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I missed the point of Knightriders a few years ago. Romero knows that King Billy (Ed Harris) is in danger of becoming a fascist, ruling his group of jousting biker knights with an inflexible hand, as Knightriders is a fantasy of power that’s surrendered sort of civilly. The film’s funnier than I initially understood, reveling in the bonhomie of Romero stock players such as Tom Savini, Ken Foree, Christine Forrest, and Scott Reiniger. Motorcycle jousting is still a flimsy metaphor for unfettered artistic expression, though, and Romero’s indulgent humanism traps a potentially spry drive-in film in the bloated body of a 145-minute wannabe epic. And Harris is uncharacteristically awful in a key role in his career, unvaryingly playing a blowhard who stifles the otherwise joyous atmosphere. That’s the point to an extent, but Billy’s torment isn’t as resonant as Romero thinks it is, as Billy’s idealistic yearning for the “purity” of a glorified renaissance fair is ludicrous.

When it comes to respiratory hazards, elimination/substitution means phasing out the contaminant or substituting a non-hazardous material for the contaminant causing the concern. Examples of engineering controls include the isolation or dilution of the contaminant through the use of a fume hood or ventilation.

Clouzot is aware of the perils of his “cheating” against the strictures of his concept, as these violations are as much his subject as Picasso’s process. At one point, after Picasso’s art has continually materialized on the screen with seemingly little effort, Clouzot says to the artist that audiences will think he created a composition in a matter of minutes, even though they’ve been filming for five hours. This admission casts the film in a startling new light, underscoring our naïveté, as we’ve indeed been seduced—by Clouzot’s sleek techniques, by the general pop-art mythologies of the artist as a mystic conjurer—into believing that Picasso is casually knocking off one canvas after another over the course of a few glasses of wine.

Rob Reiner’s classic rom-com went some way to crossing the language barrier, with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan portraying the titular best friends tasked with self-helping each other through love’s nonsensical maze. With a predominately Harry-heavy script, Reiner decided he needed something for Sally to talk about. What he got was a scene everybody would be talking about, as an escalating spat about fake orgasms and a man’s ability to spot them prompts Meg Ryan to, shall we say, emote.

Blind Spots: Salome (Charles Bryant), Scaramouche (Rex Ingram), Souls for Sale (Rupert Hughes), Little Old New York (Sidney Olcott), The Covered Wagon (James Cruze), The Net (J. Gordon Edwards), The Shock (Lambert Hillyer), Fire on Board (Victor Sjöström), Merry-Go-Round (Rupert Julian), The White Rose (D.W. Griffith), The White Sister (Henry King), The Treasure (G.W. Pabst), Adam’s Rib (Cecil B. DeMille), The Red Inn (Jean Epstein), Woman to Woman (Graham Cutts), Anna Christie (John Griffith Wray), Gunnar Hede’s Saga (Mauritz Stiller)

There seems to be a general, taken-for-granted assumption in criticism—or film culture more broadly—that the most unassuming films manage to index complex political and social truths if only by virtue of their unpretentiousness and eagerness to entertain. So it seems fair enough to assume that such cheery popcorn flicks could prove equally insidious in their inconspicuousness. Argo feels like such a film: well-acted, competently directed, and sufficiently entertaining, yet all the more troubling as a result of its breezy pleasures. The problems emerge early, with the history of Iran in the 20th century and especially the events leading to the hostage crisis of 1979 laid out in detailed storyboards. In doing so, Argo effectively—and, perhaps, self-consciously—passes the buck of fealty to the operations of cinema. But regardless of whether or not Ben Affleck’s tone-setting meta-gesture—which winkingly acknowledges that this is the film version of a “declassified true story” (as the film was obnoxiously marketed)—is intentional, it’s undoubtedly irresponsible, even cowardly—a cheap escape hatch for Argo and Affleck to tuck-roll through any time questions of the film’s veracity come to bear. The film is a wet dream of buccaneering American foreign-policy intervention, attempting to absolve its responsibilities for accuracy (or even decency) in its slight, simple story of Affleck’s all-American hero whose pluck and gallantry would be for naught were he not also a repentant dad, eager to return home to his half-estranged son. John Semley

If the cartoonists at Hanna-Barbera wanted to quickly convey the extent of a cartoon character’s world travels, they might cut from a shot of, say, Huckleberry Hound walking before the Eiffel Tower to a shot of the pooch prancing before Big Ben. In A Beautiful Mind, a film that doesn’t lack for the laziest of short cuts, a young John Nash (Russell Crowe) sits at his desk while special effects morph the exterior of a Princeton dormitory to accentuate the changing seasons: leaves drop, snow gathers and melt, birds chirp. Throughout the film, such hacky artistry is in service not for bringing us closer to the reality of the mathematician’s life, but for implicating us in a circus act. Imagine, for a second, the fascinating possibilities of having simply shown Nash talking to dead air for the duration of the film. Doesn’t quite sound like a potential Oscar winner, and so Ron Howard and screenwriter Akiva Goldsman decided to articulate schizophrenia’s grip on the mind with a bunch of swirling digital numbers and cutesy imaginary encounters. The film is, through and through, quintessentially cornball. If it’s impossible in retrospect to believe that A Beautiful Mind’s first half is supposed to depict the world as hallucinated by a master mathematician, that’s because the film’s comprehension of mental duress is fundamentally jejune, the stuff of shock tactics as imagined by connoisseurs of Dead Poet’s Society, or the most earnest believers in a cliché I always wished had made it into Roger Ebert’s Bigger Little Movie Glossary: Crying While Sliding One’s Back Against a Door. Ed Gonzalez

With 1968’s Night of the Living Dead, Romero bounded out of the gate with a naïf masterpiece, one of those films that benefits from the inexperience of its creators. In this unnerving classic, Romero’s themes are embedded in his adventurous aesthetic, which allows for free association that transcends meaning, achieving surrealism while anticipating the found-footage trend in the process. In subsequent productions, Romero appeared to be eager to live up to the high marker that Night of the Living Dead set, calcifying his formalism so as to be sure that his socialist observations landed. These tendencies are most obvious in the 1970s films that immediately follow Night of the Living Dead and the 1980s films that proceed 1978’s Dawn of the Dead. Day of the Dead, from 1985, revels in the fear of a man who suspects that his monsters may no longer be profound enough for a new age of technologized über-capitalist insensitivity, and these anxieties would also define Romero’s second zombie trilogy, starting with 2005’s Land of the Dead.

For generations, Gone with the Wind wasn’t merely the grandest movie from Hollywood’s Golden Age. It represented the entire concept of “the movies” incarnate. But even that achievement wouldn’t have sustained its prominence in pop culture for this long alone. (After all, how many proletariat still talk about The Big Parade?) David O. Selznick’s recreation of the antebellum South and its demise in the Civil War serves primarily as the epic backdrop for author Margaret Mitchell’s indomitable belle Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh), and just as Scarlett manages to get under everyone’s skin throughout the film’s four-hour running time, so too has the film itself managed to pick away at the scabs of America’s own dark history. Never before nor since has there been a problematic text of this magnitude. Gone with the Wind is a self-sustaining force for critical exploration, a virulently racist monument, an ahead-of-its-time feminist triumph, and a hell of a great story. Eric Henderson

1. A Man Escaped (Robert Bresson) 2. Bigger Than Life (Nicholas Ray) 3. The Searchers (John Ford) 4. The Wrong Man (Alfred Hitchcock) 5. Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Don Siegel) 6. While the City Sleeps (Fritz Lang) 7. Written on the Wind (Douglas Sirk) 8. The Burmese Harp (Kon Ichikawa) 9. La Pointe Courte (Agnès Varda) 10. Autumn Leaves (Robert Aldrich)

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