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Lawrence Toppman The Charlotte Observer
Cabaret (1972). Liza Minnelli has a definite, well-defined talent, but she's a taste I haven't acquired. She's like the hollandaise sauce of world cinema for me.
The Towering Inferno (1974). The best-known of all disaster movies, a genre I can skip from top to bottom. Not even seeing Fred Astaire, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen and O.J. Simpson in the same film is sufficient inducement.
Zorba the Greek (1964). Love that zither theme, but I'd sooner have ants crawl into my underwear than sit through two hours of Anthony Quinn singing, dancing, and bellowing folksy wisdom in his baklava-laden accent.
The Alamo (1960). There's camp value to John Wayne's deadpan monologues about liberty, and a gorgeous Dimitri Tiomkin score. Do I ever need to sit through the rest of it? Not so far.
Fellini Satyricon (1969) and Fellini's Roma (1972). These seemed like pretentious, faux-decadent drivel when I walked out of them early -- and that was back in college, when I was presumably part of the target audience. Half of each was enough.
Lon Bumgarner Charlotte Theatre Magazine
Reservoir Dogs (1992). When I was in film school, this was a new release, and they showed the dancing/razor/ear scene in a class I was taking. I'm not a fan of a lot of film violence: I believe many times it's used recklessly. I picked up the tape years ago and intended to watch it many times, but every time I did, I just got put off thinking about the violent nature of that scene and put it back in the package. Call me a prude, but so far I'm surviving without seeing it.
The Way We Were (1973). As with Reservoir Dogs, I actually own this film -- even now, the package is staring me in the face. I just have never been in the mood when I had the time and I never have the time when I'm in the mood. I even have made promises to people to watch it with them but haven't done so yet. I'm looking forward to it. . . someday.
Triumph of the Will (1935). Once again, when I was in film school, one of my cinematography teachers placed this picture on a syllabus, stating it would play on a certain date in the class and we were required to see it. Now, I have always believed that Leni Riefenstahl was an unrepentant Nazi. I abhor fascism: Six of my uncles fought against it and I could not see myself admiring or studying the work of a woman who I believe not only supported Nazism through her so-called "art" but probably was the mistress of a man who murdered tens of millions of innocent people. Therefore, for the first time in 10 years of college, I told a professor that I would not participate in a class activity. When he asked why, I had a very intelligent exchange with him about it, and he understood. He still docked me a grade for walking out of class when the film began, but I sleep better.
Sean O'Connell South Charlotte Weekly
Gone With the Wind (1939). I've been trained to dislike Gone with the Wind. One of my cinema studies professors loathed the film, describing it to his eager class as bloated, boring and endless. His "recommendation" inspired me to avoid Wind for years. Also, it's not like you can just pop it in the VCR for a quick screening, since the movie clocks in at a whopping 238 minutes. According to MGM, Wind is "the highest-grossing movie of all time." Frankly, David O. Selznick, I don't give a damn.
Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964). Maybe it's because the Cold War ended so many years ago. Maybe it's because I prefer Peter Sellers in his brilliant Pink Panther films. But mainly, I think I've avoided Dr. Strangelove because Stanley Kubrick and "comedy" go together like peanut butter and paste. Watch A Clockwork Orange, Paths of Glory, The Shining and Full Metal Jacket, and tell me if the man responsible for such masochistic visions has a sense of humor.