The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

I love silent movies: The boiling down of storytelling to mere visuals that must make one *think* sound: Conversation, screams, the crash of a chandelier. Brilliance under pressure. “The Phantom of the Opera” -– from the 1908 book and featuring Lon Chaney in the title role –- is near perfect. Either born with grisly disfigurements or badly burned after birth, the Phantom is a once-famous composer now forgotten, living below the Paris Opera House obsessing over bit signer Christine (Mary Philbin). He worships her. He sneaks into her room. He sends a chandelier crashing on the audience after the house runners refuse to punt their star for his goddess. This Phantom is no romantic, but a sick perv with a hideous face -– dig that makeup, a flayed skull with no lips -– hidden behind a mask that looks like that of a kindly friar. The best scenes have the Phantom crashing a costume ball dressed in a red, promising death to all, then standing on a roof like a demon, lurking, planning. The black/white cinematography goes green/red with inserts of blue and the unnerving color shock is like a blood shot from hell. A century old, this still terrorizes. A

Three Days to Kill (2014)

Kevin Costner goes a long way in selling “Three Days to Kill,” a Luc Besson-produced action/“comedy” about a dying CIA assassin named Ethan who goes home to Paris to see his estranged family – Connie Nielsen as wife, and Hailee Steinfeld as teen daughter – before he kicks. As it happens, the CIA has one last job for Ethan: Kill two bad guys known as The Albino and The Wolf, who are neither an albino nor a wolf. Golden carrot: Way-too young CIA handler Vivi (Amber Heard) has a magic cure that can keep our man alive. Costner acts aces, truly. But “Kill” made my skin crawl. I’ll say it: Besson shines a creep perv voyeur for teen girls here and with “Taken” and his so-long-ago “Leon.” He fixates on girls who cannot walk outside without falling victim to rape, not without “daddy” to save them. Steinfeld’s teen gets the treatment here. Besson’s fantasy? The take on grad-school-age Vivi as some 1980s Euro-fantasy dominatrix smells of a gross dream of middle-aged men with script approval. Nielsen’s wife has nothing to do but forgive her man, repeatedly. Blame director McG? No. This hangs on Besson. Dickless. D+

The Cars That Ate Paris (1974)

There’s something primal about ’70s “Ozploitation.” Civilization gone to ruin. The gist quandary: “We don’t belong here.” Yes, “Mad Max” is king. But it might not have existed without first “The Cars That Ate Paris.” Australia. Not France. Peter Weir, in his first feature, opens on a hokey couple out for a drive –- shot TV commercial style –- before a blown tire out sends the pair down a hill to their death. Roll opening credits. We settle on two scraggily brothers in the same pickle: A sudden crash leaves only one alive. Or so Weir says. I saw no body. “Cars” evades answers. It’s daft, and throws curve balls with no explanation. Paris – patchwork ugly -- thrives on car parts, and the crash survivors end up as citizens, or mute guinea pigs. It’s sick stuff. Drills to heads. Rice Krispie boxes for faces. A hero so unassuming he can’t comb his hair. The town’s at war with its youth -– many of them likely children of dead motorists –- and a final battle with weaponized autos with a spiked Bug, I swear lays the road for “Max.” A nation of rejects. The Aboriginal race crushed. Madness is norm. This film shocks. A

Ronin (1998)

“Manchurian Candidate” -– absolute favorite film -- director John Frankenheimer helms the heist flick “Ronin,” but this is David Mamet’s ride, from frame one. Every double fake-out betrayal twist built in this ’70s European cinema homage bears Mamet’s stamp of black ink and blood red humor, more so than his “Untouchables.” A behind-the-scenes squabble left Mamet out of the credits. Whatever. The fury-hot tough-guy talk? Razors and laughs that sting like bullets? Mamet. Perfectly set in France with Robert De Niro as leader of a band of crooks hired by an Irish dame (Natascha McElhone) to steal a metal briefcase (contents: unimportant) from guys in suits driving fancy cars, “Ronin” is all about -– as every Mamet work –- the smartest guy holding the gun. The jagged post-robbery fuck-up has cars punching high speeds through Paris, “Bullitt” carnage thrilling. De Niro is on fire, kicking man balls raw. I miss this actor, scary and tense. The pull-a-card plot thrives on coincidences and WTF sights (ice skating???) no thriller can bear, but Frankenheimer pushes onward cold and cruel, smashing cars and trucks, pushing a Raging Bull to one of his last, great roles. An imperfect must watch. B+

The Da Vinci Code (2006)

Here’s my deal with “The Da Vinci Code,” the box-office smash based on the Dan Brown best-seller. Legions of Christians gnawed their fists off because book and film dared shove an Easter Egg history shocker that Jesus Christ was married to Mary Magdalene inside a ridiculous 10-cent thriller about a professor of (snooze) symbology. But why? Both open thusly: At the Louvre, an albino monk  assassin (!) point-blank shoots an old man in the stomach, but grandpa rises and walks about, no blood, moving artwork and leaving arcane blue-light clues for the professor hero, and THEN strips naked, and sprawls out Da Vinci Vitruvian Man style, and dies without moving a twitch. If you can get past any of that to get pissy over Jesus’ sex life, than you need prayer. And brains. And I just touched on the plot holes. Some say “Code” attacks faith. Bull. It attacks thought. The Bible, with all its wonder, is more logical. Ron Howard directs on autopilot, Tom Hanks is adequate as the hero, and Audrey Tautou (“Amelie”) tries out English as the heroine. The sole highlight: Hans Zimmer’s fantastic score. It works miracles. D+

Amour (2012)

Michael Haneke’s “Amour” is the painfully grim picture of Parisian octogenarians struck helpless as the wife suffers a series of strokes and tumbles into the purgatory of dementia, lost under a thick sheet of ice. 

Anne (Emmanuelle Riva), the wife, was a piano teacher. In the first scenes, her eyes and spirit vibrate with light as she and her husband (Jean-Louis Trintignant) attend the concert of her former pupil. It’s at breakfast she has her first spell. Her eyes go vacant. I saw that vacancy in the eyes of my grandmothers. This film crushed me. Georges, the husband, cares for Anne every moment, feedings and diapers. Strain breaks him. Guilt shames him. He stretches his love over the widening chasm between himself and her. 

Haneke has made a film about love and honor that defies, but cannot overcome an ultimate horror -- joyful love turned to torture as one half of a beautiful whole withers. No hope. Only an absence of help, cure, or god to end the misery. Our leads are amazing, creating a fully realized couple surrounded by an apartment brimming of a shared life. Riva was robbed a Best Actress Oscar. An exceptional work. A

Midnight in Paris (2011)

“Midnight in Paris” is a delight. A reminder that Woody Allen is one of the best movie writers/directors out there no matter how creepy he is off camera. This is a comedy about a struggling American novelist (Owen Wilson) who becomes lost – figuratively and literally – in Paris’ nighttime streets, the lights and spirits of deceased artists, musicians and writers lulling him in utopia. Then he gets lost – in time – when a 1920s taxi, every night at midnight, whisks him away to the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, Cole Porter and Ernest Hemingway, what Owen’s Gil considers the greatest era for artisans in history.

Back in 2010, Gil is the fiancé of a wealthy woman (Rachel McAdams) who as with her Tea Party parents rejects anything not American and has no appreciation of art. Only status. She openly pines for a former professor, a know-it-all played wonderfully by Michael Sheen, who starts off every sentence with, “If I’m not mistaken,” when he is indeed. So, yes, Allen uses the crutch of the wicked girlfriend to allow his male hero the right to fall in love with the more pure Adriana (Marion Cotillard), the mistress of Picasso. Small error in a grand film.

This just isn’t a new classic Allen comedy, it’s a tweak at nostalgia fever by both Tea Party Americans who long for the founding days of America, and daydreaming liberals who think art was somehow more pure 100 years ago. Both are wrong. “Midnight” has more wit than any film I’ve seen all year. The best joke has Hemingway, Picasso, Fitzgerald, Dali (Adrian Brody!) and dozens of others treated as biopic shadows. Picasso belligerent, Dali talking nonsense and Hemingway uttering every word like a bull fighter with a rifle slung over his shoulder. It is all a wicked satire ala homage. The great artists (and he never says it, but Founding Fathers) we uphold as gods are as false as the notion that life was happier in 178whatever. Fact: You were likely to die of small pox than live out a life of glorious freedom, no matter what cracked teapot Michelle Bachman says.

The best scene has Gil talking to Dali and his fellow surrealists, fretting over his time travel predicament, confused by the mess of his life, and they nod their heads, knowingly and approvingly. Flustered, Gill spits out, they’re surrealists, they have no concept of normal. Fantastic screenplay. Wilson has never been more likable, and “Inception” star Cotillard knocks every other female onscreen out of the park. A

From Paris with Love (2010)

At one point in “From Paris with Love,” John Travolta’s mad-dog CIA super assassin orders food from McDonalds, and he drops the three words that returned the actor to fame 16 long years ago. “Royale with cheese!” But this isn’t Tarantino. It’s Luc Besson, still floundering after a mid-1990s string of hip hits, on screenplay, and Pierre Morel in the director’s chair. These guys made “Taken,” with Liam Neeson as a mad-dog CIA hit man out for blood. Travolta’s Charlie Wax also is out for blood, but I can’t recall why. Drug runners. Assassins. Bad Chinese food. An uptight U.S. Embassy assistant (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) who yearns to be a famous CIA hit man. Whatever. As with “Taken,” we have a ridiculously high body count; proud and bloody anti-woman plot points; and a stink eye for anyone not, umm, European. A perfect entertainment for right-wing fanatics. “Pulp Fiction”? Non, monsieur. C-