I’ve got a review of Wall*E in the pipeline, but for now, here’s the remainder of my all-time top twenty, which seems to reveal a liking for gloomy thrillers. Strange, I don’t feel gloomy…

Knife in the Water—A master of sophisticated unease, Roman Polanski specializes in macabre, moody thrillers (often with an occult theme) of a peculiarly personal strain. A thorough understanding of his idiosyncratic filmography begins with this stripped-down drama. Set almost exclusively aboard a tiny yacht and featuring a cast of three characters (a husband, his wife, and a hitchhiker they pick up), it’s a meticulous study in triangular tension, and perhaps Polanski’s finest, subtlest work.

Le Boucher—Claude Chabrol has often been called the French Hitchcock, but that title doesn’t really do justice to this neglected member of France’s New Wave. Chabrol’s thrillers are more relationship-oriented, and less emphatic in their suspense devices. This might be his most perfectly realized film, a deceptively serene chiller about a schoolteacher and the lonely town butcher, who may be a murderer. It builds to a climax that invites and repays close scrutiny.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp—You don’t have to be English to enjoy this most eccentric of English films, but a healthy sense of Anglophilic admiration certainly helps. A fantastical biopic of a fictional WWII hero, the film (directed by the Michael Powell/Emeric Pressburger team) seems to transcend every genre that can be applied to it, while simultaneously satisfying on those levels. Finally, it’s the depiction of a world of emotion concealed by perfect English manners that makes this so fascinating to me, and so moving.

The Crowd—King Vidor’s silent film about a newlywed couple struggling to make it by in the big city is so steeped in realistic detail that it almost hurts to watch (though it makes the happy ending doubly rewarding). It would make a great companion to Murnau’s Sunrise—another silent classic about the struggles of ordinary people.

Odd Man Out—Between this, The Fallen Idol, and The Third Man, Carol Reed has distinguished himself as a great postwar English director, although his self-consciously stylish camerawork is frowned upon in certain circles. Detailing the final hours of a wounded Irish revolutionary (superbly played by James Mason) as he staggers across a brilliantly lit Belfast at night, the film is a plea for charity—each person he encounters wants to use him for various reasons, until there’s nowhere left for him to turn. A thriller with more on its mind than thrills, it makes powerful use of the scripture verse: “Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”

The Servant—Another British masterpiece (noticing a patternhere?), this time from the poisoned pen of Harold Pinter, about a servant with sinister designs on his new master. Under Joseph Losey’s skilled hand, this becomes a psychological duel with weighty moral implications—yet none of it seems forced.

The Music Box—I think Laurel and Hardy are the bee’s knees, and this 1932 short seems like a perfect distillation of their particular brand of injurious comedy. The two childlike protagonists (here playing hapless deliverymen) engage in an epic struggle to haul a grand piano up an impossibly steep flight of stairs, and somehow, it seems to stand as a metaphor for life. Full of big laughs and pleasing digressions (including a delightful impromptu dance), it never ceases to put a smile on my face.

Our Mother’s House—Here’s one I’ve been preaching for a while: a hearty helping of English gothic about a family of seven children who try to carry on as normal when their invalid mother dies. Simultaneously touching and creepy, harrowing and beautiful, it has a completely unique resonance. Jack Clayton (who’s responsible for another personal favorite, The Innocents) is the director, and he does so many things with the rich storyline it’s hard to know where to begin. A horror film in the tradition of Lord of the Flies, it’s also a poignant tale of childhood, and the inevitable passage from innocence to experience.

Mulholland Dr.—Perhaps the finest film on the subject of Hollywood (its powerful allure, its hidden evils, its broken promises), David Lynch’s one-of-a-kind “mystery” is so carefully worked out in terms of sound, color, and theme, it demands to be watched more than once. But, like a vivid dream, even if it can’t be immediately understood, it can be grasped on a level of profound intuition. It may be too potent and dark for most audiences, but I find it fascinating, and even funny.

Faces of Children—A last-minute substitution. (I had previously put down The Swimmer in my #20 slot, but I promise to get to that one later.) A silent film from the nearly forgotten Jacques Feyder, this is an easy masterpiece that cries out for rediscovery. It tells the story of a sensitive boy (played by the French child actor Jean Forest) whose mother’s death leads him to down the path of despair, only to have redemption seek him out in the end. Filmed as though the weight of eternity hangs on every decision, it’s a particularly virtuous (and perhaps profoundly Christian) piece of work.