is a slideshow with tacked-on narration, Marker's short feature is as stylish and thoughtful as science fiction cinema will ever get.

Lord of the Rings, 2001-2003, dir. Peter Jackson. A mainstream, crowd-pleasing choice, here, but I'm not going to qualify my decision or post disclaimers. I will offer an explanation, however, and it has something to do with my personal history, reading and viewing habits, and what I'm all about as a breathing, walking human being. See, like most kids of the 70s, I developed an early interest in anything and everything relating to science fiction, fantasy, superheroes, monsters, and cheeseball Saturday Morning TV shows featuring gangs of kids tracking ghosts (there were about 12 of them). I have very clear and fond memories of flipping though issues of Starlog when it featured articles about upcoming movies like the Gil Gerard Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Outland or Saturn 12. I collected 3 1/2" action figures for various sci-fi films and made them pitch battles against each other. I checked out the book & record set for the Rankin-Bass Hobbit several times from the library, and used my pocket money to buy a Gollum action figure (based on the character design from the Ralph Bakshi movie from '78). In the many years since I was a grade-schooler, I got into the punk rock thing, dyed my hair, read William Vollmann and drank black coffee in junkie cafés, but my nerd-kid imprinting remained beneath the surface, much like the other 95% of an iceberg.

Mystery Train, 1987, dir. Jim Jarmusch. Generally speaking, I'm not a great admirer of Jarmusch after the 1980s. I didn't bother with Night on Earth, couldn't find the time for Dead Man, and will probably wait another 10 years before checking out Coffee and Cigarettes on video. That said, Mystery Train is a rare and, dare I say, touching movie that makes down-and-out squalor and rural creepiness seem comfortably familiar, and dare I hazard--sweet.

Night of the Living Dead, 1968, dir. George Romero. Loads of ink has been spilled on Romero's groundbreaking, convention-defying black-and-white zombie classic. I'm gonna go publicly on the record saying that it's arguably the scariest American fright flick (The Exorcist being the other top contender for the title). By this point you ought to be familiar with the premise: for some unknown reason, the recently deceased are rising from their graves/refrigerators/whatever and slowly lumbering after the living. A group of ill-prepared citizens are trapped in an isolated farmhouse, desperately attempting to ward off an endless onslaught of flesheating stiffs--and avoid killing each other all the while. George Romero's gone on to lesser movies in the 30 years since Night of the Living Dead(such as The Dark Half, Monkeyshines, or even the NOTLD sequel Day of the Dead). Dawn of the Dead tops this flick in terms of stomach-churning comic-book gore, but doesn't equal its sense of menace, desperation and growing claustrophobia. It's eminently quotable, too.

Nosferatu, 1922, dir. F.W. Murnau. The first, and probably greatest, vampire film. Nosferatu has the ability to creep me out like few others of its ilk, and the fact that it dates from the silent era adds a weird kind of verisimilitude to the affair. If vampires really existed, I'd expect them to move around silently and appear in grainy high-contrast black-and-white. The story behind this film's rarefied pedigree is well known: director F.W. Murnau thought that he could produce an unauthorized version of Bram Stoker's Dracula simply by changing the characters' names, switching the setting of the second and third act from London to Bremen, and tweaking the ending to speak more to a conservative German audience. Not so. Stoker's widow won a court case against the studio, and all copies of the film were ordered destroyed. Under such heavy odds, the mere fact that the film exists in any kind of viewable condition is something of a miracle. It's rife with creepy and claustrophobic imagery that, like Night of the Living Dead, works even better on a small screen (in the cramped confines of your sweaty apartment).

Pandora's Box, 1926, dir. G.W. Pabst. Featuring the immortal and radiant Louise Brooks. A film that I forged an intense emotional connection with, once.

Repo Man, 1984, dir. Alex Cox. You've seen it. So have I, many times. Emilio Estevez stars as Otto, tough-talking street punk from the sunshiny ghettos of Los Angeles who runs afoul of a cadaverous Repo Man (Harry Dean Stanton, no less), crackpot Men in Black, gun-totin' mohicans and a Chevy Malibu harboring evidence of the Roswell UFO crash in its trunk. Suicidal Tendencies, the Circle Jerks ("I can't believe I used to like these guys") and the Plugz provide the bouncing hardcore soundtrack that punctuates the car chases and gunplay. Alex Cox is a director who, you might say, squandered the opportunities that were offered to him by (what must have been) an iconoclastic, rough-and-ready attitude toward filmmaking that the Man just couldn't take. I'm filling in blanks here, but there's something about Repo Man (and later, Sid and Nancy) that loudly proclaims "put me in the unemployment line."

Le Samourai, 1967, dir. Jean-Pierre Melville. Alain Delon does a Travis Bickle a full decade in advance. Some folks aren't into the flick, citing its stark, amoral tone as a turn-off. Me, I dig its air of quiet desperation.

Stranger Than Paradise, 1985, dir. Jim Jarmusch. I haven't seen Lost in Translation yet, but I imagine the effect is similar to this classic piece of deadpan Americana.

Suburbia, 1983, dir. Penelope Spheeris. Another guilty punk-rock pleasure. Spheeris has gone on to produce a whole lotta shit (like The Beverly Hillbillies or Senseless) in the 20 years since Suburbia hit the screens, but Suburbia almost--only almost--makes up for it. This is the movie that all the cool kids were quoting when I was in 9th grade, and a small percentage of us never grew out of the habit.

The 10th Victim, 1965, dir. Elio Petri. "In the future, future events such as these will threaten us in the future." We'll all wear snazzy white-and-black jumpsuits, wear gigantic bug-like sunglasses and get chased around the streets of Rome by a gun-wielding Ursula Andress. If only! Based on a Robert Sheckley story, The 10th Victim features a bottle-blonde Marcello Mastroianni as a futuristic assassin, engaged in a televised "reality show" that pits anonymous contestants against each other and involves all manner of sneaking and shooting. What does it say about me that two of my fave movies star Marcello Mastroianni?

This Island Earth, 1955, dir. Joseph Newman. Forbidden Planet's evil twin. Dome-headed aliens with platinum-blone bleach jobs. The Professor from Giligan's Island atomized at the wheel of his car by a pursuing flying saucer. If you're into pure and honest entertainment, then This Island Earth is your movie. The patina of age only adds to its charm, and the gee-whiz futurism of the flick never ceases to bring a smile to my careworn face. The plot's simple enough: stalwart, square-jawed scientists aid a hyper-intelligent alien in defending his planet against an onslaught by a warring rival world. In a fit of desperation, the ringleader spacenaps the hero scientist and his love-interest scientist and drags them to his homeworld of Metaluna, just in time to watch it get pulverized by meteroites and enemy rocketships. The movie's perhaps best known for the giant, lumbering Metaluna Mutant that appears briefly toward its climax--and I gotta say that it's almost enough to earn the movie classic status in itself. The Mutant is one of the coolest looking monster suits ever devised, all bulging veins and straining claws. The creature is only in the flick for ten minutes (or less), but still etches itself into yer brain. Rex Reason is the epitome of the adventurer-scientist in the leading role.

Vertigo, 1958, dir. Alfred Hitchcock. I've got an emotional attachment with (what is arguably) Hitchcock's best film, and can't be totally objective in my comments about the subject. Vertigo used to be my all-time favorite film, during the days of its late-90s reissue (where I saw it at the Castro Theater in a beautiful, remastered print). Its images of San Francisco in the late 1950s are nearly too bright and beautiful to be real. Kim Novak astounds.

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