"Fantasia" (Various, 1940)
How Does It Dazzle? After only two completed animated features, Walt Disney embarked on something that even today would be considered wildly ambitious: a 2 hour + collection of short films set to pieces of classical music, brought to life theatrically with the use of "Fantasound," a cutting-edge sound system that predated more sophisticated surround sound technologies (it was the first commercial film exhibited in stereophonic sound). The animation was beautiful and experimental – from the luscious bounce of the "Dance of the Hours" segment to the apocalyptic gloom of the "Night on Bald Mountain" segment – it was the result of a collection of animators, at the top of their game, already deconstructing the format they had just invented, led by a man whose restless imagination would go on to inspire whole generations. A sequel (which was something that Walt toyed with and even did preliminary planning for), "Fantasia 2000," was released 60 years later, under the supervision of Walt's nephew, and while that film certainly has moments of wonder, for sheer, eye-popping spectacle (not to mention newness), the original is still the best. And not just because "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" is one of the best uses of the Mickey Mouse character in the history of the Walt Disney company.
Style, Substance, or Both? Both. "Fantasia" was clearly a stylistic experiment, one that, without some heavyweight visuals, would have been laughed off movie screens (something that threatened to happen anyway – decades went by before this thing ever turned a profit). It was a way of introducing classical music to children that might not have otherwise been exposed, and the changing nature of each piece of music meant that each segment could be wildly different stylistically. Still, some claim that the movie is still too "arty" for a Disney animated feature. They're right. In a good way.
"Dark City" (Alex Proyas, 1998)
How Does It Dazzle? Making Tim Burton's appropriation of German expressionism seem quaint by comparison, "Dark City" is a big, brooding sci-fi mystery about a man who awakens to a world where daylight never comes. This world is lorded over by ethereal beings known as Strangers who have psychokinetic powers and the ability to literally reshape existence as they see fit. This man must untangle his past and try to save the future. Also, there are a series of unexplained murders that he might be responsible for. On a sheer visual level it's hard not to goggle at "Dark City," especially when buildings are popping up out of the ground or the Strangers are silently gliding down hallways. The visuals owe a huge debt to film noirs of the forties and the German expressionism that influenced those films; it's one of those sci-fi fantasies where it's simultaneously both futuristic but also classically old school.
Style, Substance, or Both? Both, but leaning towards style over substance. On first viewing, at least, "Dark City" doesn't make a whole lot of sense, and this is after some heavyweights worked on the script (including David S. Goyer and Soderbergh collaborator Lem Dobbs), but its layers and nuances eventually expose themselves (especially if you watch the "director's cut" version, which basically deletes some "Blade Runner"-esque narration and establishes the world with more clarity). Still, the pleasures of "Dark City" exist, first and foremost, on a visual level, something even its biggest supporters (like Roger Ebert, who named it the best film of 1998) would be quick to admit. It's a visual feast and if you want to read more into it, then good for you.
"Bram Stoker's Dracula" (Francis Ford Coppola, 1992)
How Does It Dazzle? Taking an agreeably antique approach to the source material (Coppola said that he didn't want to use any technology that wasn't around during the Bela Lugosi version of "Dracula"), Coppola and cinematographer Michael Ballhaus create a gonzo free-for-all of a horror epic, full of sweeping romance and bloodthirsty monsters. The opening prologue of 'Dracula,' which recounts the life of Vlad Dracula features, amongst other things, a battle sequence represented primarily by using shadow-puppet-like cut-outs, rear projection, and good old fashioned buckets of blood, which spew, ooze, and fountain out of a giant cross. It's this histrionic tone, both story-wise and visually, that's carried through much of the movie – the way that Dracula's shadows act independently of his body, his ability to turn into both a wolf and bat, and, in a particularly giddy moment, when young Jonathan Harker is traveling to Transylvania, Dracula appears as a giant, godlike figure watching his train traverse the countryside (wonderfully done with optical compositing). When describing "Bram Stoker's Dracula," the phrase "over-the-top" just doesn't quite cut it. (Supposedly when describing the look of the film, Coppola created an animated short that used sequences from Jean Cocteau's "Beauty and the Beast" alongside paintings by Gustav Klimt.)
Style, Substance, or Both? Ultimately: both. The sheer luxuriousness and romanticism of many of the images in "Bram Stoker's Dracula" actually lends the movie some emotional weight. What could have been just a straight horror movie, or worse yet, a cheesy gothic romance, is made stranger and more powerful by the images Coppola concocts. It's not perfect, but the unique stylization never takes away from the narrative, it always adds to it, flowery embroidery for a story we all know well.
"The Fountain" (Darren Aronofsky, 2006)
How Does It Dazzle? When Darren Aronofsky first attempted his ambitious sci-fi tale that involved three timelines and heady notions about reincarnation and eternal life, it starred Brad Pitt and carried a budget of nearly $70 million. When Pitt bowed out right before production began, the film was shuttered and Aronosfky originally released his screenplay in comic book form, thinking a feature would never happen. The feature did eventually happen, of course, but with a much smaller budget ($35 million), a condensed script, and an entirely new cast. Still, even a micro-sized "Fountain" is mightily impressive. Not only is the section set in the deep future something that you've never seen before (instead of a spaceship, our hero travels in a terrarium-like bubble), but the way that Aronofsky mingles and merges the images is astounding – things like a wedding ring becoming the space bubble becoming the pattern on the floor of a hospital cancer ward. You can tell this is the kind of stuff that Aronofsky would have brought to his doomed adaptation of "Watchmen" (and we would have been all the better for it). Images and sequences last and linger in your memory long after you're done watching.
Style, Substance, or Both? Both. Aronofsky is so good at putting these images together that the movie, which could have been clumsy and unfathomable, becomes surprisingly relatable and emotionally resonant. Images that could have been merely beautiful, when overlapping with other images, become profound. And the whole thing has an inventive wittiness to it that prevents it from ever being burdened by the weight of its ideas. It's mercifully snappy.
"Pan's Labyrinth" (Guillermo del Toro, 2006)
How Does It Dazzle? While Guillermo del Toro is currently being fashioned as one of Hollywood's leading big budget fantasists, his most interesting work comes from his independent output, like "The Devil's Backbone" and the Oscar-winning "Pan's Labyrinth." The film involves a young girl who, in order to escape the horror of the Spanish Civil War, dives into a fantasy world inhabited by supernatural creatures that set her on a magical quest. It's telling that the real world is so devastating that a realm inhabited by a "Pale Man," with eyeballs in his palms and an insatiable appetite, is more attractive. Del Toro, influenced by a number of things (including a 1953 3D B-movie shocker called "The Maze," Goya paintings and Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland" books), gives the movie a singularly musty, earthen feel, which is in stark contrast to the overly sparkly and clean fantasy worlds of Hollywood (like "Oz the Great and Powerful"). Things are dangerous in the real world and in the fantasy world, with an emphasis on goopy, mossy textures. Audiences responded strongly to the movie the world over because it was so different and unique.
Style, Substance, or Both? Both. Without one you would not have the other. And unlike del Toro's Hollywood output, with things like "Blade 2" or the "Hellboy" films, it doesn't feel like he's belaboring something unworthy of his considerable talents. This is a universe built from the ground up by del Toro and it shows. The movie wouldn't be nearly as heartbreaking without the fantasy elements, brought to rich visual life by a master of the craft.
Other movies with rock-em, sock-em visual panache include Luc Besson's candy-colored sci-fi romp "The Fifth Element;" Stephen Norrington's "Blade," with many stylistic elements that predated "The Matrix;" the films of director Joe Wright, which beautifully culminated in last year's "Anna Karenina;" David Fincher's cutting-edge "Fight Club" and stylish "Se7en"; the films of director Tony Scott, who pushed musty masculinity into areas of genuine surrealism; Ang Lee's "Life of Pi," which finally gave 3D the psychedelic swirl it so desperately needed; and the works of international directors like Alejandro Jodorowsky, Kim Jee-Woon and Jean-Pierre Jeunet, filmmakers who aren't content unless they're consciously blurring the line between style and substance. -- Drew Taylor, Rodrigo Perez, Kevin Jagernauth