13. The Greatest Film Sequences of All Time

After having seen 250 films of a more or less artistic quality, I decided to look back on the past and select my favourite film sequences from the history of cinema. Without intenting to be fully comprehensive (my memory has, I'm sure, failed me on some motion pictures), the following list reflects the results of my decision. However, a few specifications should be made first.

Film is often viewed a synthetic art form, the value of which cannot be entirely measured by its single elements, such as frames or sequences, but by the relation of the latter to the whole film. Therefore it is sometimes very difficult to distinguish outstanding sequences: they may not be separately very significant, although the film as a whole is conceptually interesting (such films are Rashomon (1950) by Akira Kurosawa, Last Year in Marienbad (1961) by Alain Resnais, The Exterminating Angel (1962) by Luis Buñuel, and Teorema (1968) by Pier Paolo Pasolini, to name a few). The list below does not coincide one-to-one with that of my favourite films for this reason, although similarities between these lists are clearly perceivable.

Despite all that, single sequences sometimes seem to reflect the core of a film surprisingly well, as if they were little microcosms of their own. Although I strongly condemn every attempt to divide an artwork into pieces just in order to subject it to the necessities of a certain interpretation, I feel that some of these sequences would not lose their cinematic value even when they are being observed out of context, i.e. without the supporting framework of the whole film structure. This goes for almost all the sequences listed below.

1. The crucifixion of Jesus in Andrei Rublev (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1966).

Due to the fact that the artistic portrayals of the life of Jesus almost always evoke powerful emotions in me, I have considerably high expectations in the motion pictures intentionally dealing with Christian themes. However, none of the sequences depicting the tragic crucifixion of Jesus have ever had a greater cinematic impact on me than the corresponding scene in Tarkovsky's magnificent Andrei Rublev. First, a profound dialogue between the protagonist (Anatoly Solonitsyn) and Theophanes the Greek (Nikolai Sergeyev) on the subject of human goodness takes place (see the beginning of the sequence). Andrei's thoughts representing those of the director himself, it is a typical Tarkovskian discussion on a topic that is, in spite of its timeless nature, never treated in the same way in today's West. Then, direct references to Jesus and comparisons with the New Testament appear in the conversation, and we simultaneously see Son of God carrying his cross in the knee-deep snow of a rough northern winter. Without distorting the essence of the event depicted, ethnical elements are impressively emphasised here to express the director's undying love for his rodina (this is also clearly visible in the famous skomorokh sequence). His masterful insight into the mysterious Russian soul, which finds its utmost perfection in Rublev, makes Tarkovsky for me the greatest Russian humanist after Dostoyevsky.

2. The harem sequence in 8 1/2 (F. Fellini, 1963).

Fellini has a specific role in the triumvirate of my favourite film directors because of his kindness and love of people, as one of his greatest admirers, Andrei Tarkovsky, put it. The Italian's mastery is insurmountable in almost every sequence of 8 1/2, which is, objectively speaking, the most important motion picture I have ever had a chance to see. This is especially evident in the much-analysed harem sequence, which I have, due to its baroque fluidity and exuberance, virtually every time enjoyed within a single breath and which is therefore a quintessential example of what the term 'Felliniesque' means. The sequence is furthermore highlighted by skilful performances, particularly by Marcello Mastroianni's brilliant characterisation of Guido Anselmi, a noted artist who is suffering from director's block as well as marital difficulties and who seeks refuge in highly symbolic memories and phantasies. All this is accompanied by the ingenious score of Nino Rota (see the finale of the film), which turns watching this unique metafilm into an unforgettable artistic experience.

3. The merging faces in Persona (I. Bergman, 1966).

Out of all the eight films I've seen by Ingmar Bergman, Persona definitely belongs to his greatest works for me. Although the plot of the film doesn't seem to have many obvious intersections with my life, which is normally a prerequisite for my in-depth interest, I paradoxically feel that Persona cuts much deeper in my flesh than the rest of Bergman's oeuvre. This may have its roots in the film's tricky composition (see the film's intro) or, even more likely, in its high psychological complexity, which becomes particularly visible in the culmination sequence of the film. The simple physical beauty of the characters portrayed by Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann, cinematographically brilliant close-ups of the two women and subtle yet convincing expressions of the confusion of identity all linked together in Sven Nykvist's famous frames showing the two faces merging into one another, this is a high spot in film history.

4. Saraghina's dance in 8 1/2 (F. Fellini, 1963).

Fellini is, alongside with Bergman and his Fanny and Alexander (1982), one of the greatest masters in reviving scenes from his childhood and turning them into memorable works of art. Although his Amarcord (1973) is full of astonishingly honest and very often sexually motivated walks down memory lane (for example, see the dancing in the mist sequence), none of them can surpass Saraghina's famous dance scene. With its archetypally sensual essence and artistically perfect realisation, the sequence is simply one of a kind.

5. The dream sequence in Stalker (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1979).

The term 'oneiric', which generally refers to the depiction of dream-like states in films, is for me particularly, or even exclusively, related to the works of Andrei Arsenyevich Tarkovsky, for no-one else has gone further here than he did. Tarkovskian dreams, which are typically captured in extremely long takes and transmit sublime spiritual beauty, have amazed me since I first saw Solaris (1972) one and a half years ago, and ever since, I consider him to be the greatest of my cinematic fathers. Many sequences from the three motion pictures Tarkovsky directed in the 1970s in his native Russia belong to my most unforgettable film experiences: the closing sequence of Solaris (1972), the hair-washing sequence in The Mirror (1975) and the railway sequence in Stalker are just a few to mention. However, the dream sequence [sic] of Stalker tops it all; reality seems to be a poor imitation of art next to it. In his Laterna Magica, Ingmar Bergman wrote on Tarkovsky: "When film is not a document, it is a dream. That is why Tarkovsky is the greatest of them all. He moves with such a naturalness in the room of dreams. He doesn't explain. What should he explain anyhow? He is a spectator, capable of staging his visions in the most unwieldy but, in a way, the willing of media. All my life I have hammered on the doors of the rooms in which he moves so naturally." (1) Bergman's self-criticism excluded, I join in the praise.

6. The closing sequence of L'eclisse (M. Antonioni, 1962).

The final sequence of Antonioni's trilogy dealing with the themes of incommunicability and alienation in a modern world astonishes me with its eerily apocalyptic message. Being presented in sharp contrast to the previous scenes of the film, the director's criticism of modernity finds its peak here. Vittoria (Monica Vitti) and Piero (Alain Delon), whose summer fling has lasted for nearly two months, agree to meet on their usual spot by the construction site of a new apartment building in Rome. Instead, we see the place as completely objectified: the camera focuses on empty streets, houses, drainpipes, crossing stripes, street lanterns... Humans have disappeared. Only objects inhabit the depopulated urban landscape. Clara Orban has summarised the core of sequence perfectly: "Perhaps, Antonioni suggests, the desperate attempt of human beings to connect on some level has failed. Modern society may have eclipsed human contact." (2) These extraordinary frames can thus be viewed as a modern version of the Revelation of St. John.

7. The Adoration of the Magi in The Gospel According to St. Matthew (P. P. Pasolini, 1964).

A spiritually haunting sequence by a homosexual atheist whose adaptation of the Gospel of Matthew is widely considered to be one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces about the life of Jesus Christ. Although The Gospel is a prominent example of the film language that seeks its main justification from literature, the mature passion with which Odetta sings her version of Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child adds a special emotional quality to the holiness of the biblical scene. Noteworthy for the simple naturality of the facial expressions and the gestures shared by Mary, Joseph and the Three Wise Men as well the unconventional beauty of the children witnessing the event, the sequence doesn't merely take advantage of the techniques of Italian neorealism but, without a single word said, also explores the depths of humanity.

8. Gustav von Aschenbach dying in Death in Venice (L. Visconti, 1971).

Visconti's greatest appeal to me lies in his interest in the theme of decadence (for an example, see Martin's drag performance in The Damned (1969)). In his remarkably faithful adaptation of Mann's novella, Visconti adds a special spiritual dimension to his treatment. The film is remarkable for the masterful use of Gustav Mahler's music (particularly Adagietto from his fifth symphony) as well as for its main actors, both of whom relate to the original idea of spiritual beauty in a way that excludes all other possibilites for an impersonation. Furthermore, Death in Venice is for me of large significance in an aesthetic sense, since no-one else has been able to capture the lavish charm of the drowning beauty more exquisitely than he did. This is especially apparent in the closing sequence, which, due to its painfully slow pace and languorous mise-en-scène, I think, consists of pure absolutes, and thus it is probably one of the most beautiful moments in the history of cinema.

9. The dance of death in The Seventh Seal (I. Bergman, 1957).

The famous dance of death in the closing sequence of The Seventh Seal is for me, in spite of its accidental birth and shortness, one of the most Bergmanian scenes of all time, whatever the term might mean. Although Bergman's oeuvre is full of iconic sequences - for example, Isak Borg's dream in Wild Strawberries (1957), the laughing cannibals in Hour of the Wolf (1968), nude Anna comforting dead Agnes in Cries and Whispers (1972) as well as the above-mentioned sequences of Persona and a couple of scenes from Fanny and Alexander -, the dance of death is, in my opinion, particularly outstanding for its magic and symbolism (see also Antonius Block's first meeting with Death). With an intellectually captivating and visually beautiful treatment of a metaphysically all-encompassing theme, The Seventh Seal belongs to the greatest cinematic works ever produced and makes Bergman for cinema what Shakespeare is for drama and Mozart for music.

10. Balthazar's death in Au hasard Balthazar (R. Bresson, 1966) and Mouchette's suicide in Mouchette (R. Bresson, 1967).

In spite of, or perhaps due to, Bresson's famous 'actor-model' technique, the goal of which was, by rooting out all the germs of performance and bringing forth the unconscious of the actors, to invent a very specific cinematic language, the final sequences of Au hasard Balthazar and Mouchette impress with their profound simplicity and still manage to be spiritually touching. This is not what one would expect from Bresson's ascetic intellectualism. Both sequences are perfect examples of his distinctive aesthetic style, both convey a message of universal significance; both films are, as Jean-Luc Godard once said, "the world in an hour and a half".

11. Kanji Watanabe singing Gondola no Uta in Ikiru (A. Kurosawa, 1952).

Because of the deeply human essence of the object of Kurosawa's examination (a sick and lonely official's final quest for meaning) and the breathtakingly sad expressivity of the performance by Takashi Shimura, this is one of the most touching sequences in film history.

12. Claudia on the piazza of Noto in L'avventura (M. Antonioni, 1960).

If I had to select a director, whose works are, for me, conceptually the most interesting and intellectually the most compelling, it would be, without any doubt, Michelangelo Antonioni. All his films - particularly Blowup (1966) - have impressed me with their utmost integrity; even in the seemingly most random sequences, the mind of the director is always clearly perceivable. For many, film's directed by Antonioni are extremely long and dull. Orson Welles, for one, expressed his boredom with the Italian director's long takes and brought the following example: "He gives you a full shot of somebody walking down a road. And you think, 'Well, he's not going to carry that woman all the way up that road.' But he does. And then she leaves and you go on looking at the road after she's gone." (3) This is exactly one of the reasons why I am so fascinated by Antonioni's films: such sequences are normally reflections of something much bigger than just an urban stroll (although these strolls are captured so beautifully that one could enjoy watching these without any efforts for intellectualisation). A superficial analysis of the piazza scene in L'avventura reveals nothing more than a sexually motivated struggle. Beyond that, however, an implication to the essential connections between the predatory nature of men, modernisation and alienation in urban surroundings can be found.

13. Ivan and Palagna's wedding in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (S. Parajanov, 1964).

Sergei Parajanov is a very interesting director mainly for his unique film language. His masterpiece entitled The Colour of Pomegranates (1968) is sometimes considered to be one of the most revolutionary cinematic works of all time, since the story of the film is almost entirely carried visually or even aurally (for an example, see the penultimate sequence of the film). For me, Parajanov's oeuvre is insurmountably sacred. This is chiefly so due to the wedding sequence in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors: these five minutes are full of incomparable beauty. The highly symbolic film portraying the harsh Carpathian environment and Ukranian Hutsul culture is therefore very hard to be imitated.

14. The washing sequence in Sebastiane (D. Jarman & P. Humfress, 1976).

In general, scenes depicting male-to-male eroticism in ancient Greece or Rome are for me the most captivating sensually, because characters in those relate to the concept of beauty more intimately than today's heroes and the term 'homosexuality' is not used. Jarman's Sebastiane is an interesting film in that sense, since it concentrates on the idea of universal homosexual [sic] germs rather than that of a homosexual identity (interestingly, the first volume of The History of Sexuality by Michel Foucault was published in the same year in France). As in Fellini's Satyricon (1969), the men depicted in Jarman's film evoke in me a yearning for a totally different type of man. This is even more emphasised by the innocent beauty of the protagonist as well as his boyishly naïve monologues (compare to Eric Emerson's self-exposure in Andy Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966)).

15. The closing sequence of Three Colours: Blue (K. Kieślowski, 1993).

Films by Kieślowski have a special position in my cultural consciousness: although I still see him belonging to today as a film director (Kieślowski died in 1996), he is for me, at least now, the last great auteur in the history of cinema. As one of the main functions of art is, in my point of view, to evoke purifying emotions in people and thereby make them spiritually better, my love for the genius of Kieślowski has probably a lot to do with the existential sadness depicted in his films. For him, sadness seems to be some kind of an objective phenomenon, which has a deep yet inconspicuos effect upon his characters so that it has become an immanent part of them long before they "step out in front of the viewer". The closing sequences of the first episode of The Decalogue (1989) and the final sequence of Blue are good examples of that, as alongside with the anguish caused by a family member's death, the ineluctable sadness characteristic for human life in general reveals itself here to the protagonists. All of this is skilfully emphasised by the ingenious music composed by Zbigniew Preisner, turning these two films into the greatest works of art from the past two decades.

16. The Odessa Steps sequence and the final scene in The Battleship Potemkin (S. M. Eisenstein, 1925).

Eisenstein's chef-d'oeuvre is, alongside with The Birth of a Nation (1915) by D. W. Griffith and The Triumph of the Will (1935) by Leni Riefenstahl, the greatest propaganda film ever produced. The film's culmination scene with its unforgettable frames (raised cannons as if taking aim at the viewer, faces of the crew members anxiously waiting for the first shot of the battle, and an intertitle with the word Братья ('brothers' in Russian) appearing, when it is revealed that the squadron is friendly) clearly justifies the words of Joseph Goebbels, who called Potemkin "a marvellous film without equal in the cinema... anyone who had no firm political conviction could become a Bolshevik after seeing the film."(4) Furthermore, Potemkin is also significant theoretically, since Eisenstein successfully used his montage theories in it. This is particularly visible in the famous Odessa Steps sequence, which is probably the most influential film scene in cinematic history.

17. The underwater sequence in L'atalante (J. Vigo, 1934).

L'atalante very often appears in the lists of the most influential motion pictures of the 20th century, and in my opinion, the film justifiably deserves such an unanimous praise. Apart from Vigo's genius, which is widely recognised, the film's international success has a lot to do with the warm performances of Dita Parlo (she is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen) and Michel Simon (every time he is on screen, I feel warm, safe and amused). Alongside with the film's famous opening sequence, the underwater scene was stylistically very innovative in its time; after first seeing it, I was astonished by the unexpectedly high poetic level of a film produced as early as in the 1930s. Moreover, the sequence confirmed my conviction that most of today's films will never amount to the same artistic height.

18. The lake sequence in Ugetsu monogatari (K. Mizoguchi, 1953).

Ugetsu is a visually stunning ghost story about real priorities in life. The coexistence of the physical and supernatural world and the duality of human soul are depicted here in a poetically slow manner distinctive for Mizoguchi's aesthetics. One of the high spots of the film is the well-known lake sequence, which amazes the viewer with its mythical simplicity and dream-like splendour. Being very often considered to be one of the most visually beautiful films of all time, Ugetsu is an absolute masterpiece of Japanese cinema.

19. The Queensboro Bridge scene in Manhattan (W. Allen, 1979).

Out of all American filmmakers (only David Lynch excluded), I like the films by Woody Allen the most. There are three main reasons for that: his intellect and wit (see the cinema queue sequence in Annie Hall (1977)), his cultural interests (psychoanalysis and European cinema, for example) and his deep love for his hometown, New York City. The iconic bridge sequence, with which Isaac (Allen) and Mary's (Diane Keaton) long night out culminates, beautifully captures the unique atmosphere of the metropol.

20. The closing sequences of Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom (P. P. Pasolini, 1975).

Salò, which is offen referred to as the most controversial motion picture of all time, had a very strong impact upon me with its intensely graphic scenes depicting mental and physical humiliation, sadism and sexual perversions. As those few sequences I had previously seen from it were so eerie that I had severe doubts in whether I was able to watch the entire film right after obtaining a copy of it, it took me a whole week to prepare myself mentally for the experience. Such a suffering, however, turned out to be utterly justified, since the director's sharp criticism of fascism and late capitalism expressed in a Dantean dimension hits the nail on the head. This is particularly visible in the film's closing sequences, which distance the viewer from the horror seen on screen and make him ultimately co-responsible for all this.

1 I. Bergman. Laterna magica. Tallinn: Eesti Raamat, 1989, lk 67-68.
2 C. Orban. Antonioni's Women, Lost in the City. - Modern Language Studies, 2001/2, pp. 22-23.
3 P. Bogdanovich. This is Orson Welles. New York: HarperPerennial, 1992, pp. 103-104.
4 B. Winston. Triumph of the Will. - URL: http://www.historytoday.com/MainArticle.aspx?m=13840&amid=13840 (September 9, 2009).

12. A Hero of All Times

Five and a half years ago, when I first read Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov's novel A Hero of Our Time («Герой нашего времени», 1839/1841), I sympathised greatly with its leading character Grigoriy Alexandrovich Pechorin in that the impressions other characters as well as many other readers and reviewers had of him (and even he had explicitly of himself at times) - namely emotional distance, coldness, calculativity and egocentricism - were in accordance with what I thought was the right way for leading one's life. I was extraordinarily misanthropic, cynical and individualistic back then, and probably because I recognised some sort of a similarity between Pechorin and myself, my support belonged devotedly to the hero when others condemned him deeply. For me Pechorin was a typical Byronic hero whose charismatic strength, social status as an outcast and nihilistic outlook on life made him one of the greatest personages in Russian literature.

After rereading Lermontov's magnum opus with its delightful descriptions of the nature and lifestyle of the people in the Caucasus, the centre of Pechorin's appeal to me shifted significantly. Apart from his selfish adaptiveness, arrogance as well as desire for social and sexual power, which have made him visibly distinguishable from other characters, Pechorin also shows signs of high intelligence, perceptiveness, introvertedness and strong self-criticism. His sharp awareness yet never complete comprehension of himself are accompanyed by his inner emptiness, purposelessness, existential ennui and strong alienation, all of which seem to be reflections of something much deeper than a psychological response to a certain social condition. The following extract from Pechorin's diary brilliantly illustrates this position:

"If I must die, I must! The world will lose little, and I am weary enough of it all. I am like a man who yawns at a ball and doesn't go home to sleep only because his carriage hasn't come."¹

Furthermore, Pechorin's estrangement and deep boredom with life somewhat soften the characteristics of his personality and enable reviewers to see him not merely as a cause of suffering for those surrounding him but also as a vulnerable soul deeply and sharply affected by forces unknown to him. Though often cynically explaining his thoughts and behaviour from his fatalistic and socially distanced point of view, there are a couple of paragraphs in his self-description that show the reader a man in deep despair:

"Yes, such has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read signs of non-existent evil traits in my features. But since they were expected to be there, they did make their appearance. Because I was reserved, they said I was sly, so I grew reticent. I was keenly aware of good and evil, but instead of being indulged I was insulted and so I became spiteful. I was sulky while other children were merry and talkative, but though I felt superior to them I was considered inferior. So I grew envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate. My cheerless youth passed in conflict with myself and society, and fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth, but nobody believed me, so I began to practice duplicity. Having come to know society and its mainsprings, I became versed in the art of living and saw how others were happy without that proficiency, enjoying for free the favors I had so painfully striven for. It was then that despair was born in my heart--not the despair that is cured with a pistol, but a cold, impotent desperation, concealed under a polite exterior and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer. No one noticed this, because no one suspected there had been another half."

At the end of Princess Mary, Pechorin's feelings for Vera, the only woman who loves him no matter what, are far more deeper and complex than he allows himself to think, and his emotional state after the duel with Grushnitsky described by himself in the second part of the novel and by the unknown narrator and Maxim Maximytch in the first shows traits of depression indicating that there is a decisive difference between who he makes himself out to be and who he really is. Therefore, there is a sharp contradiction between Pechorin's mind and soul or, as you wish, ego and id: wanting to understand himself intellectually more deeply, his mind is full of explanations and justifications about his inner self, which is not unveiled through this operation but even more concealed.

Apart from Pechorin's own diligent yet poor comprehension of himself, even other two major narrators of the novel - an unknown army officer, who has been suggested to be the author himself, and Maxim Maximytch, an older colleague of Pechorin - don't seem to throw light into the question about his psychological core. Although Lermontov has built up the novel using the technique of multiperspectivity (making it thus a precursor for the cinematic concept known as the Rashomon effect), neither any particular perspective separately nor all of them as a whole provide an adequate translation about Pechorin's soul. Therefore the "truth" of the novel can never be final. Sigmund Freud has stated that one of the main goals of his psychoanalysis was to bring everything in the subconsciousness into daylight, i.e. to make its contents fully conscious. Lermontov seems to have known more than half a century before Freud that the deepest sources of humanity will always remain untransmittable and human soul can never be completely understood.

In his essay Authors and Writers (1960), Roland Barthes claimed that whereas a writer uses the language merely as a means for forwarding the thought and does not generally admit that his message is reflexive, the author knows that his language inaugurates ambiguity and "offers itself, paradoxically, as a monumental silence to be deciphered".² In A Hero of Our Time, Pechorin's whole personality - in fact, due to the purpose and the composition, the whole plot of the novel - is a reflection of the above-mentioned silence, which makes Lermontov a big author rather than "just" a writer in a Barthesian sense. One might try decipher the silence, but the attempt will always be incomplete, for a human being can never be a fully centralised subject, an executor of his free will, a skilled translator of his own soul. Therefore, it is understandable why the author claims the novel to be not just a portrait of one man but "a portrait built up of all our generation's vices in full bloom". It stunningly portrays the unbearability of being a human, and Pechorin should not be associated with a certain socio-cultural era but could be called as a hero of all times.

1 This and the following extracts from the novel have been taken from its English translation by Martin Parker (available on the Internet: http://www.ibiblio.org/eldritch/myl/hero.htm).

2 R. Barthes. Critical Essays. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1972, p. 147.

11. I Was Happy

I've never seen myself as a mentally stable person. There have always been too many controversial lines in me so that I've come to the conclusion that in order to have a healthy and wholesome identity - if one could possibly exist - many high obstacles must be overcome. Partly due to that, I spent two weeks at a mental hospital in February this year. While being there, amongst people of my own kind, I found many answers I had been previously looking for in myself and, what is even more important, I almost felt normal. I got the confirmation to what I had been scared to acknowledge myself as a child: that the biggest issue in my life has always been, is and probably will be, said in a very general way, the intercourse between me and the society. Although I have always known that a neurosis that dates back to an early childhood could never be rooted out within a couple of weeks, I got some energy for going on, and I hoped that falling back into the same routine of everyday life would not take it away from me as quickly as I had got it. I didn't know then that being in another environment for nearly a month after the realisation has an even better therapeutic impact upon me.

I was in the United States with my ex from February 20 to March 15. We visited altogether seven different places in the eastern parts of the USA and on the Caribbean Sea, and the trip could therefore be entitled as a highlight sightseeing experience of my life. Within a couple of weeks we were lucky enough to visit the historical streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, enjoy picturesque beaches on a beautiful Spanish Virgin Island as well as dig into the cultural variety of New York City. However, the nearer the end of our trip came and the more I shared my experiences with my family and friends later, the more I was sure that compared to cultural objects, many of which now live their own life, and natural objects, which are literally alive, nothing forwards the vibe of the life there better than contacts with local people. Before leaving Estonia I was generally disappointed in people. While flying back from New York to London I realised that I like people and I'm happy to be one of them.

Before landing at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport on the evening of February 21 I was never really fascinated by the United States as a country nor its culture in comparison to that of Europe. What I probably thought back then was that almost everything travelling to America could offer me is intellectually limited and thus culturally secondary. There were, I think, only three experiences I would have liked to have in the land of opportunities. First, I definitely wanted to visit New York. In later years my wish had a lot to do with Sex and the City, one of the greatest TV-shows that literally personified a place in a superb way. Secondly, I was very fond of the Southern United States and New Orleans in particular, for its ethnical and cultural eclecticism and covert traditions caught my interest in a more profound way than any certain historical event could have done. And last but not least, I was very interested in the nature of the West because it represents to me the vastness where Americans have taken their energy from and which is something one can never experience in Europe. During our trip I managed to visit New York as well as New Orleans, both of which I consider to be my favourite cities of the world (probably due to my strong fixation on these cities beforehand), so I managed to fulfil two of above-mentioned goals. However, earlier than that going to the United States would have probably never come under question as long as my interest in European cultures had not been exhausted. The USA was something lower for me, and I was exceptionally proud that I lived in Europe.

What made the situation worse was my general prejudice towards American people. Without wanting to concentrate on all the stereotypes that prevail in Europe and reflect both superiority and arrogance (and are thus exaggerations), I know now that the emotion that governed my judgement back then was fear. I thought, for example, that as Americans tend to be more obsessed with traditional values (including virility) they are also more homophobic, and for me that would mean cautiousness and insecurity in public. More than that, I made a very clear distinction between Americans and Europeans saying that the social context I was going to invade in for nearly a month has only a few similarities to that of the Old World. Even though my ratio reminded me that I should concentrate on the bridge that links the two continents together, and despite the fact that my shrink suggested me not to worry about the temporary change of environment as America is not North Korea, I was still quite frightened. It's logical to conclude from all of this that these negative thoughts were there to be proven wrong. Today I'm rather afraid of Estonians but I love Americans, and it seems to be a normal state of my mind.

The reason why I look back upon our trip with such warm emotions is largely caused by what I already referred to above. In almost every city we visited my contact with locals was substantially different from how I usually get along with people here in Estonia. For example, in Chicago, which was our first stop ever in the USA, we had a very funny welcome-to-the-city experience. Having just arrived from the airport, we were looking for the way to our hotel in the Loop, which surprisingly seemed to lack of people on a Saturday evening. Suddenly a guy came towards us on the street and posed us a highly inconvenient question in a very straightforward yet friendly way. Without being sure whether or not we had misheard him, our faces expressed pure indifference until he repeated his question: "Are you guys hustlers? I'm sorry, but you look like you are..." I don't remember precisely what we replied, but I know I was pretty confused about the whole situation at the beginning. However, later at the hotel when I was trying to fall asleep after a nice warm shower, a big smile appeared in my face. I was not defeated by the fact that a regular bloke on the street probably thought that I have sex with guys for money. Not at all. To be honest, I was pretty flattered. The direct attention we caught quite shortly after having arrived - it was basically our first hour in the New World - turned it into a very positive experience and I didn't feel as a victim of insult. In Estonia, if someone stands out in public (not that I think I normally get so much attention), he or she will probably be directly or indirectly critisised. Even if someone has positive thoughts about how this person looks like, the latter will never be aware of them. I am glad I was not in Estonia at that time.

Another motive for the expression of my vanity (in my mental condition, I consider moderate vanity to be a good thing) has to do with our stay in New Orleans, Louisiana. Nearly as in the Windy City, we had just brought the luggage into our guesthouse and were about to get acquainted to the downtown when three very young yet rather handsome guys contacted us spontaneously on the street and invited us to enjoy the Carnival with them. Canal Street and the French Quarter were filled with people on that evening, for the world famous Mardi Gras events were taking place there. And instead of enjoying the event yearningly from the distance, we dug into the crowds and became a part of the Big Easy. In Estonia it's quite difficult for me to make new friends, and I tend to be quite shy in the situations that require from me a deeper social engagement than I've got used to. In the United States it was not an issue for me. Not at all. When in Estonia I have always excluded myself from other people claiming that I want to belong to the group yet have a specific role in it, then particularly in New Orleans I realised that even an occasional blending in with others gives me a lot of strength and positive energy. Therefore I also had to correct my thoughts about the value of mass culture. During Mardi Gras I concluded that a piece of culture which Modernist elitarians would claim to be unworthy but which has the support of many people who fill their lives with it is not necessarily worse than, for example, the literature of Kafka or the cinema of Eisenstein. One shouldn't forget that masses too have the power.

Compared to other cities we visited in the US, the people in New Orleans were the friendliest. Again, when I have to examine side by side what I saw there with the way I see the life in Tallinn, things are quite different. People in Estonia desperately want to socialise but are very often afraid to do so, for it's easier to go on in the way things have always been done instead of grabbing the result one yearns for. Thus, Estonians prefer to avoid getting involved and therefore risk being unhappy. In New Orleans, on the other hand, direct communication is so elementary that introvertedness could under certain circumstances be interpreted as impoliteness. I was happy to experience there that even a slight expression of attention by someone who I would probably never meet again could actually make my day. When a driver sees you trying to locate where you are on the map and stops his car specifically for helping you, or when a cashier at Walgreens cracks a friendly joke on you, then of course you will realise what the Big Easy really means. Therefore I am very grateful to Cody, Anthony and Zach, who introduced us to New Orleans, the city which since the morning of our departure to Miami could be, according to Louis Armstrong, called as "the city where I left my heart".

The first impression I had of Miami was rather negative. Was it caused by the fact that we were sleeping at the airport the previous night and therefore could neither get proper sleep nor wash ourselves in the morning, or had it anything to do with my insecurity about my looks under these circumstances, I don't know. At the end of our first day in South Beach I was slightly disappointed in the city, for although the people were all toned, tanned and stylish it looked like they had lost everything that makes a person visually interesting for me. Therefore there seemed to be a lot of false glamour as well. However, the following days changed my views radically, and now I think that out of all the cities we visited Miami was the biggest surprise.

As South Beach has a large gay community and the locals don't make a fuss of seeing two guys showing their affection for one another in public, even walking down the local streets can be an extraordinary event for an Estonian homosexual who in his own familiar environment is probably quite neurotic about the fact that he likes to take it up the ass. Local guys there are not afraid of approaching someone who they think is physically attractive, and as a "Hi! How are you?" is an easy start for a conversation, no-one sees a reason for concealing an important part of one's identity. On the contrary, being in Miami gave me a lot of sexual confidence. I realised there that intellectualisations about why it is so hard to be gay in Estonia cannot be used as an excuse for one's denial-based behaviour. Showing another person that one likes a certain aspect of him or her (in the most general meaning) is not something to be ashamed of. Everyone wants to be happy. Eastern Europeans just have to overcome some additional obstacles while reaching for that. That's all.

During our whole journey open attitudes toward sex and sexuality dominated. A couple of funny incidents happened to us in Puerto Rico. First we spent five days on a beautiful island called Vieques, which has quickly become an important resort for gay and lesbian travellers in the Carribbean region. As we stayed in a small town where there are no ATMs and roosters play the role of an alarmclock, we didn't really expect meeting many people of our own kind. However, once at the local supermarket a regular guy turned to my ex and honestly, without warning, tried to "help" us by suggesting that if we are looking for a hook-up we should go to the local yacht club and meet his colleague there for this purpose. In the morning of our departure we found out that because of horrible weather conditions the ferry on which we planned to leave the island has been cancelled, and therefore we had to change our plans. Together with a nice lesbian couple who also stayed at our guesthouse (owned by another two lesbians) we managed to find a solution to our problem, and we arrived successfully in San Juan. There I got some attention from students on a school bus, and one of them waved me in a humorous way as if he were gay, too. I replied with the same gesture, and all the students began to laugh. Usually I feel really bad in such situations, as I tend to overrationalise things and interpret them in the most negative way. In Old San Juan, when I listened to the laughter of the kids on the bus I realised that they did not laugh at me because they thought I looked somewhat ridiculous. They laughed at the joke we were all involved in, and that was positive. Although being gay is not and has never been the central issue of my life, it was nice to admit that neither is it for other people.

Compared to all American (and Puerto Rican) cities we visited during our trip, I would glorify New York the most. I fell in love with it as soon as I saw the skyline of Manhattan through the window of the bus we took from Washington, DC (which, except for Georgetown, didn't impress me that much). Walking on Fifth Avenue early in the morning, a coffee in one hand and a doughnut in other, and yearning for a piece of jewellery in front of a display window of Tiffany's as Audrey Hepburn once did is a must-do in New York. Being a part of the crowds on Times Square and running with people along Broadway is something I have never experienced anywhere. Admiring masterpieces by Matisse, Picasso, Pollock, Warhol, van Gogh, de Chirico, and Rousseau in the Museum of Modern Art, which I now consider to be one of the best art museums I have visited, and enjoying the view from the Cloisters on the Hudson River in Bronx belong to my lightest memories of New York. I also enjoyed small parks of Manhattan and Tudor City, all surrounded by wonderful buildings and scattered with men walking dogs and children on the playgrounds - being there on a foggy spring day was almost surreal. Looking across the East River next to the Queensboro Bridge, which was captured by Woody Allen in his Manhattan and has now become an iconic symbol, was something I definitely wanted to do. Even returning to our apartment after a long day out was not a disappointment, for knowing that somewhere there, near Madison Avenue and 72nd Street, lived marvellous Carrie Bradshaw put a smile in my face. The pure fact that New York City is full of cultural references of large significance on a global scale means that I was never bored there.

What I enjoyed most in the Big Apple was not admiring famous landmarks nor shopping in Saks Fifth Avenue or Bloomingdale's but being a part of the atmosphere of the city that never sleeps, especially while walking down its streets and avenues. The kind of anonymity I have always been looking for... well, I got it. In Estonia I have an eye contact with most people that come towards me on the street. Soon after the end of our trip I had a realisation that it is probably caused by my insecurity and I probably do it to find out people's thoughts of me. In New York, the only eye contacts I had were with another gay guys. It seems to me that as people there have got used to the variety the world has to offer being somewhat different is not really such a big deal. The same thing can be said about the attitudes of local homosexuals. In Eastern Europe, the gay guys who take care of their looks and have successfully become a part of the gay scene very often seem to think that being gay, looking good and having many friends is something exclusive. In the United States, on the other hand, a healthier kind of attitude towards one's sexuality seemed to prevail and people are more interested in who one is in general, not who he or she sleeps with. At Estonian gay venues one might easily feel as on a meat market. In the USA I realised that it doesn't necessarily have to be so.

During the trip I also had several prearranged encounters. In Miami we had a meeting with Pedro, one of my first MSN contacts who I have known for about six years. As we stayed in South Beach and were interested in seeing some other parts of Miami, he was kind enough to show us around. As on that evening there was a reggae concert taking place in Bayfront Park filled with pot-smoking Jamaicans, listening to the music of Bob Marley reminds me of the time I spent there with my friends. In New York I met Sebastien, a French researcher from the Columbia University, who I have known for only six months but who, I think, knows me more than many other people. When I look back on the evening we spent together, I perceive an image of the two of us walking through dark and cold Central Park, NYPD cars and yellow cabs driving on the distance. In New York I also met Alon, who I had three encounters and great fun with. We went to two lounges in Hell's Kitchen to see a drag show, and even though at the beginning I was suspicious of whether I might like it or not, I really enjoyed it. On my last day in New York he also introduced me to his friends, and when I was running from his place through the Central Park to our apartment in Upper East Side to get my luggage and be off to the airport, I realised that to me he somehow represented everything positive New York has to offer and I almost felt like a Pavlov's dog.

What our trip to the USA gave me exceeded all my expectations, and I managed to do everything I had previously planned. In fact, there were so many spontaneous incidents we experienced that missing, for example, the Arlington National Cemetery or the Metropolitan Museum of Art would not have worsened my mood. However, there were four things I didn't manage to do in real. I couldn't go to a tour on a typical Louisiana bayou, something I've always wanted to see. We also didn't have a chance to admire a very unique bioluminescent bay in Vieques, Puerto Rico. In the MoMA, I couldn't see The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí, one of my favourite Surrealist works, just because I had no idea that the piece belongs to the collection of the museum. Another thing I missed in New York cripples my heart the most. At the last night of our stay in New York Alon invited me to the Chelsea Hotel, which has always been of big significance for me due to the fact that it used to be a residence for celebrities such as Leonard Cohen, Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jack Kerouac, and the Andy Warhol Superstars, all of whom are important to me. Although earlier that day I had a stroll with my ex in Chelsea and we also admired the façade of the hotel, I was sick in the evening and wasn't thus able to go out. The next day Alon told me that instead of the Chelsea Hotel he went to his friend's cocktail party and, as a surprise, no-one else than Debbie Harry performed there. As Blondie is one of my favourite bands of all time, I was extremely sad that I couldn't pay farewell to New York in the late 1970s way. Despite the above-mentioned things I absolutely loved my stay in the USA. I liked myself there more than I do in Estonia. I forgot all the problems I have in Tallinn. Even these sudden headaches I regularly have here were more like a bad dream when I was in the United States. What tops it all... I was happy.

When I flew back to Europe I was still under the enigmatic impact New York had left on me. At Heathrow I heard after a very long time people speaking Estonian, and that brought me back to reality. Furthermore, in Stockholm we took an Estonian Air flight to Tallinn, and what shocked me most was the way a flight attendant welcomed us. Compared to the English "Hi!", which sounds so soft and friendly, Estonian "Tere!" reminds me of the raucous voice of Joseph Goebbels. At that moment I knew that it is almost mandatory for me to keep the positive energy I got from the US.

In Tallinn I realised that my behaviour compared to the way I acted before the beginning ouf our trip had changed in at least two aspects. First, I did not look at the faces of other people in public so that I occasionally missed the people to whom I would have normally said "Tere!". Secondly, as the traffic lights in the USA are much bigger than those in Estonia, the latter seemed to be extraordinarily tiny, and every time I wanted to cross the street, I was happy that I was living according to American mode. I hoped that I could keep this view of life. I hoped that the traffic lights in Tallinn would always be small for me. Now these lights are not small any more, and I look for an eye contact with people on the street.

What gives me strength and reminds me that life is not as meaningless as it sometimes seems is an image of me at my second night in Manhattan. I had just met Alon, we had fucked, and I was on my way back to my apartment. It was 3 o'clock in the morning, and I was walking down 59th Street. I was listening to the voices of the night, and the smell of horse shit found its way into my nostrils. There were no people out except for a couple of street preachers who were trying to spread the message of Jesus. I looked up and saw the skyscrapers in lights, and being stunned by such an urban beauty I suddenly realised: "This is what life means. This is where I want to be. This is what I want to do. I'm in New York. Everything is possible here. I want to be a part of it. I am a part of it. I'm happy." And I was happy.

10. Sunniviisiline pealkiri

Ma ei saa magada. Diivanil on see lõhn. Põrandal ei saa... Kõik mõtted keerlevad peas. Isegi ei keerle. Aga ma tean, et need on seal OLEMAS. Ja see ei lasegi mul magada. Süda peksleb juba ei tea mitmendat tundi. Kõik väriseb. Justkui oleks minu sees tiksuma hakanud äratuskell, mis kohe-kohe helisema hakkab. Hingan vaid mehaaniliselt, nagu lõõts. Pea on raske ja vajub kogu aeg alla. Peggy Bundy irvitab telekas. Aga ma ei suudagi kellelegi silma vaadata. Ma ei suuda inimese kujugi taluda. Naervaid inimesi ei või enam välja kannatada. Tundub, et nad irvitavad MINU üle. Inimene on roiskuv liha, millest saaks gurmaanidele hea raguu. Lõustad kõdunevad Francis Baconi maalil. Meeste lõhn on vastik. Selles on ülbust, enesekesksust, eluviha. Inimesi toodetakse konveieril nagu Pasolini kiirtoitu. Pean end sundima midagi tegema, kuni väsimusest kokku kukun. Tahan kõndida, kuni enam ei jõua. Tahan uppuda lumme, kuni enam välja ei paista. Tahan külmuda, kuni enam ei tunne. Tahan magada, kuni kõik on meelest läinud. Tahan olla nii, nagu olin kõige alguses. Kaua. Võib-olla igavesti. Olen egoist, teen vaid haiget. Faust ilma Mephistopheleseta. Ei huvitagi enam, et kõik teada saavad. Mis neil sellest? Niikuinii mõtlevad, mida tahavad. Võtsin tablette. Mitu tükki. Lootsin, et need teevad mind haigeks. Aga isegi pea ei käi ringi. Ja vist enam haigemaks ei annagi minna. Sel polegi tähtsust. Mitte millelgi pole tähtsust.

9. Film Statistics (-2008)

For me, the year 2008 could be entitled as "The Great Film Year". Out of the total amount of 168 films of more or less quality I have ever seen, I managed to enrich my experience with 122 fictional and avant-garde films over the last year. Before that, seeing films was just a way of spending time for me. As I was more interested in books back then, my contact with cinema was very rare and the inner quality of these few films was not much of a factor for me. However, in February 2008 I realised that a film could also be seen as a possible piece of art. Henceforth, I have paid very high attention to the inner value of the motion pictures I chose out to watch. In order to have a thorough overview of them, I have created a list of the films I have already seen as well as a list for those I am planning to see in the future. The lists are not complete, for cheap and pointless films produced for the masses are generally not included. They primarily contain only those very often found in the lists of the films considered the greatest ever. However, the lists sketch the baselines of what I like and what not in art, and giving an overview of this is also the main goal of this piece.

1. Films by Country¹

As for the countries producing films, I prefer the pictures that could be put under the term "non-Hollywood". Nonetheless, one cannot deny Hollywood's capability of making deep and powerful films, which is one of the reasons why films produced in the United States are the most frequent in the list of the films I have seen, forming 29,2 % of the total. Out of 49 American films, 31 have been made in Hollywood, which comprises 62,6 % of all American films and 18,5 % of all films. Pictures produced in Europe can most often be found in the list. 109 films are of European origin, which forms 64,9 % of the total. When it comes to European countries producing films, France is with 27 films (16,1 % of the whole) the most prominent, followed by Italy and Germany both with 14 films (8,3 %). Only three Estonian films can be found in the list.² Films made outside the United States and Europe are rather rare in the list, comprising only 6 % of the total. The films of the most exotic origin are "Black Orpheus" (Brazil, 1959) by Marcel Camus and "The Wind Will Carry Us" (Iran, 1999) by Abbas Kiarostami. "Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors" (Soviet Union, 1964) by Sergei Parajanov could also be mentioned due to its detailed portrayal of Ukrainian Hutsul culture.

The countries most frequently found in the list are following:

1. The United States (49 films / 29,2 %);
2. France (27 films / 16,1 %);
3. Italy (14 films / 8,3 %);
4. Germany (14 films / 8,3 %);
5. The United Kingdom (11 films / 6,5 %);
6. Sweden (9 films / 5,4 %);
7. Denmark (9 films / 5,4 %);
8. The Soviet Union / Russia (7 films / 4,2 %);
9. Spain (7 films / 4,2 %);
10. Poland (4 films / 2,4 %).³

Concentrating on films produced in the countries rare or even nonexistent in the list is one of my objectives for 2009. I would like to see more pictures made in other European countries (for example, in Finland, Iceland, Hungary, Belgium, Greece, and Portugal). As I am not much acquainted to the works of many major British film directors (e.g. Powell and Pressburger, David Lean, and Carol Reed), I want to expand my knowledge in British cinema as well. Another goal for me for the beginning year is to see more outstanding oriental films.

2. Films by Year/Decade

My strongest support goes to the films made earlier than yesterday. The oldest film in my list is "The Birth of a Nation" (1915) by D. W. Griffith. As modernism is one of my favourite directions in cinema and culture in general, my favourite decades in the history of filmmaking are the 1920s (particularly German and Soviet cinema of the period) and the 1960s. The 1970s also belong next to these decades, whereas from many films of the 1930s I expected more than I experienced. Nonetheless, newer films comprise the biggest part of the list of the pictures I have seen. Films produced in years 2000-2007 form 31,5 % of the total, followed by films of the 1960s (13,7 %). Therefore, the richest years in film are 2000, 2002, and 2004 (8 films each), followed by 2007 (7 films), and 2001, 2005, and 2006 (6 films each). Paradoxically, in 2008 I did not see any films finalised and first shown in the same year.

The decades from which I have seen the most films:

1. 2000s (53 films / 31,5 %);
2. 1960s (23 films / 13,7 %);
3. 1970s (21 films / 12,5 %);
4. 1990s (21 films / 12,5 %);
5. 1950s (19 films / 11,3 %).⁴

The most fruitful years in the list are following:

• 2000, 2002, 2004 (8 films each);
• 2007 (7 films);
• 2001, 2005, 2006 (6 films each);
• 1959, 1960, 1961, 1972, 1999 (5 films each);
• 1950, 2003, 2007 (4 films each).

3. Films by Director

My favourite film directors are Ingmar Bergman and Andrei Tarkovsky because of their depth and spirituality, visual imagery and style. They are followed by the Italians Federico Fellini for his depiction of the vague distinction between hallucinatory and "real" world as well as his treatment for the collective unconscious, Michelangelo Antonioni for his usage of narrative and cinematography, and Pier Paolo Pasolini for the social message his films include. I also like the pictures by Rainer Werner Fassbinder and the "Three Colours" trilogy by Krzysztof Kieślowski. David Lynch, a strongly European-influenced filmmaker is my favourite director from the United States. His name can be found next to Ingmar Bergman and Alfred Hitchcock, for their works are the most frequent out of all the directors in the list.

The most frequent directors are following:

• I. Bergman, A. Hitchcock, and D. Lynch (6 films);
• L. von Trier (5 films);
• P. Almodóvar, L. Buñuel, F. Fellini, A. Tarkovsky (4 films);
• M. Antonioni, P. P. Pasolini, R. W. Fassbinder, K. Kieślowski (3 films).

The main directors whose films I want to see more are, among many others, Akira Kurosawa, Jean-Luc Godard, Robert Bresson, Stanley Kubrick, Michael Haneke, Woody Allen, and Kim Ki-duk. Unfortunately, there are only a few films by Michelangelo Antonioni, Andrei Tarkovsky and Krzysztof Kieślowski that I have not yet seen, which is why I am procrastinating the pleasure.

4. Films by Rating

I rate every film I have seen to make a difference between good and excellent films. The pictures which I find perfect obtain an A-grade (10 points out of 10) from me. The pieces to which I have given a B-grade (9 points out of 10) are objectively as good as the films in the A-category. The only difference is that the films of the B-category lack of something indescribable that would make them perfect. If I had to characterise the films of the both categories, I would use the same adjectives. Thus, the line between them is extremely vague. The C-category (8 points out of 10) also contains very good films, but those lack a bit of the essence of a great film. When I have to describe a film of the C-category, I would use the expressions "very good" or "surprisingly good", but not "perfect". As the description shows, the whole mechanism of rating is very subjective, and the following results reflect less general reactions of the public than my personal preferences for film.

The complete list of the A-category films:

• The Seventh Seal (I. Bergman, 1957);
• Persona (I. Bergman, 1966);
• Death in Venice (L. Visconti, 1971);
• Solaris (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1972);
• Three Colours: Blue (K. Kieślowski, 1993).

The complete list of the B-category films:

• The Battleship Potemkin (S. M. Eisenstein, 1925);
• Metropolis (F. Lang, 1927);
• Bicycle Thieves (V. de Sica, 1948);
• Wild Strawberries (I. Bergman 1957);
• L'avventura (M. Antonioni, 1960);
• 8 1/2 (F. Fellini, 1963);
• Blowup (M. Antonioni, 1966);
• Teorema (P. P. Pasolini, 1968);
• Satyricon (F. Fellini, 1969);
• Cries and Whispers (I. Bergman, 1972);
• Salò or the 120 Days of Sodom (P. P. Pasolini, 1975);
• Stalker (A. Tarkovski, 1979);
• Berlin Alexanderplatz (R. W. Fassbinder, 1980);
• Blue Velvet (D. Lynch, 1986).⁵

The incomplete list of the C-category films:

• Nanook of the North (R. J. Flaherty, 1922);
• Ikiru (A. Kurosawa, 1952);
• Ordet (C. T. Dreyer, 1955);
• The 400 Blows (F. Truffaut, 1959);
• Breathless (J.-L. Godard, 1960);
• Last Year in Marienbad (A. Resnais, 1961);
• Au hasard Balthazar (R. Bresson, 1966);
• Belle de jour (L. Buñuel, 1967);
• A Clockwork Orange (S. Kubrick, 1971);
• The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (R. W. Fassbinder, 1972);
• The Mirror (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1975);
• Wings of Desire (W. Wenders, 1987), etc.

It's extremely hard for me to value the likability of newer films in comparison with those made earlier in the 20th century. For example, though I like "The Lives of Others" (2006) by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck very much, it's rather difficult for me to value it amongst classic films. In many newer films there is something specifically characteristic for them that can not be found in most older pieces (a sort of reversed proportionality between intellectual and emotional depth, for example). Therefore, when it comes to rating the films I have seen, I have made a clear distinction: films produced later than in 1994 belong to the separate list of contemporary films.

The best contemporary films in the list are:

1. The Hours (S. Daldry, 2002);
2. Mulholland Dr. (D. Lynch, 2001);
3. Inland Empire (D. Lynch, 2006);
4. The Queen (S. Frears, 2006);
5. The Lives of Others (F. Henckel von Donnersmarck, 2006);
6. Downfall (O. Hirschbiegel, 2004);
7. Talk to Her (P. Almodóvar, 2002);
8. Songs from the Second Floor (R. Andersson, 2000);
9. 3-Iron (Kim Ki-duk, 2004);
10. Dancer in the Dark (L. von Trier, 2000).

There are also several films considered greatest ever by many film scholars which do not belong to my favourites at all. For example, "Citizen Kane" (1941) by Orson Welles was for me, quoting Ingmar Bergman, "a total bore". I support the idea of it being one of the most innovative works in the history of film, yet for me innovativity itself does not turn a bad film into a good one (it's not a bad film, but for me it is not the greatest either). "The Rules of the Game" (1939) by Jean Renoir had the same effect on me. However, I must admit that my dislike could be caused by my tendency to be interested in films of a certain kind, which does not let me see the whole value of the films that are different from my subjective preferences.

By the end of the year 2008, I have seen a large amount of the pictures mandatory in the lists of the film freaks interested in European cinema. There are, however, several exceptions. For example, "L'eclisse" (1962) by Michelangelo Antonioni and "Andrei Rublev" (1966) by Andrei Tarkovsky are still waiting for its turn. My main goal for the film year 2009 is to convert my taste in films into a more distinguished passion.

1 In the list, if the film was produced under the co-operation of several countries, the setting of the film (the language and the location, in particular) determines which one of them has been taken into account for the statistics. For example, there are many films produced in co-operation of France and Italy. Therefore, let's say, the Italian-language film "The Gospel According to St. Matthew" (1964) by Pier Paolo Pasolini acts as an Italian film in the list. If the described method is not possible (for example, the film takes place in Ancient Rome and it has been entirely recorded in Vulgar Latin), the nation of the director has a decisive role. The same goes for the pictures which scenes take place in the countries that do not belong to the circle of producers. Films by Lars von Trier are a good example. Although his "Breaking the Waves" (1996) is an English-language film produced in the co-operation of Denmark, Sweden, France, Netherlands, Norway and Iceland and set in the Scottish Highlands, for the statistics it is still a Danish film. However, Antonioni's "Blowup" (1966), which is an English-language picture produced in the UK, Italy and the USA and set in London, does not act as an Italian film.

2 The list does not include Estonian films produced earlier than in 1991.

3 Although there are an equal number of Italian and German films, Italy is ranking third and Germany forth in the list. It is caused by the fact that one Italian film belongs to the A-category of the list, whereas the best German films are a part of the B-category (see below). The same goes for the rankings of Sweden and Denmark as well as the Soviet Union / Russia and Spain.

4 As there are two films made in the 1970s in the A-category of the list and only one made in the 1990s, the ranking of the 1970s is higher.

5 Although my favourite work by David Lynch is "Twin Peaks" (1990-1991), a show produced for television, it's not included in the list. The same goes for the 1981 British show "Brideshead Revisited". On the other hand, "Berlin Alexanderplatz" (1980) by Rainer Werner Fassbinder can be found in the list, as for me it is essentially an epic film (the final episode of it, in particular) despite it formally being a television series. In the list of the 1000 greatest films by "They Shoot Pictures, Don't They?", a website dedicated to art films, "Berlin Alexanderplatz" has also been included (ranking the 213th position).