Happy new year! Hope you spent a merry Kwanzaa eggnogging yourself into oblivion. 2010 marks Screen Machine’s second year in operation and what better way for a website to celebrate such an occasion than with a list! Here are the Top 20 Films of 2009 as chosen by the Screen Machine staff. Chosen from films that were released in Melbourne cinemas in 2009 or were given a festival screening here, we’ve tried to create a list that is more intriguing than authoritative. Who wants just another list shuffling around the usual suspects in a slightly different order? Well, unavoidably there’s a bit of that here, but hopefully there are films here you love already, some that you hate and a few that you haven’t seen but will want to seek out. This is a list to ignite discussion rather than to canonise. Enjoy! – The Screen Machine Staff

20. Samson and Delilah – dir. Warwick Thornton

[Screen Machine's original review]

The opening of Warwick Thornton’s debut feature film is redolent with atmospheric beauty. The remarkable slo-mo sequence of a boy waking up and sniffing petrol is a dreamy segue into the repetitive and destructive world of the two teenage protagonists. This film presents a vivid insight for those of us who are privy to the usual negative media stereotypes of isolated desert communities. Rarely aided by dialogue, Samson and Delilah – who appear to be chosen for one another – go from worse to ruinous. But the film is alive with incredible attention to the visual and aural details that make their world real and almost bearable; it eventually becomes clear that these two will have to hold on to the good stuff to make it through. – Maggie Scott

19. Antichrist – dir. Lars Von Trier

[Screen Machine's original review]

Antichrist is a film which shows off Lars Von Trier’s mastery as an aesthete, and not only because it is beautiful; also because it is important to value the film’s beauty where there is so much that makes you want to look away. The infamous clitorectomy scene is not even shocking when it comes, because an entire catalogue of destructive vulgarities assault our senses first. Antichrist is visually stunning and sonically vibrant, and so it has power to affect our psychology as much as test our artistic sensibilities. But what gives this corporeal assault meaning above the immediate is the film’s surrealist affectation, as Von Trier draws the audience into the film without words, and drenches its visuals with abject images of the body. Antichrist is dislocated from reality but simultaneously plays with it, creating a world that is both fearsome and passionately beautiful. - Eloise Ross

18. Star Trek – dir. J.J. Abrams

When Star Trek’s popularity began to wane, the creators sought to reinvent the franchise with a prequel television series. Enterprise was the first production in the franchise not to bear the words “Star Trek” in the title. The language, the art direction and the ideology of the crew also distanced themselves from previous incarnations of the universe. This decidedly unsuccessful project met its opposite in J. J. Abrams’ Star Trek. His film returns to the outlandish adventure and kitsch humour of the original series. The classic uniforms of bright red, yellow and blue are featured in all their glory, and the bridge is lit up like a Christmas Tree. After four years with the franchise in mothballs, an entirely new creative team have reignited our interest in the voyages of the star ship Enterprise. – Kim Jirik

17. Bluebeard (Barbe Bleue) – dir. Catherine Breillat

In a recently published essay on medievalism in film, Adrian Martin identifies what he calls the intermedial approach to filming ‘the medieval’ in certain works of modern cinema: “In these films, the appeal to a medieval aesthetic provides a way of inventing a cinematic modernity. The literary weight of recited text is insisted upon; the action stops for a song or dance or intermedial demonstration of some sort. And theatrical artifice is proudly displayed and explored at every turn, creating all manner of deliberate anachronisms within the conventions of historical depiction.” Catherine Breillat’s brilliant new film, Bluebeard, clearly belongs to this tradition of modern European cinema. Adapting the classic story of the monstrous Bluebeard and his adolescent bride, Breillat has utterly refused to bow to the “conventions of historical depiction” found in films by the likes of Ridley Scott; inventing a cinematic language of its own, with painterly tableaux recalling medieval art and a series of beautifully, simply realized depictions of social festivities, Bluebeard suggests an opaque, disquieting relationship between the pre-modern world and our own, in direct contrast to what Martin calls “the constant attempt in popular culture to forge a strong, unbroken, cultural link between a distant past and a mercantile present.” Culminating in a deliciously sinister ending, Bluebeard is at once the sexiest, smartest and most subversive film in Breillat’s infamous career. – Conall Cash

16. The Hurt Locker – dir. Kathryn Bigelow

In a year of films laying out the emotional topography of what it is to be – a young man after college, a gifted and lonely boy, a man working on the moon, or a mother – The Hurt Locker pares this framework down to its essence: a series of uninflected, loosely connected vignettes showing us what it is to be a bomb disposal expert in the Iraq war and be addicted to the job. Bigelow might be only director of any gender currently taking up the hyper-masculine style of Howard Hawks, using his taciturn, character-through-action approach and paring it with exquisitely timed (and practically staged) action sequences. Every year there’s a film so beautifully made, but so modestly formulated, that we’re reminded that certain kinds of basic filmmaking skills are totally lost among the big time directors and producers of today. Being able to make a film like The Hurt Locker should be a goddamn prerequisite to being given the keys to something like Transformers 2. It’s funny and sad that a movie so classical, so old-school, should be considered so art-house and novel. – James Douglas

15. Synecdoche, New York – dir. Charlie Kaufman

[Screen Machine's original review]

Prior to Synecdoche, New York, Charlie Kaufman was already one of the most recognisable auteurs of American cinema and he hadn’t even directed a film yet. Here, for the first time directing one of his screenplays, we got to see what a purely Kaufman film looked like. Elements were familiar: The protagonist Caden’s wish for professional greatness is similar to Craig Schwartz’s ambitions in Being John Malkovich, the meta trickery brings to mind Adaptation and the film’s messy romantic relationships recall those of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. But what was new was the way Kaufman let the narrative slowly disintegrate so that in the last ten minutes or so you’re not even sure what is going on. And yet, the ability of a moment of kindness between two characters to be so directly affective amidst the dense narrative hubbub speaks to the power of Kaufman’s abilities. – Brad Nguyen

14. The Limits of Control – dir. Jim Jarmusch

[Screen Machine's original review]

Jim Jarmusch is frustrated. Throughout his career, he has never shied away from making films that fit within a particular zeitgeist, and this has led to the appearance of an occasional flirtation with a Hollywood aesthetic. Yet, when it comes to popular culture, there is a difference between appropriation and commodification. With a red-herring plot involving espionage and intrigue, and a list of stars to make any trailer editor drool, The Limits of Control draws you in to knock you down. By playing with Hollywood conventions, and leading you down a rabbit hole with no exit, Jarmusch compels the audience to re-evaluate our understanding of art and culture. To realise some things are beyond The System’s reach. – Kim Jirik

13. In the Loop – dir. Armando Iannucci

In The Loop is about politics and spin and UK/US relations and human weakness and corruption and incompetence. But mainly it is about swearing. This is a good thing. There is an art to swearing, and Armando Iannucci, who wrote and directed this film as well as the excellent television show it is based on, is possibly its greatest living master. The insults that trip lyrically from the mouths of his characters are certainly foul (rarely has the word cunt been used with such heady abandon on screen) but they are also perfectly crafted linguistic soufflés, light, complex, and terribly funny. There’s also a lot of stuff about Iraq and war and the terrifying banality of politics, but it’s four letter words that leave the deepest impression. Don’t let anyone tell you swearing isn’t big or clever, In The Loop proves that in skilful hands, it can be both. – Zora Sanders

12. Wendy and Lucy – dir. Kelly Reichardt

[Screen Machine's original review]

The spirit of Italian neorealism is alive in Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy. Superficially a story about a girl looking for her dog, in actuality the film is an unflinching portrait of a small American town ravaged by economic depression. The film features a strong central performance from Michelle Williams and a funny sad cameo from Will Oldham but the real stars of this film are the environments captured by Reichardt’s camera; a series of graffitied walls, littered forest spaces and empty car parks. Made on a minimal budget but displaying a keen intelligence and sense of compassion, Wendy and Lucy is an exciting follow-up to 2006’s Old Joy and hopefully a sign of more things to come from this star of American independent cinema. – Brad Nguyen

11. A Lake (Un lac) – dir. Philippe Grandrieux

[Screen Machine's original review]

If anybody, in the midst of the savage, imperial horror that is our miserable moment in history, has the right to dare to make us believe once again in joy, in life, and even in love, then it is Philippe Grandrieux. Grandrieux’s two previous films, Sombre and La Vie Nouvelle, are among the profoundest artistic expressions of the impossibility of the human relationship and the torment of existence, marking him as an artistic descendent not only of Andrei Tarkovsky, but of Samuel Beckett, Mark Rothko, and Francis Bacon. But with his third film, the unforgivingly passionate A Lake, Grandrieux has astonishingly found a way to bring joy back to us, so much so that watching it one feels he has rejuvenated not only the cinema but life itself. In this film, there is a brother, a sister, a horse, a mother and father, a lake, some trees. Then, one day, there is Jurgen. Then – “I’m leaving.” That’s all there is, and it’s as great as any film I’ve seen in years. – Conall Cash

10. Rachel Getting Married – dir. Jonathan Demme

[Screen Machine's original review]

Drenched in a fantastic swirl of colour, texture and music, Rachel Getting Married certainly sets a pretty (if not twee) apple cart for it’s anti-hero, Kym (sister of bride Rachel), to upset. Played gustily and with biting humour by Anne Hathaway, dark star Kym can’t help but suck the lightness out of any room she happens to be in. Like Kafka’s Gregor Samsa, Kym elicits first empathy, then pity, then disdain and finally, everyone just wants her to go away, ruining their fun as she so ably does. However, go away she will not, setting those around her to tired cycles of behaviour, like so many spinning tops, and demonstrating the difficulty of engaging rationally with those to whom we are blood related. Sitting in a firm tradition of American family dramas about middle class dysfunction, Rachel Getting Married is ostensibly about the difficulty of maintenance- of empathy, rage, a facade or just an even keel. – Jessie Scott

9. 35 Shots of Rum (35 rhums) – dir. Claire Denis

Made in between two of the most ambitious, topical films of her career – 2004’s L’Intrus and the upcoming White Material – Claire Denis’ 35 Shots of Rum seems pretty inconsequential in comparison. Reminiscent of the family dramas of Yasujiro Ozu beloved by Denis, the film concerns the loving relationship between a father who works as a driver on the Paris metro and his twenty-something daughter. Daring to represent happiness not as a complacent, comfortable refusal of the outside world but as a vibrant, revolutionary, constantly lived state of being-in-the-world; daring to represent the love within a family not as a rigid affirmation of bourgeois ideology but as a tactile, sensual and unstable expression – daring, in short, to make the kind of film that would never come out of Hollywood and would never see a commercial release in this country, with 35 Shots Denis has given us a film that is far from inconsequential, but a rousing, powerful affirmation of human dignity, and in this it is as valuable as the finest films of the Dardennes, and those of Ozu himself. – Conall Cash

8. A Serious Man – dir. The Coen Brothers

[Screen Machine's original review]

After a decades-long reputation as lofty, intellectual pranksters with a penchant for elaborate formalist jokes (which, let’s face it, they are), the Coen’s are now also revealing themselves as philosophical moralists of a pretty high order. Their message is one of unreflective, uninhibited involvement in the wide stream of life. What can one man do about the vast forces arrayed around him? You pretty much just have to roll with it, the Coen’s suggest; take what you can get, and forget about the rest. The terrible thing about Larry Gopnik is not that he’s unlucky, it’s that he’s so fussy about it. The slyest joke in the film is that the secret to real happiness lies with Larry’s son; smoke pot, steal, deceive, why not if you can get away with it? Consider the weird power of the final scene. If you can outrun the bastard, and a tornado is bearing down on both of you, would you return twenty dollars to the kid who sold you weed? The answer is everything. – James Douglas

7. Still Walking (Aruitemo aruitemo) – dir. Hirokazu Koreeda

[Screen Machine's original review]

Godard once said it is necessary to know what a character was before being placed in the picture, and will be after (“the present never exists there, except in bad films”) and this idea really articulates the richness of Koreeda’s family drama which centres around the annual commemoration of the death of a Japanese family’s eldest son. As in his other films, Koreeda is exploring the resonance of some past trauma. His genius is in showing us how human beings are too complex to be reduced to a narrative arc, hence the emphasis is not so much on whether or not people “come to grips with the past” but on details such as the smell of corn tempura cooking in the kitchen or the comedy a child finds in dirty socks. Continuing a consistently stunning body of work, Still Walking proves Koreeda to be Japan’s best-kept secret. – Brad Nguyen

6. Summer Hours (L’heure d’été) – dir. Olivier Assayas

[Screen Machine's original review]

Charlie Kaufman struggled to find the narrative arc of a flower in Adaptation but Olivier Assayas had no problem finding the drama of inanimate objects in Summer Hours. The shape-shifting director’s story of three siblings deciding what to do with their family’s heirlooms after their mother’s death deals with some heavy thematic material (globalisation, heritage, the effects of commerce on the bonds of family) but only Assayas deals with such matters with so light a touch. The film displays the director’s gift with dialogue, exquisite soundtrack choices (Robin Williamson, The Incredible String Band) and, as is often the case with Assayas, an ending where the logic of the universe breaks down and morphs into something new: in this case, a group of teenagers take over the family’s country house in a scene that plays more like an episode of Skins than a film of Renoir. The effect is sublimely radical. – Brad Nguyen

5. Moon – dir. Duncan Jones

Duncan Jones’ debut feature film shone out in a landscape of science fiction films that relied on action movie clichés and empty spectacle. Yes, the opening and conclusion are awkwardly expository, but for the most part it is a joy to see Jones mine science fiction tropes for their poetic potential. The hard interiors of the mining station, the stark beauty of the moon miniatures and Sam Rockwell’s heartbreaking performance drip with existential angst. The main narrative of a man who sacrifices three years of his life to work for Lunar Industries only to find his body disintegrating at a surprising rate at the conclusion of his contract is an alarmingly prescient commentary on white collar life under corporate capitalism but the truly affecting moment comes when Sam Rockwell and his doppelganger find comfort in exchanging memories they know to be artificial: a quiet, desperate bid for happiness. – Brad Nguyen

4. Mother (Madeo) – dir. Bong Joon-ho

[Screen Machine's original review]

This film is worthwhile for the bookended spectre of the most dedicated mother in South Korea doing a crazy-eyed, almost Lynch-esque solitary dance in a field. Also for the incredibly tense scene with a water bottle in which the most dedicated mother in South Korea hides in a murder suspect’s room and precariously sneaks out when he is in a sex-induced stupor. Mother will do anything for her retarded son, including clearing him of a murder charge. As such, Bong Joon-ho’s film weaves its way through numerous plots twists which expands to reveal an eccentric small-town landscape peopled with weird, dark secrets. He does this with a confounding combination of slapstick comedy, thriller mystery, surreal visions and high drama. Yet, somehow it all works. – Maggie Scott

3. Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea (Gake no ue no Ponyo) – dir. Hayao Miyazaki

[Screen Machine's original review]

Ponyo demonstrates again Hayao Miyazaki’s unerring ability to recollect and resynthesise the emotional topographies of childhood into pure storytelling. Much can be made of the distinctive qualities of Miyazaki’s body of work, and how they appear in full in Ponyo; the gorgeously tactile silkiness to the hand-drawn animation, his free-form narrative structure, his gentle, modest humanism, but no other film on this list, and no other filmmaker on earth, imbues me with the sheer sense of delight that Miyazaki does. And so, moments of happiness: a little girl’s love for ham; the curious grunting noises the waves make as they chase Ponyo to Sosuke’s house on the hill; the grumpy face on the infant; two children afloat on the clear blue water of their flooded town. – James Douglas

2. Where the Wild Things Are – dir. Spike Jonze

[Screen Machine's original review]

Considering how much time we spend there, it’s funny how quickly we forget childhood. Particularly how powerless, frustrating and lonely it can be. Dave Eggers and Spike Jones seem to remember this better than most. It’s not often that a film captures the emotional register of childhood relationships with such clarity as in Where The Wild Things Are. Watching it I suddenly remembered all the times my best friend and I fought, or my sister ignored me, or my mother yelled at me. But I also remembered the freedom and wildness of those childhood emotions. Have you ever been as deliciously angry as you were throwing a tantrum at the supermarket when you were six and your parents refused to buy you roll-ups? Of course you haven’t. Growing up means losing the ability to be truly wild. Which, obviously, is what the film is all about. Max Records gets special mention for his nuanced and mercifully un-precocious portrayal of Max. I get why the Wild Things wanted to eat him up so badly. – Zora Sanders

1. Adventureland – dir. Greg Mottola

[Screen Machine's original review]

There is a scene towards the end of Greg Mottola’s Adventureland that perfectly expresses the exhilarating thrill of this glorious film. As we centre upon James Brennan (Jesse Eisenberg) sitting on an inter-city bus, on the soundtrack we hear the opening guitar arpeggiations of “Unsatisfied” by The Replacements. Then, as Paul Westerberg’s inarticulate shout announces the arrival of the full band and the commencement of the song proper, the camera and the editing match this shift in the music and we move into what must be the greatest entering-New-York-City-on-a-bus montage in movie history, with street signs and flashing lights signalling James’ arrival in the big city from the destitution of his home in Pittsburgh. Adventureland, as this scene  suggests, is a film that is clearly enamoured of the emancipatory power of pop music, and excited by the capacity of film to capture and enhance the feelings and sensations that great songs like “Unsatisfied” give rise to; but, remarkably, it manages to express this power without falling prey to the conventions of the music video form, wherein the field of signification is rigidly controlled and every reaction, every desire of the viewer is anticipated and administered on cue. Instead, the film works by letting the music its characters listen to seep into its every corner, becoming a rich, heavy, tangible presence in the filmic world. In the central role it allocates to music to establish not just a mood or a sense of period and setting, but an entire affective register, Adventureland reveals as its major cinematic kin not the films of Judd Apatow – with whom Mottola worked on his previous film, Superbad – but rather the work of Hal Hartley, and even the late John Hughes. For Mottola, as for Hartley and Hughes, the desperate, changeable, unstable experience of awkward youth requires a messy, vivid, dense and absorbing cinematic form to express its vicissitudes and its uncertainties, and with Adventureland he has achieved just that. – Conall Cash