Herzog’s ecstatic landscapes—be they the chaotic Amazonian jungles and rivers in Aguirre the Wrath of God and Fitzcarraldo, the scorched earth of the Kuwaiti oil fields in Lessons of Darkness (1992), or the crystalline surface of Antarctica and entropic depths of the Ross Sea in Encounters at the End of the World (2007)—are treated as the greatest of symbols. Their artistic purpose, as filtered through Herzog’s lens, is to mirror the pursuits and fixations of man.
The Descent is a story of surfaces—what we see at a glance, and what lies below.
Miloš Forman’s Amadeus is the story of a rivalry, and it’s easiest to describe that feud as occurring between Salieri, the genteel craftsman, and Mozart, the buffoonish genius. But, more precisely, the feud is between Salieri and God, on whom he pins the blame for his torment.
Carolina Cavalli’s Amanda reveals that perhaps part of growing up is understanding how one’s desires and fixations can act as sources of momentum.
Plenty of movies—most movies, in fact—are about obsession. Susan Seidelman’s Smithereens poses an unsettling question that defies one of the most deeply ingrained conventions of cinema: what if having nothing to obsess over is vastly more painful than unrequited fixation?
The jury is still out on whether art can truly teach us how to live. What François Ozon’s In the House suggests, in any case, is that art might help us confront facets of ourselves that we are otherwise encouraged to keep hidden.
The materials of Michael Mann’s Ferrari are metal and fire and force, willpower and obsession.
Featuring, and about the dissection of, an overwhelming variety of details—expositional, aesthetic, sonic, motivational—David Fincher's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo represents an unexpected, pulpy, intimate fusing of art and artist at grand scale.








