The camera tracing spirograph patterns in the Hungarian plain, capturing figures who move with heavy grace, like shackled dancers, sometimes defining power relations through spatial relations but often not, seemingly too carried away by its own choreographic virtuosity, drunk on the contrapuntal possibilities of tracks, pans and zooms, until fascists on horseback enter the frame against the grain of motion, restoring order, with the shot finally resolving itself into a tableau of persecution or execution. And breasts, lots of breasts. Yep, it's an early 70s Jancsó film all right.
The Lubitsch touch applied to the "vulgar details of how we earn our daily bread". The delicacy of an unobtrusive pan away from a lonely man's humiliation; the refusal of an expected point of view shot. The sadness of an empty mailbox; the happiness of a full envelope. Two people - slightly pretentious and mildly annoying, just like us - destroying their illusions so that each might find, in the other, someone willing to grow old with them. It's a wonderful life.
Howard Hawks: If I can make five good scenes and not annoy the audience, I’ve got a good picture.
Jackie Chan: What if I do one great scene, a couple of good ones, and then annoy the audience by filling the rest of the movie with spy guff performed by Caucasian nonentities who've wandered off the set of a DTV action thriller?
Howard Hawks: That's probably pushing your luck, Jackie. But if the great scene involves you discovering about a…