Do we give a name to the joy we feel, or do we simply revel in having been able to touch it? There is a quality you can discern that may not have a title.

I was doing the weave on Third, inbound, looking at the bus in front of me. It was another 358, my leader. His hulking, dirt-spattered 2300 dominating my field of vision, both of us bearing that infamous route number that blares the message out out for all to see- we have just come down from the mountains of madness, and we have passengers we want to share with you.

358. 6. 359. The numbers have lifetimes behind them, and going through downtown there's a similar feeling to driving the 7- you're at the top of the pyramid, commanding a moving what, hotel, insane asylum, living room...but you're making it happen. Mentally there is so much being asked of you- in this respect the job is almost exactly like film directing- it feels like a hundred jobs at once- and you're doin' it. 

In fact, you're doin' it handily, you pro, you reigning overlord of Aurora Avenue, you benevolent wrangler of Club Cuckooland. You're keepin' it smooth like it wasn't any big thing, even though it is.

That's what I would think to myself riding the 359 (the old version of the 358) or the 7 as a youngster. I was in awe of those rare guys and gals who absolutely had it, those drivers who possessed some ability to be at the top of their game in what was obviously the tough gig in town. They were filled with life. I still look up to those drivers, and aspire to reach their lofty heights. What I never guessed was the massive satisfaction I would get out of being here.

Briefly we were side by side, my leader and I, and through the bars and windows I saw him wave- an easy full-blown grin, his arm laughing at the insanity of it all. He's a skinny Central American guy, older, with a rich smile- and the sense of outsized camaraderie accomplishes multitudes. Only another bus driver could grasp the full measure of what this hysteria is like, and we're both surfing on the exhilaration. 

I've just had a ridiculous trip into town, filled with lifts, conversations, questions, laughter- an avalanche of sensory stimuli, all of it needing a response, and most of it having the importance of life and death, or at least peace and badness. The 358 in front of me has probably had something pretty similar- nothing's quite as exciting as a 358 that's more than ten minutes late- but here we are, laughing about it. What else can you do? We ricochet down Third, buses everywhere getting out of our way. When you're doing the 358, other routes give you a lot of room.

Respect. You don't need it to be happy, and it can vanish in a moment, and it's not at the core of why I'm doing any of this- but boy, it sure feels good while it's there. I'm humbled and grateful. And exhilarated.

Here we have the remainder- that is, top half- of my list of top films for the year. Again, a note on the numbering system- the films are numbered in tiers, a la Sight & Sound, which is why the first two films are both #1. Bottom half of the list is here.

1. Django Unchained (Tarantino)

A freed slave (Jamie Foxx) and his German bounty hunter friend (Christoph Waltz) attempt to free the former's wife (Kerry Washington). Trailer.

"Death Proof has to be the worst film I make," Tarantino told the Hollywood Reporter in 2012. He was discussing the importance of maintaining a high bar of quality through the totality of one's oeuvre. At the end of Inglorious Basterds, one character says to another, "you know, I think this just might be my masterpiece." I'm convinced that's Tarantino speaking directly to us in the darkened theatre. Upon seeing that film, many found it hard to disagree.

Django is better.

The traditional line of thinking is that QT's best work is 1994's Pulp Fiction, a film we all know is great. Let us not confuse the influential with the masterful, however. And let us also not diminish the value of directorial craft and subsume it to our respect for content. 

Far too many film critics arrive at film with a background not in filmmaking, and certainly not in directing, but in journalism or English. They are schooled in literature and theatre, and sometimes music; but they know precious little of cinematography, film editing, and direction- that is, the elements that actually make cinema a unique art form. How many reviews do you come across that discuss these aspects in terms beyond superlatives?

I don't mean to harp on so many otherwise brilliant pieces of film journalism, but merely to point out a void where a corrective is needed.

With respect to Tarantino, what can't be denied is that his direction has grown considerably with the newer films. Yes, Pulp was an undinable masterpiece of writing and structure. Yes, Jackie Brown is perhaps his most mature and considered work. But those were not visual feasts, featuring rather a competent but straighfoward visual sense. 

Tarantino's  films weren't visual feasts until he started working with Robert Richardson, the ace cinematographer who works regularly with Scorsese, and was Oliver Stone's go-to guy during the great Stone period.  Richardson is most easily recognized by his proclivity for very hot top-down lighting and highly fluid camerawork. And this change, for Tarantino, wasn't just an upgrade in the quality a cinematographer of Robertson's stature could provide while being limited by a visually unimaginative director;* remember, it's the director, not the cinematographer, who determines the shots. 

No, from 2003 onward Tarantino's work has been noticeably more refined in terms of visual craft. There are the complex tracking shots (the overhead shot following Uma Thurman walking through the halls to the bathroom in Kill Bill 1); the more clear designation of purpose to each shot and cut; his willingness to let a shot run on; a more refined compositional sense; and the beautiful range of colors and color tones; those rich blacks filling out the corners of the frame, or the gradation of subtle color shift on an actor's cheek. This is a director who knows he's shooting on film, and wants to make the most of it. 

There's also been a maturation in content. People speak often of the violence in his films, but we can forget that though his characters may behave amorally, they all exist in highly ethical universes. The stance of each film falls unequivocally on one side of the moral argument. For example, in Pulp we have three story strands- Travolta trying not to commit adultery with Uma Thurman; Bruce Willis deciding to save Ving Rhames' dignity when he doesn't have to; and Sam Jackson renouncing his violent lifestyle, to "walk the earth like Caine in Kung Fu," as it were. You also have Thurman lying on the bathroom floor at the end of Kill Bill 2, saying, "thank you," repeatedly. Who is she thanking? What's going through her head? "I believe in God, but I won't tell you how," Tarantino once said. 

In Basterds and Django, we still have a sense of the simplicity in clearly defined moral assignations to characters- but, those lines are more blurry now then they were before. The German soldier who's batted to death by Eli Roth in Basterds is depicted in a way that fits every definition of heroism. The man pulling the wagon in Django, described as a "bad man-" is shot in cold blood, yes, but in front of his young son. The moral delineation is not so easy anymore- or, if it even ever was, it's certainly less so now. We might think the revenge fantasy at the end of Basterds is juvenile, until we realize that we are being implicated as well- we, the audience, parallel the Third Reich audience in our reactions to the film rather uncomfortably. 

Django furthers all of this. The 165-minute behemoth (his longest film yet) is the unique, delectable cocktail of verbose, writerly sensibilities that explode with the tension and violence we've all come to anticipate from the guy. In particular, he's gotten better than ever with these last two films at creating very, very long dialogue scenes that pull a situation taught as a wire before letting it all snap. I'm also compelled to make a note of how entertaining the film is. Aside from being quite funny in parts, the psychological shifts and growths that take place within the protagonist's heads are fascinating and enjoyable to work out. There is also a Wolfe-ian preoccupation with hierarchy and social structure that's never surfaced in a Tarantino film before, and lends credence to the depiction of the world of the Antebellum south. Great. 

What elevates the film above his previous work? 

Hou Hsiao-Hsien once said some truths are more clearly relayed through a fictional platform. Django is more than an exercise in writing and technique. In Basterds as well, but dramatically moreso here, one can sense a passion bubbling underneath the surface, as in: the author of this work cares about what he's telling us. He's got something to say. The visceral reality of slavery is communicated so potently here, albeit- and perhaps thanks to- the hyper-fantastic environment it's presented in. 

Tarantino recently told Charlie Rose of the "arms-length distance" one feels when watching well-meaning films that attempt to tackle slavery realistically; here, he amply gets around that via a sensibility concerned more with emotional reality than physical. Everyone understands that slavery is horrific from an academic standpoint; this film pierces that complacency, using sympathetic characters and Conrad-ian descents to hells that were once quite commonplace, reminding us of the horrors of a chapter this country has never been able to move on from.

I also want to point out that Django strays from Tarantino's tried-and-true method of relying on revenge, that most tiresome of tropes, as his principal story motor; the revenge element is resolved early in the first 20 minutes! The remainder of the film is motivated by a need to reunite love.

*For an example of this, refer to Emmanuel Lubeszki's work on Martin Brest's Meet Joe Black. Actually, don't. The sight of Lubeszki- who shot Malick's last three films and Children of Men- being dog-collared into mediocrity by Bret's woeful shot choices- is just too painful.

1. Amour (Haneke)

Two retired music teachers (Jean-Louis Trintignant & Emmanuelle Riva) in their eighties find their bonds of love severely tested. Trailer. 

We tend to conflate what we consider a "realistic" portrayal of love with a depiction of love that is problematic, flawed, damaged, or otherwise unhappy. Most films with a hopeful message of love do not in fact spend much time exploring a couple who've been together for years, but instead conclude with a union of love as it is beginning. 

Perhaps this is because long-lasting, building love is so hard to find, in both life and film. I have a fondness for meaningful films about couples that've been together for ages; such pictures are harder to find than you might think. Too many films are about the beginnings of relationships, and not enough explore what happens down the road; and hardly any concern themselves exclusively with the closing moments of a union, long-lasting or otherwise.

Amour is such a film. I hesitate to describe much of what takes place in it, other than to say that it's as engrossing, sobering, and affecting a film as you're likely to come across. Trintignant's character, the husband, discovers that his wife has an ailment, and most of the film explores their attempts to cope. These characters are written beautifully, in that their asides and gestures reveal how long and well they know each other. The details reveal multitudes. 

There is a loving combination of respect and weariness they each harbor for the other that is utterly plausible. They are not so perfect that we can't take the movie seriously; but nor is the marriage a pessimistic firmament of hatred. This isn't a Bergman movie. They work at being even-tempered, and strong feelings are revealed through silences or quiet tones of voice. The film gives space and time to the slower rhythms of their aging life, letting us be there for the sleepness nights or the drawn-out process of once simple things. Trintignant lying awake at night, unable to sleep. Riva figuring out how to read a book with one hand. 

We find ourselves utterly engaged, noting every subtlety, as that's often all Haneke gives us to go off of. Achingly beautiful natural light wafts through the rooms, courtesy of cinematographer Darius Khondji, lending that particular awareness of time that only such light can bring.

Shockingly for those familiar with the director, Mr. Haneke's film is a kind one, with a view of humanity that is essentially warm. This, coming from the director of Das weiße Band, Cache, and The Piano Teacher is a complete surprise. It recasts all his previous films in a new light. He still retains his cold, unemotional approach to things, letting actions and events speak for themselves. There are no juicy Oscar-clip bawling scenes, no music, no statements told in overt terms- and yet, the ending packs an unexpected punch to the gut. It is largely this distance that elevates the value of the film as a realistic and meaningful piece. 

I have trouble recommending the film highly enough. It may not sound that interesting, but it is. The dilemmas are relatable and relevant to us all, and to turn away from them is to ignore a part of life we get closer to with each passing day.

2. Zero Dark Thirty (Bigelow)

Ten years in the life of Maya (Jessica Chastain), a CIA operative  searching for Osama bin Laden. Trailer.

What is there to say about this picture that hasn't already been proclaimed, loudly, by its supporters and detractors alike? The controversy surrounding the content is an implicit admission on the part of everyone- especially the naysayers- that ZDT is a film of accomplished, undeniable artistic competence. Shoddy films don't elicit such divided reactions. 

I'll leave the ongoing discussion of torture to others, except to note what should be obvious: depiction of an act does not equal endorsement of an act. If a film adheres to reality without offering opinion, the only implicit advocacy taking place is manufactured by the viewer, as he might interpret the events in life. If a film deviates from reality to strengthen a cause-and-effect relationship, only then can it become a propaganda piece. 

I argue such a claim cannot be leveled at Bigelow's film, which is resolutely ambivalent on the methods used in the early days of the bin Laden hunt. Some characters imply that they advocate torture; others do the opposite, and one explicitly states its ineffectiveness. There is no eureka moment where abuse leads directly to a capture. If anything, what's implicit is that the gradual shift in information acquisition methods over the 10-year period the film covers- a transition from torture to on-the-ground recon and sleuthing- resulted in more useful information. 

In fact, the film is ambivalent about everything it portrays, almost to the point of frustration- it's even ambivalence carries through even to the murder of Mr. bin Laden himself. No jingoistic patriotism here. The murkiness of the moral quandaries proposed in the film are endless, as they are in the dark corners of the real-life realm it portrays.

What is celebrated is the dedication of the people involved. The film stands apart in that it's a portrait of people at their jobs. This is a film that lives in the day-to-day grind of boardroom meetings, arguments in hallways, and long hours in front of computers and prisoners. Like Fincher's Zodiac, we get a sense of the arduous, debilitating tedium of detective work- a nice corrective to the gift-wrapped hour-long shows we're accustomed to. There are no domestic moments, affairs, or heart-to-hearts; these people are focused. What we have is a dense, detail-oriented exploration of professionalism in an environment where it seems doomed to collapse.

That this exploration of people at work is applied on such a significant scale, involving so much time and so many characters, is exciting; but it's the fact that the center of it all revolves around a quiet, determined woman that makes the film unlike others. A film covering a decade of one woman's struggles at work- that's the element that makes this special. We've seen detective-oriented spy films before. We're familiar with the resolution of this narrative; but the journey, the faces, the approach- these are all new. 

As has been mentioned elsewhere, there are some interesting self-reflexive layers at work here in this decidedly non-postmodern piece. It's a celebration of professionalism and craftwork on more than one level. In a way, Chastain's exemplary embodiment of these attributes is remarkably analogous to Bigelow's direction of the picture. It's a women's film, in a quietly celebratory and non-exclusivist way. Both are females succeeding in their respective male-dominated realms by sheer virtue of skill and determination. Maya accomplishes this by defining herself through her work, at the expense of any sort of personal life.

As well, Bigelow's workmanlike direction, what with its eschewing of music or overtly gorgeous shots, underlines the commitment of both herself as a content-based storyteller and the general no-nonsense attitude of Chastain's character. They both care about results. Bigelow's compositions and color tones are muted but effective, and carry their own stark beauty; images are perfectly exposed even in low-light environments, with an overall focus on natural light. The emphasis is realism. 

Thankfully, minimal attempt is made to explain jargon or oversimplify the complexity of events; we feel less the effect of a narrative being imposed on reality than the reverse. We're confronted with an avalanche of small, short scenes spread across years. The effect is a kaleidoscopic embodiment of life over a long period of time. Bigelow's intimate rendering of a vast amount of material is impressive, as is her resolute refusal to provide commentary on what we're seeing. That the film ends with an unanswered question, not a statement of success, is appropriate.

In like fashion to Bigelow's directorial approach, Chastain remains opaque; she has a thick guard up, and hides her innermost feelings from most everyone, including the audience. Our interest is heightened as a result. There aren't that many films about introverts. We gaze at her, all the more curious, attempting to decode the secrets behind that enigmatic face. This is one for the ages. It's a notch below my top two here only because of how unpleasant some of the early scenes are.

2. The Master (P.T. Anderson)

A drifter and former WWII vet (Joaquin Phoenix) is intrigued by the ideas and charisma of a self-proclaimed teacher and creator (Philip Seymour Hoffman) of a budding cult. Trailer.

It occurred to me while watching a 65mm print of The Master that this must be what it felt like to watch the great works of Stanley Kubrick or Orson Welles when their films were first in release. To be confronted with a challenging, difficult, cerebral, beautiful, and technically proficient piece of art- and to know with confidence that this film would remain in the cinematic conversation for some decades to come. You feel like you're here, at the start of something. 

To start off with, The Master looks absolutely amazing. Shot on 65mm, the film boasts an absolutely astounding clarity. As we know, film, especially medium and large-format film, boasts a dramatically, quantifably superior color range and resolution than digital cameras. Watching The Master on 65 doesn't just blow the look of most digital movies out of the water, as most shot-on-film movies do; it obliterates the experience even of watching most 35mm film movies! 

You are in essence looking at a medium-format image (about 50 million pixels for you digi-folks) projected onto a wall the size of a house. You can see every skin pore on Joaquin Phoenix's cheek in ways you never thought you could (or maybe never wanted to). What surprised me about this was how the image remained filmlike without having any grain; I imagine this stems from the vastly higher count of colors film has over digital.* 

In any event, having such analog technology harnessed by Mr. Anderson is quite a treat. More than mere gearhead fascination, the visuals arrest in their beauty and also in their transformation of a small-scale story into something that feels cosmically vast, and- dare I say the overused word- epic. 

The effect is appropriate; the film's obsession with the inward, its exploration of what lies beneath the opaque, unpiercable shells of the two protagonists- the soul is an immense and mysterious thing, and the aesthetic here makes that notion tangible. Aided by the resolution of 65, Anderson and his cinematographer Mihai Malaimare Jr. (chosen for his skill with large-format; this is PTA's first outing without Robert Elswit) photograph people's faces as if they're gigantic landscapes.

Anderson's tendency to foreground the camera as a means of communicating information to the audience is on full display here; with his last two films this approach has become a little less manic, with a focus on long takes, elegant compositions, and subtle shifts within the frame.** Here there is a newfound focus on narrow depth of field, especially in close-ups. Note the shot of Phoenix being interviewed by the military psychologist, whereupon the plane of focus is so narrow that his ear is already a blur. 

As for the actual content of the film- The Master is a tough sit. It resists letting us into the character's heads; we watch their actions from the outside and ponder their meaning. It's a different type of viewing experience, less emotional than intellectual, a la Kubrick or Fincher. It requires a bit more work on the part of the viewer, and, interestingly, although the literal action of any given scene is easy to decipher, the motivations and ramifications are not. 

The mentor-protege relationship is explored in all its ambiguity here; there comes a point toward the end where Hoffman, the mentor, realizes that he doesn't exist as a leader without a "number one fan," who he's about to lose; the landscape of his face is touching as this loss registers amongst the forest of his self-confident braggadocio. It's also curious to try to trace the exact moment and trajectory of how Phoenix becomes disillusioned. As is often in life, there is no single decisve moment- or is there?

I will say my second viewing of the film was more satisfying than the first, and that the ending is a sobering one, with a conceptual thrust that I find uplifting (I read it as: "that's about what he got out of it."). I'm not sure how the piece would play in anything other than the highest resolution possible- if a 65mm screening comes your way, seek it out. Hopefully the Blu-Ray will function as an adequate stopgap.

*For a balanced exploration of this conversation- I hesitate to call it a debate, as the two formats have so little to do with each other they can hardly stand to be usefully compared- read here. There is also the wikipedia article that explains some basic terms and misconceptions here.

**Read film scholar David Bordwell's breakdown of one shot in There Will Be Blood, whereupon he explores how PTA directs the viewer's eye, here. Read here to see graphics of an experiment that tracked where viewer's eyes looked at a given time within said shot, with further analysis.

3. Anna Karenina (Wright)

An adaptation of Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina (with Keira Knightley). Trailer.

Why am I the only person who saw Anna Karenina- and, the only person who liked it? This film is a masterpiece. When Joe Wright said he could tell Tolstoy's 800-page novel in two hours, few believed him. When he made a last-minute decision to film the entire Tom Stoppard screenplay on a stage without altering any lines, people didn't know what to think. What's the result?

Perhaps the reason for the middling response lies in the film simply being too creative. Our Town this is not- Joe Wright swoops his camera in and out of the action with Richardsonian eye-popping dexterity, interpreting each scene in a new and unexpected ways. We never have an idea of how the next scene will be interpreted; the stage is opulent and busy, and some scenes maximize the theatricality, incorporating choreography or the architecture of the rafters; others make poetic use of things like snow to underline emotional truths. 

In the ballroom scene where Anna first meets Vronsky, supporting characters freeze and fade into darkness as the two dance, literalizing the narrow focus each has for the other. It's an orgy of boundless creativity, and the decision to shoot on a stage invigorates the whole process, while also being thematically appropriate- far from theatricalizing Tolstoy's realist novel, the stage functions as an actualization of the hermetic nature of Russian aristocracy. Only Levin and Kitty have the ability to break out of this, which they do in both figurative and literal terms. 

Incredibly, Wright and Stoppard retain all major story strands of the novel, somehow managing to relay the meat of it all in two hours without things feeling artificially condensed or rushed. I'm not sure how that happened. Seams McGarvey's camera and lighting are achingly beautiful- necessary to maintain our visual interest, given the confines of the theatre. This is perhaps the most beautifully shot film of the year, with rich orange and yellow hues permeating the lavishly decorated rooms; or consider the cold natural light in one of the closing scenes, where the walls are blue and the characters dressed in white. Simply looking at the film is a feast.

There is a tremendous amount of attention paid to all aspects- hair and costumes being noticeably luxurious, but also the grounded realities of the characters' journeys. Karenin, as played by Jude Law, is interpreted slightly differently here than in the novel in a way that is interesting. Levin's spiritual awakening at the conclusion of the book is retained here, functioning as the end note of optimism for both book and film (and helping fuel the ongoing question: why did Tolstoy title the book Anna Karenina?). 

A heady celebration of creativity and humanity, and a pure, exhilarating joy to watch. I hope it's demise at the box office doesn't affect Wright's future film prospects; certainly there are one or two literary adaptations tat won't be happening because of how this turned out financially. I hope the film finds a life on DVD.

3. Argo (Affleck)

CIA operatives embark on a ridiculous, but true, plan to extract diplomat hostages from revolutionary Iran in 1980. Trailer.

Ben Affleck was, for a time, the butt of many a joke. We knew he was talented from the beginning, for co-writing Gus Van Sant's Good Will Hunting; he was a reasonable actor, certainly not a great one, in films like the underrated Changing Lanes. But it wasn't until after the Pearl-Harbor-Gigli-J-Lo period had died down that things began to shift. 

It began with the best actor award at Venice for HollywoodLand. Then there was Gone Baby Gone, which surprised many with the realization that Mr. Affleck was probably a much better writer and director than actor. Gone proved his writerly capabilities, while The Town solidified Affleck's command of the camera; but it's Argo that's the first real masterpiece from the guy. Somehow, we all forgot that Ben Affleck has a degree in Middle Eastern Affairs from Vermont. He puts it to full use here.

Most actor-turned-directors make a particular kind of film: the performances will be excellent, the content interesting, and the aesthetics middling at best. Think of Tom McCarthy, Sydney Pollack, Ron Howard, Rob Reiner, Kevin Costner, Warren Beatty- even Redford and Clint Eastwood. Of course there are counterexamples (Chaplin, Welles or newer folk like Sofia, Gibson or Clooney) who spend a lot of time on visuals, but many of these guys understand cinema best as a storytelling medium derived from theatre. In my view, that's a reductive approach to film. If you're shooting a film, there ought to be a reason for doing so that justifies not simply telling the same narrative as a play. 

The camera is a means not just for recording performance, as many of these guys seem to think, but for imposing meaning on the content. Composition, camera angles, movement- these are powerful tools that mean something. The counterexamples I mention take that to heart and create films with impacts on the viewer that could not easily be reproduced in plays.

Affleck is such a director. Argo is a directed movie. The camera and editing propel the ideas forward, give life to the inner states of the characters, and focus on details in a tactile way that only film can achieve. His command over the medium is not merely competent, but noticeable. 

The man's practically showing off- albeit in the service of the narrative- when he kinetically cuts together conversations of different people in different places at the beginning of the film as the details of the crisis come out. The rhythms of physical movement of the actors and the camera during that sequence verge on the balletic, and the editing is economic to near-breaking point- there isn't a second of dead air through the whole film. 

The film also underplays a lot of moments, to its benefit, helping to ground it. Note the moment Affleck's character rides past the Azadi Tower in a taxi. He looks away from us to take in the monument for a moment. It's a fleeting moment, but it tells us a number of things- one, this scene really is taking place in Tehran, not on a set in Fontana; also, it reveals that there's a human interest side to Affleck's character, who, were he not on this mission, might want to spend more time here if he could. He's curious. Character revealed through action, not backstory- it forces us to keep up.

An absolute triumph of craft, with a brilliant script and perfect balance of humor and tension. About the most you could possibly hope to expect from a studio picture. Back in 2003, it was discussed by some in the community that the time for large-budget serious dramas had come to an end; as the specialty divisions (Warner Independent, PictureHouse, etc) closed in the late 2000s, people said that the time for mid-level dramas was over too. With Argo at $117 million, and Pi, Lincoln, and Django, all crossing 100, and with Silver Linings and Zero both at a surprising $70 million and growing, this is no longer so. Quite a shift from when Hurt Locker topped out at $17m in 2009. This is easily the most entertaining film of the year.

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That's the end of the first half of my list. I'm compelled to repeat that the order here is tenuous at best. As I write this, I'm tempted to place Anna Karenina at the top, move Argo up, bump Django down a spot.... I notice now that the films at the top of the list are the ones I've seen most recently. Hopefully that's not the only reason they're way up there. Suffice it to say that I feel this a list of 13 excellent films, each with undeniable qualities. 

Oddly, The I most recommend are not the top of the list, but Amour, Anna K, and Argo. Please don't ask me what my single favorite film of the year is. I'm liable to spontaneously combust!

No, this post has nothing to do with buses, but I ask you to indulge me. Some of you know that I once wrote film reviews for Erik Samdahl's site, filmjabber.com, when I lived in Hollywood. It's an occupation I miss, and I thought I'd share some capsule reviews here. 

For everyone else, it's 2013, but for us filmgoers, as we finish up with the Oscar-qualifying releases that reach most of the country in January, it's still 2012. With the last serious contenders finally making it to the top 20 cities, I offer my top 10 (actually, 13) for the year, knowing full well the inherent silliness of qualifying value in an art form as multifarious as film. That's part of the fun, after all. I welcome comments as always.

This first post is the bottom half of my list, which is thirteen films total, numbered from 1-8. Why the strange numbering? I number lists in tiers; the top three films are all #1, the next two, which I feel are equal but just beneath the top three are both #2, etc.

4. Lincoln (Spielberg)

A month in the life of Abraham Lincoln (Daniel Day-Lewis), as he tries to pass the Thirteenth Amendment. Trailer.

Some films are greater than the sum of their parts. Lincoln is the opposite. Its parts surpass its whole. There is the Daniel Day-Lewis performance, expounded upon elsewhere, and for which I can summon up no superlative that could possibly suggest the anthemic heights achieved by the man. Day-Lewis' abilities are sublime, as we know from his other work, but to imbue color into a dry figure, to breathe life past our preconceived notions, and above all, to play with dimensionality a decent man- this last tenet is rarer than we think- this, yes, is a miracle of what humans can achieve in art. 

Acting is one of the two enduring special effects of the cinema- the other being proof of truthful documentation, a la the uninterrupted tracking shot. Acceleration of technology may diminish, but never completely eliminate, the arresting sense of wonder these two miracles engender- and wonder is certainly engendered here, in Mr. Day-Lewis' embodiment of Lincoln.

The most surprising thing about Lincoln is that it's funny. Spielberg's pictures have always had a sensibility I find subtly, richly humourous. Recall the bickering of the Mossad agents in Munich, or the banter of lawyers in Amistad. Most people don't know that Spielberg does uncredited rewrites on all his films, and there's a resulting voice that emerges every time; they are filled with an optimism toward human interaction. It's not that the events are always positive; it's that there's a belief that we can communicate. You can't help but smile. Israeli and palestinian freedom fighters arguing over which radio station to listen to, and settling on Marvin Gaye. Matt Damon explaining the Piaf song to the other soldiers. Schindler explaining to Stern that his strength is in "the presentation." It's as if Spielberg believes human connection is positive by virtue of the fact that it exists. There's something to be sad for that.

Here, the humor is amplified more than usual, making lively and vivacious the dry texts of history books. The film approaches its titular subject as a human first. Day-Lewis' Lincoln is a warm one, as he amuses himself with jokes and gets carried away telling people stories. We are reminded that people, not ciphers, were alive back then, and their present time was the complicated, frustrating, pulsing present human life we live in as well. 

The business of passing an amendment into law is told with detail; like Jean-Pierre Melville, Kushner's screenplay has a fascination with process. We feel privy to the minutiae and unseen hassle of procuring votes and completing ideas and paperwork. Complex political concepts are discussed and given time to resonate; Michael Kahn's editing flows at a more relaxed pace than on other Spielberg pictures, giving us the space to revel in the particulars.

It's also a pleasure to see Spielberg and his longtime cinematographer Janusz Kaminski using the 2.35:1 frame, something they rarely do. As compared to their other 'scope efforts, the compositions here are reserved in a classical way, incorporating rule of thirds in a stately and unobtrusive fashion. Much of the color is desaturated, for a pleasing compendium of browns and blues; hard light gives a vibrant contrast the images. It's a "thick" image, in the current tradition, filmlike, with deep blacks, and without the brittle falloff of a shortened tone curve.  

We noted earlier that Lincoln's parts are greater than its whole. 

The film stands apart in that it can't be called a biopic; it only covers four weeks of the man's life. Its subject is not Lincoln, but the passing of the Thirteenth Amendment, with a focus on Lincoln as its instigator and champion. In this respect the film is brilliant, and so much more engaging than so many birth-to-death biopics of the "greatest hits moments" variety.

However. The film occasionally strays from this narrow focus. In the opinion of this reviewer, the film falters whenever it does so. Thankfully, this is really only an issue for a couple of scenes; I'm not referring to the domestic moments with Lincoln's family, which are excellent, but temporal breaks from the four-week period. Steve Soderbergh once said a given scene needs to be told from a chosen character's view; if that's so, from whose perspective is the Grant/Lee scene being shown? Until that point, the film has resolutely been designed from Lincoln's perspective. The break feels odd. 

Further along, there is a sense of resolution in the moment when Lincoln walks out the door of his house to go out for the evening (to Ford's Theatre); all the film's narrative conflicts have been solved at that point. After that moment there is a shift in focus that makes the remaining scenes feel superfluous. The film is no longer about passing the Amendment, but now simply about Lincoln himself. Kushner seems to feel the need to wrap everything up; consider the decision to portray the Second Inauguration. 

It's a speech we all know, and everything literalized in the speech has already been implicitly communicated to us through Lincoln's actions during the body of the film. Yes, the film's recreation of that event and similarity to photographs is shocking in its accuracy (interestingly, nearly all the actors playing historical figures look uncannily like their real-life counterparts); as yet, however, I found it fitting not as a conclusion of the narrative, but only as a wrap-up coda at best. And perhaps that is what Mr. Spielberg intended.

Having expressed those qualms, I'm compelled to repeat this very good film, this excellent film, flawed though it might be, still towers over the accomplishments of so many others. It's a qualm from a first viewing only, and I don't want to imply that the film is something other than brilliant. It is. It contains pleasures you won't find elsewhere. 

5. Silver Linings Playbook (O'Russell)

A young woman (Jennifer Lawrence) helps a borderline bipolar man (Bradley Cooper) move on from his divorce. Trailer.

What surprises about Silver Linings is its energy. It establishes a high bar early on, and it stays there for the duration. Here is a film not about the wealthy, or the poor, but about all of us in-betweeners; refreshingly, it isn't another movie about people who live in oversized condos in Manhattan, working jobs and hours that could never support such a lifestyle. No, we're somewhere in the midwest, where the characters live in generic houses and drive entry-level sedans from 15 years ago. This fascination with the working class- apparent also in O'Russell's last film, The Fighter- appeals to me greatly. 

There is also the film's tracking of the psychological shifts in the protagonists, and the exploration of moving on- something everyone wishes they could do a little better than they can. It's a film that feels eminently relatable, and the humor derives from real life. It slips easily into the moniker of "feel good film of the year," but it does so with heart, and truth. To watch these two grapple with their problems and themselves, finding what they need in the other, is exhilarating and fun. It's a rejuvenating experience. 

6. End of Watch (Ayer)

Day-to-day life of two Police officers (Jake Gyllenhaal, Michael Pena) in South Central LA. Trailer.

End of Watch is the best cop film in many years. It does something most cop films don't do: it doesn't give its protagonists a solvable problem. It simply follows the workaday tribulations of two beat cops as they negotiate the quivering hellhole of South Central. 

I think this is a masterstroke, because it goes a long way in conveying the mental process of being a cop: you are constantly confronted with problems, serious ones, whose resolution you never see. There is no discovery that makes everything right, or a takedown of a baddy that shows justice reigns in the end; there is simply call after call of awful, disgusting human behavior. Your efforts as a cop to make things right are so incremental or inconsequential that they seem pointless. In Seattle we sometimes marvel at the way cops treat the people; but can you really blame them, when they're confronted with this skewed, terribly selective view of humanity every day?

I'm making the film sound like a tough, depressing slog through a nightmare. It isn't. It's an adrenaline rush. It's a celebration of the resilient attitude of our two protagonists, in that it dares to place them in realistic situations and trajectories, and watches as they handily retain their exuberance. The world hasn't worn them down just yet; it may in the future, but for now, their energy is unstoppable. The film doesn't force them into a contrived murder mystery; it's too realistic for that. It's simply a portrait of life. 

Ayer's screenplay gives them room to live; sometimes we simply follow them around in their cruiser, listening to the two of them talk, argue, and joke about life. These are the sorts of conversations you have with your pals, and this film allows for that sort of reality to slip in. The dialogue often sounds improvised, but Ayer says 99 percent of it was written. He lived in the area, as I have, and has an ear for the way people speak. Having spent much time around West coast "ghettospeak," it's refreshing to hear it used so accurately here; one doesn't realize how rarely it's realistically incorporated in film.  

My only qualm is the level of violent imagery. My sensitivity to violence grows as I get older. It is appropriate for the film, however. The most offensive sort of onscreen violence in movies, in my view, is when things are either sanitized (a la Bond), or reveled in (a la 'gornagraphy'). When a film is attempting to convey a way of life, or a historical event, however, realistic depictions are needed. As such, it makes sense here, but viewers should be forewarned; it is leery in a Grand Guignol sort of way, as in a waking nightmare.

6. Cloud Atlas (Wachowski sibling duo; Tykwer)

Narratives spread across time and space, connected by theme; loosely follows an ascension in the moral aptitude of one man (Tom Hanks) over millennia. Trailer.

Like Anna Karenina, I was the only person to go see Cloud Atlas, and it seems as if Roger Ebert and I are the only people who like it (read his review here). It's unlike any other, it's beautiful to look at, it's drenched in thought-provoking ideas, and washes us away with its dreamlike connections and atmosphere. I, for one, loved it. In what other time in film history could we expect to see a film this radical distributed by a major studio? Ignore the naysayers. We are living in an excellent period for film. It's not the Eighties anymore. The riffraff will vanish over time, but there are many works from now which will endure. This may not be one of them, but it certainly deserves to be seen. 

The trailer gives a fair idea of the experience of seeing the film- a bunch of stories using the same actors in different roles, implying a continuation of souls across time. Any given scene is easy to comprehend; it's the connections between narratives that puzzle. I suggest watching the film without trying to figure it out. It leaves you with an overall feeling of deeply founded optimism, and the romantic belief that there is goodness in people, and that the germ of that goodness can thrive through the centuries.

6. Killing Them Softly (Dominik)

About ten ten-minute vignettes, mostly conversations between interconnected men involved in low-level underworld crime (with Brad Pitt). Trailer.

This has been the year of me seeing and loving films that nobody else likes. Killing Them Softly, based on the 1974 novel Cogan's Trade by George Higgins, is the latest effort from Andrew Dominik, whose achingly beautiful The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford remains one of the best films of its decade. No one saw that one either.

Whatever you're expecting, Killing isn't that; the film starts off and we settle in, realizing this movie won't really be about Brad Pitt, or any other single individual, but more about the politics of crime and business in America, by way of a series of gossipy one-on-one conversations between men. It might sound scattered, but it feels of a whole; the ending is perfect, bringing home a point with impressive clarity. The film makes some rather pointed comments about politics, and on a broader plane of thinking than we might be accustomed. 

In terms of form, viewers of Jesse James won't be surprised to hear that the aesthetic decisions are unparalleled. Photographically the film has "a technique so sophisticated that it verges on the precious," writes The New Yorker's Anthony Lane. He is correct. Each shot is beautiful, and many of them are doozies; it's shot like nothing else I've seen. Witness the macro lens on Ben Mendohlson's face as he trips out on heroin; or Pitt crossing the frame laterally while fireworks explode behind him, shot with a telephoto lens whose obscene length I don't even want to guess at. There is also the car crash, a slow-motion ballet of raindrops and blood, cut with a sublime kineticism. The music cues are choice as well, making the film an aural and visual treat.

Once again, the violence is perhaps slightly too effective at communicating pain; the film delves into detailed excess in whatever it's exploring, whether violent acts or monologue. It is always and completely about whatever the scene is about. Who could argue with that? 

7. Rust and Bone (Audiard)

A romance between a whale trainer (Marion Cotillard) who loses her legs and a bare-knuckle fighter (Matthias Schoenaerts) struggling to raise a child. Trailer.

This is a problematic piece. It's the latest from Jacques Audiard, whose Un Prophete (2009) is one of the better films of our time; Rust is similiarly dense with material, juggling a lot of themes at once; there's enough in here for several movies. It's about a woman recovering from amputation; the struggles of single fatherhood; poverty in lower-class France; ethical workplace security considerations; Eastern European male attitudes towards women; the realization that other people carry greater importance than oneself; defining oneself through one's body; the intersecting ways in which damaged people can fill each other's needs. And that's just off the top of my head.

The Cotillard character, injured early in the film, needs someone who looks past her deformity. Schoenaerts supplies that. He is a brute of sorts, and he goes through a mental awakening at the end akin to what she experiences earlier in the film, realizing what is important to him. They are "wounded birds," as a friend put it, and both experience bruising change; there is a focus on physicality and pain and the resulting healing- both physical and mental. Schoenaerts' wounds at the end closely mirror Cotillard's at the beginning. There are a lot of Beauty and the Beast parallels here, and I look forward to parsing it out further on future viewings; there really is too much going on here thematically for me to intelligently discuss after only a single viewing. 

The ending is baffling; I want to believe the literal meaning of the image, but have difficulty believing it. Is Audiard suggesting the opposite? I hope not. Knowing he is a filmmaker who thinks everything out is refreshing, in the manner of Fincher or Mann; it encourages the viewer to consider matters deeply. It is all intentional.

A note must be made about the visuals. After the claustrophobic world of the prison in Prophete, Audiard mentioned a desire for the opposite in his next film, here- expansive wide frame and bright, light color. The soundtrack pops with vibrant mixtures of every type of music conceivable. At least aesthetically, there can be no argument as to the film's ravishing competence. 

And of course, the performances by the two leads are nothing short of amazing; both impress equally in very difficult roles. I never tire of watching Cotillard, who can suggest so much with so little. Notice her expression as she watches the dancers in the club, doing so easily what she can never do again; the mixture of admiration, envy, and frustration, writ so subtly, and yet so palpably.

Honorable Mention:

8. Magic Mike (Soderbergh)

A mentor-protege narrative in the world of male stripping, from the perspective of the mentor (Channing Tatum). Trailer.

Yes, that Magic Mike. How many mentor-protege stories sideline the up-and-coming protege to focus on the psychology of the mentor? None, that's how many. Magic Mike is one of those films that's impossible to sell- you'll invariably bring in the wrong audience. 

Consider this logline: Channing Tatum male stripper movie, co-starring Matthew McConaughey with his shirt off. That sets up one kind of expectation. Film about Channing Tatum's own experiences as a young male stripper in Los Angeles. That sounds a little more grounded. Introspective, meditative mood piece directed by Steven Soderbergh about a man reorienting the priorities in his life. The trouble is all of these descriptions are true; but it's the last one that carries the appeal for me. 

Who knew you could make a meditative, thought-provoking male stripper film?

It's a unique piece. Soderbergh is customarily distant from his characters in terms of emotional relatability, but the film is likely his most accessible since Traffic (2000). It goes without saying that this is Tatum's best performance, and there are indications of substance under the veneer of the character that intrigue. 

He craves depth and connection, and people around him don't see that. A female friend who teases out this side of him ends up being central to the story. The decision to focus on the teacher and his problems instead of the familiar young-apprentice-as-underdog-hero is refreshing. Ebert's mantra says that a film is not great because of what it's about, but because of how it's about it, and Mike serves as a stark example. 

Soderbergh's unemotional approach allows the ridiculous environment to be taken seriously, and his camera, as ever, is on the experimental side, bathing scenes in yellow golds, holding on unexpected compositions, and cutting conversations in interesting ways (he has a tendency to focus on whoever's not speaking). There's a killer moment toward the end when the camera holds on Tatum's face as he silently makes  a crucial decision, and the understated nature of the moment is fantastic. it reminds me of an oddly similar moment in Paul Thomas Anderson's towering Boogie Nights, when the camera holds on Wahlberg for over a minute as he realizes what he's done with his life, and that he really, really needs to get out of Alfred Molina's house. Mike is not as good as Boogie, but I recommend it if you warmed to that film.

Six films remain; I'll post them soon!

It's a welcome surprise when our preconceptions of how groups of people behave are broken down. Such incidents remind us not simply of the well-known fact that people don't behave like cultural stereotypes, but also of something else- a person may also behave against the established understanding of the persona they choose to project. To explain:

We're a 4, climbing the hill on James, sailing smoothly on the wire, coming in for a gentle stop outside the jail. I announce the jail as one of this stop's attractions, and we have fun getting over ourselves, asking each other if anyone wants to go to jail, et cetera. We get that out of the way. 

Stepping on the bus now is a young black American fellow, late teens, and his manner of dress is, well, smooooth, as per the dictates of the latest fashion. Oversized velour Puma pants ($60), sparkling white and appropriately sagged; a poly fleece zip-up cat hoodie ($65), also by Puma, unzipped, with the hood up and strings dangling; this of course is oversized as well, bright white with blue accents; white strapback cap with a factory-fresh flat bill (~$30), gold and silver necklace chains, and top-brand basketball shoes, loosely laced, easily in the $150-220 range. Not a speck of dust on these puppies. He might play ball, but he definitely doesn't wear these when he does. Is he wearing one-way reflective sunglasses that cover his face? Of course he is. 

He's a towering vision dressed in glowing white, the world's first combination of Gandalf the White and Jam Master Jay back when Run-DMC started endorsing Adidas!* 

In other words, he's too cool for school. Everything about his demeanor suggests that I'm not going to get a peep of acknowledgement  from him. That would be fine, but I still say something. It's my nature. After all, I used to wear flannel shirts so big they went down to my knees. Like all other humans, I give him the benefit of the doubt as I say,

"How's it goin'?"

He takes it all in stride and leisurely slurs out, in the kind voice of one young man to another: "doingoodhowboutchurseeelf?"

Oh, I love it. I love it. Who says chivalry is dead?


*Interestingly, this was the first time hip-hop and athletic wear were associated. As commonplace as the connection is now, the linking of those two worlds was considered somewhat arbitrary at the time. This gentleman wears his shoes loosely laced as a compromise between the obvious benefits of having shoelaces (i.e., ability to run) and the fashion statement of having no laces at all. Felons serving time couldn't wear shoelaces because the danger of suicide by hanging, and this was interpreted on the outside as a fashion move.

I've mentioned Nathan (no, not me) before. He shows up on Thursday evenings. He's developmentally disabled in some way, of average height but with a large head and bulky upper body. Behind thick glasses is one lazy eye, and his asymmetrical legs and feet seem smaller than the rest of his frame. Nathan is perhaps slightly older than myself- an old boy of thirty, with sad eyes and jowls.

When first starting out on the 358 I wrote that I hadn't yet ascertained what a normal shift on the 358 is like. That, as I have since learned, is because there is no such thing. Some days you're swamped, carrying a hundred people on a vehicle with only 58 seats, while other days have a leisurely ten people onboard. Sometimes you're 20 minutes late and only halfway through the route, and other nights you finish out 15 minutes early. And of course, the crowd is utterly unpredictable. The air can be sticky with the humming incompatibility of contrasting souls, alive with a vibrant mixture of colors and noise, or it can be a tranquil night out on the town. Even Aurora is quiet sometimes. 

One of the rare serene evenings found Nathan and I cruising up Aurora at a relaxing 30 miles per hour. Nothing's happening, and it's a mellow dream of a ride.  Nathan always sits in the chat seat. There are perhaps five other people on the bus, spread from front to back.

"I'm gonna put in a good word for ya." He says with conviction, looking at me.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna talk to Paul."
"Is that right?"
"Paul Bachtel, that is." He's said these lines before. It's hard to tell if he really does know Paul Bachtel, the union president. "You're a good bus driver, and you deserve it," he continues in a slow monotone, against my smiling protestations. "Gonna get Paul on the phone, have a conversation with him. Maybe get Neal on the phone too."

"Yeah, you're gonna talk to Neal?"
"Neal Safrin, yeah, the VP."
"Well shoot, Nathan, that's real generous of you. What can I say."

Nathan's wearing a dirty sweatshirt and dark pants. Some days he smells worse than others. Does he even really know these guys?

"I sound like I know your boss, huh?" he asks, in a voice that begs to be looked up to. He wants to sound like he's "in with the big guys," as it were. 
"What's that?" Rounding the curves at Linden Avenue.
"I said it sure sounds like I know your boss, doesn't it?" He looks at me with his one steady eye, his face apparently yearning to hear a "yes!"

At the time I said, "well, actually he's not my boss. He's just the union president."
"I sure sound like I know the union president," he returns. "Don't I? Don't I sound like that?"
"It sure does sound like that." This is a question he asks all the time, and I don't mind humoring him. Who knows. Maybe he really does know the union guys. I can't tell yet. "Hey, you've convinced me," I'll say.

"Guess where I was," he says after a pause. I look at his friendly pink face. In his eyes you sense a younger person than the body he's hiding in. "I was at Brian's wedding."
"Well, that sounds great."
"Brian Levitt's wedding, I mean," he says slowly, as if revealing a trade secret. Brian Levitt (I've changed the name) is another Metro driver.
"Brian Levitt, shoot, that's wonderful!"
"Yeah, he just got married."

Now, I'm thinking, is Nathan really telling the truth here? Was he actually at Brian Levitt's wedding? Who knows? Maybe he really was. Some drivers establish good friendships with riders. I decide to ask further.

"Where was it?"
"A church."
"Yeah? Where?"
"In the north end."
"Now, Brian's an older guy. Is this his first time getting married?"
"What? No."
"He was married before."
"I think so, yeah."
"So this is his second marriage."
"I guess it must be. Sounds like I'm really good friends with the guy, doesn't it? Invited to a bus driver's wedding. That's a pretty big deal, huh? Sounds like he knows me, huh, Nathan?"

The man's fibbing to the high heavens, I tell myself. My sympathy for him diminishes. Brian Levitt drives a lot of north end work, and Nathan probably knows him about as well as he knows me. The conversation drifts of to other things, like the children's daycare he volunteers for and how much he loves the Shoreline Police Department. A few nights later, he's there again. We snake through the madness of downtown, and after we cross 46th and things die down a little, he pipes up.

"Guess who I saw today? Brian."
"Brian Levitt?"
"Yeah, Brian Levitt. He saw me at Aurora Village, and he signaled me to come over to have a private conversation."
 "A private conversation, oh dear. What'd joo guys talk about?"
 "Well, I can't really talk about it," he says with a grin.
 "'Cause it was private, wasnt it?"
 "Yeah."
 "Good! That was a test!"
 "Yeah, he wanted me to go over and talk to him. Talk to Brian."
 "There you go."
 "Sounds like I'm in with the big guys, doesnt it?" he says with a proud smile.
 "It really does sound like that," I say, in no way convinced. I let him off the hook, though; anything else would be unnecessary.

"I should apply for Metro," he says on another occasion.
"Yeah you should. In fact, you should be drivin' this thing right now in fact, that way I could run across the street and get a bit to eat. Whaddaya say, you do a round trip and I'll go over here to the Chinese place-"
"Well, I can't. I can't drive 'cause I can't have a license." 

He looks down at the floor as he says this. There's a dejection in his voice that's real, more truthful than anything he's told me in the past three months. I sense it and try to right the situation.

"Shoot, Nathan, you'd be a pro at customer service. You should get in there. Helping people. You know the system, after all." In truth, he really does. I doubt he'd have any problem doing that job.

Later on, he's at it again. "Hey, Nathan. Guess what? For Christmas, my folks are gonna give me a ride home, so I dont have to ride the bus home." He looks at me waiting for a response, before adding, "sounds like they really care about me, doesn't it?"

"It does sound like they care about you. That's wonderful, them lookin' out for ya." We discuss the specifics of what bus he now wouldn't have to take home on Christmas night. I tell him about the bus I'll be taking on Christmas- as a bus driver, I try to drive as little as possible outside my work, and thus use the bus system quite heavily. There's a yearning palpable in his voice as he changes the subject, saying-

"To be invited to his wedding, Brian's wedding, that's an honor. Sounds like he really cares about me, doesn't it? You get that, right?" Looking straight at me. 
"Yeah, he thought of you, and wanted you to be at his special day."
"Exactly."
"And when I was in the Aurora accident on the 359, man..."

He's talking about the 1998 incident on the 358 (then called the 359, an identical route) where a gunman shot and killed the driver, Mark McLaughlin, resulting in a crash off the Aurora Bridge onto an apartment building that either killed or injured everyone on board. He's claiming he was on it. Lots of people do, though. Anyone who actually was involved doesn't hesitate to tell their story. I know the relief driver who ended his shift on that very trip; Mark had just taken over and started his shift when it happened. As for myself, I'm guilty of doing that as well, in that I tell people how I almost rode that fateful trip; this really was the case. Fate ended up intervening. 

As for Nathan, I'm hesitant to believe his words. I could easily look it up, find out if he was one of the passengers, but I decide not to for some reason. I don't want to know that he's lying. He wants something from people, and I don't want to deprive him of that. And, who the heck knows- maybe he really was on that bus on that day.

"I'm so glad you were okay, Nathan." 
"Me too. I was in the hospital, and Brian Levitt came to check up on me..."

I suddenly found myself wanting to cry. 

Of course he's not telling the truth. Of course he's lying. But the ache in his lonely voice, the desperate yearning for recognition, respect, acknowledgement as an equal, the desire to be thought of as special...that's the truth in what he's telling me. That's the content in his words. We all have that want. There's a nakedness in the emotion behind his words, and it moves me. I don't dispute him or needle at his words. I let him talk it out. 

"Think I'll go out for dinner tonight. That sounds nice, doesn't it."
"It does sound nice," I say in a quiet voice.
"I'm gonna go out tonight, have a nice bottle of wine."
"Where you gonna go?"
"Not sure yet. Somewhere nice, though. Fancy, with nice tablecloth, good service..."

We coast through the darkness as the street numbers get higher and higher. The 358 pursues a straight line, pushing ever onward, deeper and deeper out on the wide, cluttered expanses of Aurora Avenue. The bus starts to empty out. Nathan and I share a comfortable silence as the drama of the route dies down. We're approaching 155th.

"You know, I think I'll get off here tonight."

I look around. There aren't any fancy restaurants anywhere at this stop. There's Safeway, Sears, World Market, and a couple of decent gas stations.

"Gonna stop in at Safeway?"
"Yeah," he says softly. "Gonna pick up something to eat."

He doesn't try to hide it anymore. The facade is lifted for a moment. 
"You have a good night, Nathan."
"I'll see ya," he says, walking unevenly across the parking lot toward the deli entrance. His off-balance gait is unmistakable in the darkness.

Thank you all for your wonderful comments, as usual. Always feel free to leave a remark- remember, I read and respond to every single comment made on this site.

 And now, a round on the 358, down and back~

 Aurora &180th:  A friendly elderly woman with thick, bug-eyed glasses climbs on board. 
"How are you?" 
"Fine," she says with confidence, sounding more like a reflex than anything else. She sits in the chat seat and watches me for a few moments. Finally she says, "I have a question about the bus." 
"Sure."
"Does this route make a stop by the funny farm?"

She'd asked it in a serious voice. I look at her face, which is serious as well. Is she pulling my leg? Sometimes it's best to err on the side of caution-
"I don't know where the funny farm is. Do you know what street it's on?"
"Well, I don't know the address," she says thoughtfully. "I just figured it must go there, since there's so many crazy people on this bus."
(Including the driver, I think to myself.)
"Oh, those are my buddies!"
She's not sure how to take that. But they are.

Northgate Way: A woman- I think she's a woman- I recognize from my days on the 10. Glasses and an oversized outdoor jacket. She did something to one of her tendons, but she'll still be able to make it to practice. She plays basketball. Quit her job at the airport- "too much hard labor at minimum wage, and no opportunity for upward advancement." She does entry-level work at a hotel now. It's good to catch up.

100th: There's a middle-aged fellow who gets on here regularly. Today he has a white coat with a hood. He hardly speaks English, and there's nothing for us to talk about, but both of us are always thrilled to see each other. "Heeeyyyy," I say gleefully. "Heeeyyyy," he responds with a huge smile. Feels good, pulling back onto the road, my smile not fading away just yet.

85th: A man behind me makes a phone call, loudly: "Hey. Yeah. Hey. I'm on the bus now, at Aurora and 85th."
"Me too," I say. The front of the bus laughs. 

Winona and 73rd: Well-dressed, odorless people ride the 358 too. They get on in the Green lake portion of the route. One such lady looks at me with warm amusement. "You don't look old enough to be driving this."
"Maybe I'm not..."

Denny Way: A tall, scruffy older man with a ponytail- definitely didn't get on in Green Lake- pauses as he goes down the front steps to deboard. He'd been muttering to himself for the duration of the trip. Turning his head back toward me dramatically, he says in a conspiratorial voice:
"You're advanced."
I laugh off the compliment, saying "Oh, I don't know about all tha-"
"No. No. You're advanced, dude. You are advanced."
"Well now. Thank you."
"I'm tellin' ya."
"I try!"
"Advanced." It's almost a whisper. He gives me a significant glance and then walks away.

Virginia Street: "Nice to see a driver who actually gives a crap."

Yesler Way: Another man on his phone, speaking accented English at high volume. A grizzled face nearby says, "Can't hear you!" 
As the man continues his phone conversation at deafening volume, not registering Grizzle, Grizzle continues riffing- "could you talk a little louder? I can't hear you so good..." "Excuse me, a little louder, please, speak up a little, can't hear you-"
The man ends his call and puts it together. He sheepishly apologizes. Grizzle ribs him good-naturedly. We all laugh. Sometimes you feel a situation teetering on the brink of a knifepoint. It's a pleasant relief to come down on the right side. 

5th & Main: A young family gets off in benevolent silence. The father, a man with cornrows and a sports jersey, wears a thoughtful face. There is a sense of beginnings. The mother gathers the stroller in the dim blue light, and their toddler gazes wide-eyed with deep brown eyes, following their lead. You can tell they're grateful for being in this cocoon of acceptance. Father says to me quietly, "you have a safe shif'!"

5th & Jackson: "Hey!" 
"Hey!" she responds. She's on the phone, but I know her from the 7, and we recognize each other instantly. I think she's East African, but can't be sure. She ends her call, and we begin a basic conversation about work and school. The words hardly matter, though. Sometimes it's surprising how little substantive value spoken language carries; neither of us speaks the other's first tongue, but it's hardly a barrier. The shared excitement at coming across another familiar, friendly soul is palpable. She works as an usher and takes night classes at Seattle Central. We smile in the darkness. Leisurely approaching the traffic at Pike, light from the sodium streetlamps casting moving shadows on the bus floor. You live for moments like that. 

Pine: "I have a question. Do you to Bell Street?" A young dark-skinned man with an unusually clear delivery. He's enunciating everything. American. 
"I'd be happy to go to Bell Street."
"Amen, brother!" He wobbles slightly as we roll out. Sitting down on the wheelchair seats, he yells, "I love this city! You all are wonderful people!"

I try to keep unstable people talking to me. I'd much rather they engaged me then the others. "You visiting from somewhere else?" I ask. 
"Hell yeah, I'm visiting! And I'm here to PARTY!"
"There you go."
"Hey mister bus driver."
"What's up?"
"You like beatboxing? You know what beatboxing is, where you make the sounds with your mouth?"
"Course I know beatboxing, yeah-"
"Well then, check this out!"

No creative use of my keyboard here will allow me to communicate even a fraction of what came out of this man's mouth. Ostensibly, yes, it was beatboxing, and it was excellent beatboxing at that- in the sense that it was impossible to believe these sounds were in fact being manufactured by a man's vocal cords- but it carried a veneer of loony abandon that can't be replicated. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, sure, but I definitely couldn't believe what I was looking at. His mouth contorted in ways I didn't know were possible. Couldn't possibly be human. You had to be there, I suppose.

I'm wondering how to get him to tone down his beatboxing fervor when he does so on his own, loudly interrupting himself: "I'm happy to be here, Seattle!"
"Where you comin' from?"
"Orlando, Florida, baby."
"A long ways from home!"
"You better believe it! And lemme tell you somethin'!"
"Hit me!"
"I don't be comin' all that way NOT to have a BIG PARTY!"
"Yeah? You didn't wanna have some small party?"
"Hell no, brotha. I came over here from Orlando, Florida, to GET CRAZY. People don't travel-" He paused, restructuring his thoughts- "if I'm comin' all the way from Orlando, Florida-"
"Cross-country-"
"Yeah, Cross-country. If I'm comin' clear cross the Yoo-nited states-" he sounded like a political commentator now, using the tone of voice Al Sharpton does when he's making a point he thinks is obvious- "then I wanna do some serious partyin'!"

"Makes sense to me," I say. 
"Don't nobody need no small get-together," he continues, appropriating African-American English syntax in a way that's clearly not his normal mode of speaking. 
"You wanna make it worth your while!"
"Yeah, I'm gonna get down with all my homies the Seattle-ITES!" he boomed, looking around inside the bus. As luck would have it, this trip was almost entirely commuters, none of whom showed any interest in the ultimate party. Our friend was not to be dismayed, though, enthusiastically wishing me well, his receding cacophony blending into the noise of another Belltown night.

152nd: An older African-American man and I exchange fistpounds; it's the second time I've seen him today. Rhythmic pleasantries roll off our tongues.
A sullen Caucasian teenager in the front looks on. Something about our enthusiasm confuses the boy immensely. "I thought it was cool to be pissed off," you can imagine him saying.

Aurora Village Transit Center: "How old are you?"
"Twelve," I say in a dejected voice. 

135th: Never seen this fellow before. Could be a teacher, could be a machine operator. "Here, have a bookmark," he says. "Let me know what you think of it next time." He's a like-minded soul in some way; it's an excerpt from the Dhammapada. "Deepen your silence," the last lines read. "Be watchful. Enjoy your empty mind." My kind of bookmark. I haven't seen you again, kind sir, but if you read this- thank you. 

130th: A woman in her 20s bounds onto the bus, overweight in an interestingly lopsided, chunky way. She brightens when she sees me, and in her smile I notice a number of teeth are missing. 
"I got my surgery done!" she exclaims, beaming. 
"Excellent!" Have I seen her before? 
"Yeah, they pulled four teeth out! I was awake the whole time!"

I must not remember her, but she certainly remembers me. One of the joys of this gig is getting to talk with people I might never have otherwise met. She stays at the front and we talk about surgeries, landlords, her boyfriend, ways that she covers rent, and more. "My landlord is seventy-six years old, so I clean the rooms for her sometimes. Today I wiped up a whole bucket of blood in one room. Sheets were red, needles everywhere..." she relates the details in a slightly bored voice. No, I wouldn't have met her if I had taken that Barnes and Noble cashier job.

She tells me she's going for a culinary arts degree. At South Seattle? No, she says. At the Art Institute. She's going all out. You can tell she's been told it's out of her league. That she doesn't have what it takes. Her strategy is not to overcompensate with groundless bravado, and nor does she carry the attitude of acknowledged defeat; no, hers is an embodiment of quiet resilience. She will simply continue, on the path of who she is, step by increasing step. 

As she explains in a friendly voice how she'd worked out the funding, I begin to notice something beyond her admittedly slovenly physical appearance.  The missing teeth, asymmetrical features, saliva stains around her mouth, the double chin to rival Henry VIII- none of those are it. These superficialities cease to register. You notice something else, very faint but present. It's the glint in her eyes. In that pinpoint of light is the unspoken confidence of self. Humanity. It's the world reflecting back at you. Didn't the great minds have that spark when they were young too?

Next stop, 125th Street.

*A note of apology goes out to the "303 WeatherWhiner" mentioned here and here. She has come around quite nicely. Good people come in all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds.