The Best Hollywood Films of the 1960s

On the occasion of the criminally tardy Blu-ray release of 7 Women, I herewith offer my list of the ten greatest Hollywood films of the 1960s:

1. 7 Women (John Ford, 1966)
2. The Ladies Man (Jerry Lewis, 1961)
3. Petulia (Richard Lester, 1968)
4. Red Line 7000 (Howard Hawks, 1965)
5. Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1960)
6. Point Blank (John Boorman, 1967)
7. The Boston Strangler (Richard Fleischer, 1968)
8. Bye Bye Birdie (George Sidney, 1963)
9. Midnight Cowboy (John Schlesinger, 1969)
10. The Manchurian Candidate (John Frankenheimer, 1962)

I arrived at this top ten by asking a question on Facebook a few years ago:

"Hey fellow film dorks! Can you name an American feature-length narrative film from the 1960s better than any of these listed below? Caveats: 1. I want it as mainstream/Hollywood as possible. So no sexploitation, no avant-garde, no Russ Meyer, no indies, etc. 2. No other films by directors already listed. I know Hatari! and Marnie are great. 3. I’ll puke (and you’ll clean it up!) if you mention Best Picture Oscar winners or anything by Kubrick. 4. I hate Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and no to The Graduate.

Bonnie and Clyde (Penn)
Bye Bye Birdie (Sidney)
The Hustler (Rossen)
In Harm’s Way (Preminger)
The Ladies Man (Jerry Lewis)
The Legend of Lylah Clare (Aldrich)
The Manchurian Candidate (Frankenheimer)
Petulia (Lester)
Point Blank (Boorman)
Psycho (Hitchcock)
Red Line 7000 (Hawks)
Rosemary's Baby (Polanski)
7 Women (Ford)
Shock Corridor (Fuller)
Too Late Blues (Cassavetes)
Two Weeks in Another Town (Minnelli)"

The purpose was threefold: 1. to focus my viewing schedule 2. to discover if there were indeed any films greater than those I listed and 3. to gain the illusion that I was "done" with the Hollywood of the 1960s, a decade which seems to me (preposterously, I admit) manageable. Plenty of friends offered suggestions, all of which are below and most of which I managed to watch. Years later, I discovered only two titles to rank with the powerhouses listed above - The Boston Strangler and Midnight Cowboy, the latter of which I apparently saw far too young since it hit me much harder when I watched it again in 2022.

Given the arbitrary nature of years, decades, and even nations, it was silly for me to be a stickler for rules. But again, I longed for focus. So no Boom! (Joseph Losey, 1968) or Paradise Alley (Hugo Haas, released in 1962, but shot in 1958). The 1960s were notorious for runaway productions, a phenomenon skewered by Minnelli's Two Weeks in Another Town which itself got skewered by the very system it critiqued. So is it a Hollywood film or a meta Hollywood film or more Hollywood than any film listed on this page for how it perfectly traces the death of classical cinema? Is Once Upon a Time in the West (Sergio Leone, 1968) a Hollywood film or even American one? I wouldn't prevent anyone from top tenning it but I left it off my list. I would definitely find a spot for Bunny Lake is Missing (Otto Preminger, 1965) but in the end, I slotted it as a British film. 

To be clear, my top ten list would not comprise my list for the decade overall, not even close. For one, the avant-garde was really starting to whip up a storm in the 1960s; Andy Warhol's Drunk and Jack Chambers' The Hart of London are better films than anything above. For another, there's the rest of the world to manage which became downright torrential by 1960. And finally, there are beloved indies like Cassavetes' Faces, Juleen Compton's The Plastic Dome of Norma Jean, and Andy Milligan's Seeds. Nevertheless, the ten Hollywood baubles I come here to praise are sources of endless renewable energy and curiosity.


All Fall Down
BEYOND THE TIME BARRIER
Billie!
Blast of Silence
Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice
The Boston Strangler
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Cape Fear
CAPRICE
CHARADE
THE CHASE
The Collector
COMANCHE STATION
Cool Hand Luke
DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES
The Disorderly Orderly
Don’t Make Waves
DOWNHILL RACER
Elmer Gantry
Experiment in Terror
Gunn
The Haunting
HELL IS FOR HEROES
Hud
In Cold Blood
Inside Daisy Clover
The Killers
Kiss Me Stupid
Kitten with a Whip
Lonely Are the Brave
LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT
MADIGAN
The Magnificent Seven
Major Dundee
MARY POPPINS
The Masque of the Red Death
MEDIUM COOL
Mickey One
THE MISFITS
Mutiny on the Bounty
MY FAIR LADY
North to Alaska
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST
ONE-EYED JACKS
The Party
THE PAWNBROKER
PLANET OF THE APES
The President's Analyst
PRETTY POISON
THE PROFESSIONALS
RACHEL, RACHEL
THE RAIN PEOPLE
Reflections in a Golden Eye
RIDE THE HIGH COUNTRY
ROME ADVENTURE
The Savage Innocents
Something Wild
THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD
THE SHOOTING
Strangers in the City
Support Your Local Sheriff
SUSAN SLADE
THE SWIMMER
Targets
TELL THEM WILLIE BOY IS HERE
That Cold Day in the Park
They Shoot Horses Don't They?
Two For the Road
WAIT UNTIL DARK
The Wild Bunch
Wild River
The World of Henry Orient
YOUNGBLOOD HAWKE

Nothing but Trouble (Dan Aykroyd, 1991)

The understandable vitriol this film received upon release is a classic case of genre misdirection. A putative comedy starring comedic talents and written/directed by a comedian, Nothing but Trouble packs its biggest wallop as a horror film. In fact, it's one of the most genuinely scary entries in the old dark house subgenre. Chevy Chase and Demi Moore play Manhattan yuppies who, while on a road trip with Brazilian billionaires Taylor Negron and Bertila Damas, wind up in a cavernous estate presided over by a 106-year-old judge (Dan Aykroyd, in pustule-ridden makeup) who puts the unsuspecting principals through a series of nightmarish Rube-Goldberg-like contraptions including a lethal rollercoaster called The Bonestripper. John Candy does double duty as the local sheriff and the judge's mute granddaughter [sic]. Aykroyd does quadruple duty as one of a pair of deformed grandsons who look like charred Teletubbies. Digital Undeground provide a musical interlude and escape the judge's wrath with a rendition of "Same Song" (look for Tupac in his first film appearance). I don't recall laughing even once. But I found it a consistently inventive ride more than a little reminiscent of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Comedy fans, avoid this like The Bonsetripper. But horror fans should take a bite.

Grade: A-minus

The cure for The Cure? Staring at the Sea, of course!

I have now heard every Cure album ever and, almost to a song, I couldn't find a single album track that I'd place on a desert island playlist. For a non-goth like me who runs on pop/punk concision and disco sybaritism, Staring at the Sea: The Singles (the CD version of Standing on a Beach), plus a few items detailed below, is all I'll ever need. (If you're already seething, then hie thee to Anthony Miccio's blog who has more tender ears for the band. Do note, though, that he's ignored live albums so I do too. I also forewent remixes but downed all five hours of Join the Dots: B-Sides & Rarities 1978–2001 (The Fiction Years) so slack could be cut.) 

On one level, this is a me problem. I encountered "All Cats are Grey" (from Faith) in Bob Stanley's Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern and found it so seductive that I figured it was my problem that I'd never excavated something equally seductive from their non-hit oeuvre, hence this project. If I just listened hard enough, then I'd be able to fall for almost anything unknown to me, right? But on another level, this is a them problem combined with a format problem. The Cure's discography is testament to the album as an inefficient music delivery system. Brutal to acknowledge but many acts don't have 30-40 minutes of compelling music in their oeuvres much less per long player. And when CDs granted artists the possibility of 79 minutes of self-expression, the tax on our attention grows to unconscionable proportions. For the Cure, the advent of the CD couldn't come soon enough; 12 inches of vinyl were too tight a corral for Robert Smith & Co's gothic caterwaul so that when CDs became the norm, the boys were quick to abandon quality controls. Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me (1987) and Disintegration (1989) clock in at 74:35 and 71:45 respectively, upping the ante for those of us who'd already heard them as too slow to get to the point. How was I going to find another "All Cats are Grey" without a Bob Stanley shaving off all the top-heavy filler?

I didn't have the financial or technological wherewithal to roam through the haunted catacombs of their discography as a teenager in the mid-1980s, making it easier to consider myself a huge Cure fan. The only album I owned was 1983's Japanese Whispers which 13-year-old me had no clue was a compilation. My high-school friend Lisa's VHS of Staring at the Sea: The Images passed through so many hands, mine included, that I doubt the poor gal had possession of it for two full years. I watched all 17 videos reverently, allowing those to stand in for the six albums I couldn't afford/hear. But by the time of college in the late 1980s, I was learning about rockism and listening to the canon which left little time for the Cure. I snagged a vinyl copy of Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me for cheap likely because no one wanted two 12"s of bloat in 1988. I didn't hear Disintegration (or anything else I'd missed) until years later; I was too busy with Janet Jackson. 

I don't want to go through each album with too fine a comb, preferring to keep thing as positive as possible. My desert island playlist would augment the ace Boys Don't Cry compilation with the "I'm a Cult Hero"/"I Dig You" 7" from Cult Hero, a Cure side project. "I Dig You" just might be the quintessential post-punk song - post because it dances so well, punk because they let a postman sing it (both songs are appended to the 2005 CD Deluxe Edition bonus disc of Seventeen Seconds). Some might deem Japanese Whispers a ripoff at a merciful 28:27 (although perhaps it was budget-priced, Cure scholars?). But it allowed me to retain affection for a song like "The Dream" which would've gotten lost on an album of even ten more minutes in length. And the one track where I would've welcomed seven-plus minutes, the disco-at-last "The Walk," comes in at an infuriating 3:30. I couldn't even find a contemporary 12" mix of the thing (although do check out the nifty 2006 Infusion mix). I'd like to spend more time with Pornography which was faster and noisier than I remembered. There’s an extreme, uncompromising ethos to its glumness that makes me want to listen harder. I'm weirdly okay with the run from "Last Dance" to "Prayers for Rain" on Disintegration but cannot stand ILM fave "Plainsong." I was nervous by how much I perked up while listening to The Cure (2004), lending the impression that my tastes are truly screwball. But Miccio has kind words for it and Smith is in remarkable voice throughout (check out the American Idol-ready yelps of "Lost").

So Staring at the Sea plus the Cult Hero single plus a 7-minute "The Walk" plus stray tracks taking up a short second disc. Is that so bad? (It is?)

Three Imaginary Boys (1979): B
Boys Don’t Cry (1980): A-minus
Seventeen Seconds (1980): B-minus
Faith (1981): B-minus
Pornography (1982): B
Japanese Whispers (1983): A-minus
The Top (1984): B-minus
The Head On The Door (1985): B
Staring at the Sea: The Singles (1986): A
Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (1987): B-minus 
Disintegration (1989): B-minus
Wish (1992): C+
Wild Mood Swings (1996): C
Bloodflowers (2000): C-minus
Join The Dots: B-Sides & Rarities 1978-2001 (The Fiction Years) (2004): B-minus
The Cure (2004): B
4:13 Dream (2008): C 
Songs of a Lost World (2024): C+

David Murray Octet, Blue Note, March 17, 8pm show

I have heard that in order to truly understand jazz, one must not only know music theory well but also be a musician oneself. Satisfying neither of these categories, I've long felt exiled to the fringe of jazz fandom and sheepish about professing love for any of my favorites, from Jelly Roll Morton to Ornette Coleman to Mantana Roberts. It was thus with much trepidation that I agreed to see the David Murray Octet last Monday at The Blue Note at the invitation of the great Brad Luen (subscribe to his brainy, wide-ranging Substack, Semipop Life). The last jazz show I recall seeing was Sun Ra at Milwaukee’s Shank Hall in the early 1990s. And while I dug that show (more for the band than for Ra who punkily never acknowledged us and hit a few pings on his synthesizer), I was still nervous about dress (could I wear shorts?), demeanor (is talking okay? hooting? tapping my foot?), or just generally being caught out as not belonging there. Turns out there’s a full menu so you can stuff your piehole with burgers and fries before the show. And shorts were fine; I didn’t look any more haggard than the tourists who showed up in St. Patrick's Day garb. Seating is pretty cramped and, since it's first come, first served, I quickly grasped why there was such a long line two full hours before the show. As it was, we barely got a table for ourselves arriving with about 40 minutes to spare. But here's the rub - with burger in belly along with several Negronis and my chair turned toward the stage for a comfortable vantage point (even a bit of room to stretch my legs), I had a fantastic time!

I assume there are adepts who adjudge Murray the greatest working saxophonist on the planet, especially since Sonny Rollins' retirement in 2014. At 70, he's been at it since the 1970s and he's amassed an impressive array of accolades including a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1989. I've heard several of his myriad albums including Revue, the 1982 album he recorded with the World Saxophone Quartet, which a 1990 Village Voice poll deemed the best jazz album of the 1980s. These were intermittently arresting. But I often hear jazz as wearying iterations of genius within a limited sonic and/or conceptual palette such that a great Billboard Top 40 single seems more difficult to achieve (and hence more precious) than a great John Coltrane album. In short, Murray will always be a side dish to my pop/rock buffet. So I was at the Blue Note not to honor genius but to observe how this music came to life, embodying tensions between composition and improvisation, group work and solo flights. 

The most fascinating aspect of the show was how openly the octet managed soloist duties. Of course, Murray led the charge here with nods and verbal signals to various band members to take their turn. But sometimes one member would hand signal to another for some sort of predetermined direction. No doubt these allotments of freedom within strictures are de rigueur for most jazz shows. For me, though, it helped drain some of the intimidating mastery from the event.

As a rhythm guy, the musicians who impressed me most were the bassist and drummer and, later, the pianist. (There were nine musicians on stage including David Murray. I couldn't find the names of the bassist and drummer and I don't want to assume the roster listed on the Blue Note website is correct since it lists only eight musicians. But I assume the pianist was Lafayette Gilchrist. The others listed were: Russell Carter, Luke Stewart, Corey Wallace, Mingus Murray, Shareef Clayton, and Immanuel Wilkins.) I paid close attention to their supporting roles while the others were soloing. And even when I lost the thread, I intuitively appreciated their generosity in remaining in the background while the soloists came forward (this might be why the bassist and drummer's own solo turns felt a bit abstract to me). Gilchrist contributed to the bedrock on later numbers and helped me understand why I much prefer jazz pianists to saxophonists - no matter how showy they get, they always seem to be selflessly rhythm-a-ning rather than accessing the deepest recesses of their souls. 

The only moment that thrilled me (goosebumps popping, blood rushing, silly grin forming) came at the climax of the last number with the entire ensemble coming together for a shrill wall of confrontational gush. But watching the attempts at keeping the music going was enough to captivate me for the entirety of the two-hour show. It was also enough for me to rue the fact that I haven't taken advantage of the copious jazz performances NYC offers daily. Wonder who's playing at the Village Vanguard this weekend. 

North to Alaska (Henry Hathaway, 1960)

I was convinced this was a near-masterpiece when I first saw it about twenty or so years ago. Today it reads as little more than a solid western, with John Wayne and Stewart Granger pawing at Capucine for 122 minutes and Ernie Kovacs waiting for a paycheck. But its value to me has increased in that it provides more ballast against an argument of Pauline Kael's, from her infamous 1963 essay "Circles and Squares," that has always bugged me: "Movie-going kids are, I think, much more reliable guides to this kind of movie than the auteur critics: every kid I've talked to knows that Henry Hathaway's North to Alaska was a surprisingly funny, entertaining movie and Hatari! (classified as a "masterpiece" by half the Cahiers Conseil des Dix, Peter Bogdanovich, and others) was a terrible bore" (15). It doesn't matter if she actually talked to kids about these films; she chose to center them as the prime audience for North to Alaska because the film does as well. It courts pre-teen boys with cartoon sound effects during fight scenes and an older-brother surrogate in Fabian who plays a horndog teenager competing with Wayne and Granger for Capucine. But it's the verb "knows" that annoys suggesting it is somehow preordained that North to Alaska is superior to Hatari! in entertainment value or art or even auteurist credentials. And with no further evidence about either film's value provided, the statement just sits there in all its crankiness. It feeds into Kael's own theory about entertainment, developed more diffusely throughout her writing but no less a theory than auteurism, as an unpretentious, often gritty/violent, male-oriented aesthetic register. That entertainment can take many other forms doesn't concern her, at least not in this essay. In short, I still prefer Hatari!; its discursive drift and lax attitude towards the three-act structure provide plenty of entertainment for me and perhaps for the millions of moviegoers who made it the #7 highest-grossing film of 1962 in America. 

Grade: B+

2024 Best Picture Oscar Nonimees Ranked

Nickel Boys (RaMell Ross) - Ross applies the unlocked, myriad-faceted ways of seeing from his 2018 documentary Hale County This Morning, This Evening to this adaptation of Colson Whitehead's 2019 novel and the worst I can say for it is that his phantasmagoric technique blunts the twist ending of the novel. But even that minor drawback has compensations for Ross demonstrates the capacious properties of Black sound and vision to vanquish the forces that attempt Black genocide. Grade: A

The Substance (Coralie Fargeat) - Reviewed here. Grade: A-minus

Anora (Sean Baker) Whizzes by at roller-coaster speed until the devastating ending in which two atomized laborers try to find a connection and together wonder if they’ll be exploited for an eternity. Also, a sequel to The Last Showgirl avant la lettre. Grade: A-minus

I'm Still Here (Walter Salles) A brutal but somehow relatively quiet account of Eunice Paiva’s quest for justice concerning the 1971 murder of her politician husband Rubens Beyrodt Paiva at the hands of Brazil’s military dictatorship. The multiple endings that push the story into several futures started to irk me until I realized what Salles was doing - bearing witness to the rich and accomplished lives Eunice and her family enjoyed despite rage-inducing tragedy. Grade: A-minus

A Complete Unknown (James Mangold) Now that Boomers got their anonymously directed Wiki-film on Bob Dylan’s betrayal of folkie purity, based on Elijah Wald’s brisk, fun Dylan Goes Electric!: Newport, Seeger, Dylan, and the Night That Split the Sixties, we need one about his betrayal of Boomer purity, one that, in the words of ILX user President Keyes, “covers the important parts of Dylan’s life: Kurtis Blow collab, We Are the World, Soy Bomb, lingerie commercials, Nobel prize, joining Twitter” to which Alfred Soto adds "...talking to Arthur Baker about producing Empire Burlesque" to which I'll add Self Portrait, Renaldo and Clara, lyrics that acknowledge the existence of Alicia Keys, posting a Machine Gun Kelly video on his Instagram, etc. Grade: B+

The Brutalist (Brady Corbet) A pungent take on the Jewish immigrant experience in America post-WWII. But the controversial epilogue is not the problem; it’s the random point at which the story breaks immediately before. Why end it with Erzsébet making Harrison’s abuse of László public? What happened to Harrison in the wake of this news? And why not dig deeper into what made László an architectural genius, meditating on process more or what made him stand out against other architects? In short, why did it have to be 215 minutes if such huge, compelling chunks of László’s life would be excised, leaving the feeling that the film is both too short and too long? Grade: B+

Wicked (Jon Chu) Too damn long. But I loved all the discourse around it - the memes, the straight boys performing friendship via its songs on TikTok, the girls who came dressed in full costume on opening day, the singalongs. This film was popular. Grade: B+

Emilia Pérez (Jacques Audiard) Reviewed here.  Grade: B+

Conclave (Edward Berger) Typically mid Oscar fodder, more TV Movie of the Week than Cinemah. Docked a notch so I’m not tempted to watch it again. Grade: B

Dune: Part Two (Denis Villeneuve) Actually sustains interest across its length. But that’s still 166 damn minutes of humorless proper nouns to stomach. Are camp and world building at odds forever? Docked a notch so I’m not tempted to watch it again. Grade: B

 

Tears for Fears: Songs from the Big Chair (Mercury, 1985)

Ten aperçus:

1. Gawd, this album is boring!

2. And I claim this with "Pale Shelter" as my 94th fave single of the 1980s. 

3. Average song length = 5:19. That merits a "tsk-tsk" from a popist perspective.

4. Best song = "Mothers Talk" cuz it's the most disco

5. Worst Song = definitely the ironically titled "Listen," although "I Believe" runs a close second in unlistenability. They're both water-logged, excrescent ballads. Blech!!!! And that's over a quarter of the album right there!

6. If "Shout" were a package, it would cost hundreds of dollars to send. And that's just the single version. The album version would have to spend a week in a shipping container and get held up at customs for another week. 

7. They had big mouths...physically big mouths, especially in the "Shout" video. 

8. The Seeds of Love is even worse. Who the hell needed ever more Pepperisms in 1989? I wisely stopped listening to them after that and given such Rick Wakeman-like titles as Raoul and the Kings of Spain and Saturnine Martial & Lunatic, it was not a moment too soon.

9. They were the INXS of the 1980s.

10. Oh wait a minute - we already had an INXS in the 1980s. Ok the Procol Harum of the 1980s. 

Grade: C+