"This film by Lars Von Trier is another of my all-time faves. Jean Marc-Barr is wonderful in this, and I have always thought it was very interesting what kinds of roles he chose to take on after The Big Blue. Most of the movie takes place on a train after the war in Germany. Barbara Sukowa is wonderful as are Udo Kier, Max Von Sydow as the narrator and the incredible Ernst-Hugo Järegård (hilarious in The Kingdom)."

"I blame this movie for starting me smoking again when I was in film school in the eighties. After becoming so smitten with all that Anna Karina embodies, I decided to wear blue tights with red skirts and smoke, constantly. Needless to say it did not turn me into Anna Karina—my tights were the wrong shade of blue, and I was hacking like an old granny at the Santa Anita racetrack. Still, I loved the film, wildly, and love her in it. What is so gorgeous about this DVD is, firstly, Anna herself, and nextly, the color is like powdered paint, soft yet vibrant—not just the gorgeousness of everything Karina wears but also the murals on the walls of the strip club where she works, the jukebox from which Charles Aznavour sings. The exteriors, often shot from high angles on rooftops, have the feel and texture of what Paris must have been at that moment. I saw in the booklet that this film was very special for Jean-Luc Godard and Karina. They were in love, they wed, she was pregnant with their baby, and you can feel the exuberance of the romance in this movie. It’s absolutely exhilarating to me, and also incredibly funny. The other amazing feature on the DVD is a short documentary on Anna Karina made in 1966, clearly to promote Anna, the musical Serge Gainsbourg wrote for her. Serge closes the short, talking in the most brazenly sensual, big, bold close-up about Anna’s humor, her voice, and her sex appeal . . . It’s scrumptious!"

"An early work by Resnais. It’s only a half hour long, but I’ve not seen a film of any length that matches it in emotional resonance.
 It transcends the documentary form. I saw it around the time I first saw The Night of the Hunter, in the late fifties, and I was about to film my first documentary. Night and Fog begins with a beautiful color landscape beneath a blue sky. The camera cranes down to reveal a long stretch of barbed wire, followed by shots of vast fields overgrown with tall grass, trees, and wildflowers. The camera tracks slowly across the placid landscape, dotted with abandoned red brick buildings that could have been warehouses or barns; then a sudden shock cut to black-and-white footage of victims of the Holocaust. The long, tracking color shots of the killing fields of Auschwitz and Majdanek, only ten years after the end of the Second World War, are intercut with horrific black-and-white shots of piles of dead bodies, rooms filled with women’s hair, and personal effects. A dry, dispassionate narration is heard throughout, written by Jean Cayrol, a survivor of the camps. Night and Fog is one of Resnais’ first “memory” films and points the way to his later masterpieces, Hiroshima mon amour and . . ."

"My Mancunian grandmother, who left school at sixteen to work, was a very smart, insatiable reader. She was thrilled when I went to study English at university for three years, but still read far more than I did in that time. I remember thinking it might have been better, certainly cheaper, to enroll with her. She would mail me novels (always beautiful editions) and I would read the back, maybe a first line, and then pile them up beside my bed and feel guilty for not having the time amid weekly essays. My experience of ‘reading’ then could be more accurately described as ‘coloring.’ Extended procrastination followed by an intense period of highlighting, looking for key words and retaining nothing. Always in a post-midnight panic. Always, it felt like, incomprehensible lines of Chaucer. By the time it came to final exams, I’d read practically nothing post-1960 and so was pretty clueless in conversations about books other people had read. It wasn’t until after I finished my degree and my grandmother was very sick that I finally discovered the meaning of ‘reading for pleasure,’ and got round to chipping away at the books she’d sent, most of which I’d politely pretended to have enjoyed in my thank-you calls. I began with a beautiful blue Virago edition of Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, and was electrified. As Rhys’ Antoinette and Jane Eyre’s Bertha began to fuse in my mind, connecting an old favorite novel with a new one, the initial electrical jolt turned into a mixture of rage, wonder, and self-reproach for having put the experience off for so long. I realized I’d probably only told her I “liked” it on the phone. I rang her again, admitted the lie, and told her I wanted to write my own. She laughed and said ‘I knew it. Good. Get on with it.’"