"It's human to lie. Most of the time we can't even be honest with ourselves."

—The skeptical commoner's response to the conflicting testimonies sums up the plight of man in Akira Kurosawa's multilayered film.

A landmark in Asian cinema, 1950's Rashomon thrust director Akira Kurosawa into the spotlight of western audiences and cemented him as a celebrated filmmaker worldwide. Based on two short stories penned by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, In a Grove and Rashomon, the film tells the story (or stories) of a recent rape and murder that took place in the forest. Days after the crime, three bystanders sort through the details and recount the testimonies of the parties involved. Through a series of flashbacks of each witness’s account, the event in question is shown multiple times, each with significant difference in detail. But which is the true story?  

"Get your ass down here fast. Our kingdom has come."

—Jason Staebler's enthusiastic message to his younger brother David characterizes the delusions of grandeur in Bob Rafelson's 1972 film.

The film opens on a tight, dimly lit shot of David Staebler's face (played by Jack Nicholson). With half of his face obscured in darkness, he breathes softly as he pushes his plastic frames up the bridge of his nose.

He begins a story from his youth. "I promised that I would tell you," he says quietly, "why I never eat fish."

David's story is stark, restrained, and mysterious with the shadows from his fingers dancing over his pensive face. As the story unfolds, it grows darker in nature and yet, the narrator remains somewhat cold. Even more compelling at this point is the fact that the audience is still unaware of David's location. A jail cell? A confession booth? Suddenly a light begins flashing in David's face, simultaneously interrupting him and the audience, bringing both viewer and subject into a common reality. 

"I wish that my pupil could have understood me at this moment. I would have told him that his bite filled my soul with joy."

—Dr. Itard reflects upon his discovery of the feral boy's sense of justice in Truffaut's 1970 film.

The Wild Child, Francois Truffaut's fact-based tale of the discovery of a young feral boy at the turn of the 18th century and the subsequent attempts of an impassioned scientist to educate him, is a film both compelling and tender in its simplicity.

The film opens in a serene forest in France. The year is 1798. A lone, bonnet-clad woman collects fruit in the lush and peaceful surroundings when off to the side she hears a commotion emitting from some bushes. Startled, the woman drops her basket to the ground and flees. With the coast clear, a young boy emerges out from the shrubberies. Gangly, filthy, with long matted hair veiling his face, he runs naked and freely through the forest. The next day, hunters, with leashed dogs in tow, parade the forest paths, vehemently searching for the reported feral child. Upon hearing the clamor of the noisy pursuers, the boy quickly scurries, evading capture. However, when the hunters release their voracious hounds, he is forced up a tree to escape their clutches. Perched atop a branch above the barking dogs, the boy has a moment of respite before his ledge snaps and he plummets swiftly to the ground. As one of the dogs ferociously latches onto the boy's arm, he fights back vigorously and a spirited struggle ensues. It doesn't last long though, when with a whimper, the dog falls limp to the ground and the boy once again escapes. The hunters quickly regroup and, after a time, discover the boy again, this time cradled in a small hole in the ground. The hunters, experienced in their present trade, with a smoldering stick begin to smoke him out from his subterranean sanctuary. The ploy works, as after a few coughs, the exhausted fugitive finally surrenders.

 "The problem is I got a fifty-year-old lust and three-year-old dinky."

—Baby Herman's irreverent response to being labeled a ladies' man pushes the envelope of cartoon decency in Disney's groundbreaking film from 1988.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Robert Zemeckis's noir/fantasy/crime/comedy/animation is a complicated one to boil down. In large part, it is an homage to the classic film noir genre with the archetypal down-and-out private eye (scarred by a troubled past) trying to solve a crime and, ultimately, redeem himself. In another sense, it is a fully animated film, with over 50 minutes of complicated animation filling the screen. The two worlds are brought together through breathtaking special effects in this strikingly original and innovative vision. 

“It’s not the fall that kills, but the way you land.”

—Hubert’s philosophical metaphor of falling is emotionally applied to survival in the projects in 1995’s La Haine.

La Haine (translated Hate) prologues with actual news footage of rioting in the suburban projects of Paris. Parked cars are lit aflame and buildings trashed as a female news anchor reports on the riots. After a teen was severely beaten by police while handcuffed in their custody, the projects erupted with a wave of violence and looting. The victim, a minority, was left in critical condition, the reporter notes and suddenly, the TV set shuts off—the audience is in for a radically different telling of the situation. The film then opens on Saïd, an Arabian man in his twenties, facing off before a line of policemen in riot gear. The camera slowly moves down the line of the stoic squadron, each face a white copy of the last. At the end of the vilified line, Saïd stealthily spray paints the back of their police van. "Fuck the police," he writes, and then runs away through the projects. 

La Haine, written and directed by Mathieu Kassovitz, follows three young minorities through the course of a day as they survive life in the projects of suburban Paris. Saïd (played by Saïd Taghmaoui) is the wiliest of the group with a loud mouth and free-spirited swagger. Vinz, a Jew (played by a young Vincent Cassel), is the more angry and volatile personality with something to prove.  Hubert, an African boxer (played by Hubert Kounde), is the wisest and more pensive of the trio with high ambitions. In the wake of the recent police beating and subsequent rioting, the three wander throughout the projects, interacting with various colorful characters, including, much to the trio's chagrin, the ever-present police. The trio's bond, at once volatile and assured, is displayed in subtle detail as they enter their different contexts. Through these, the audience gets to know these well-rounded and intricate characters. Even as the three men relentlessly mock and harass each other (as men tend to do), there lies a foundational understanding and trust between them. They are, in essence, brothers. Worn and matured by their environment, a hardened cynical outlook belies their boyish shenanigans. The film's timeline, broken up into chapters titled by the current time of day, creates an ominous feeling that the film is indeed headed towards something significant. This tension is further heightened when Vinz reveals a handgun he found on the street. His previous vow to kill a cop if the beating victim dies is taken more seriously as the film builds to an explosive and perhaps inevitable climax.