There is something so wonderfully ironic about a film so lush and sensual, almost erotically so, that is also, at the same time, easily the finest work about carnal restraint and unconsummated passion ever made.

In 1960s Hong Kong, Chow (Tony Leung) and Su (Maggie Cheung), neighbours in a crowded apartment complex, learn that their respective spouses are having an affair. Although palpably attracted to each other, Chow and Su struggle to submit to their desires in a society where social propriety is of utmost concern.

Director Wong Kar-wai, with help from celebrated cinematographer Christopher Doyle and his two luminous leads, elevates otherwise commonplace themes of love and betrayal into one of cinema’s most visually striking and profoundly evocative films.

Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman light up the screen in this tautly directed and endlessly quotable World War II romantic thriller.

In neutral Casablanca, cynical, embittered, and self-absorbed American expat Rick (Bogart) wants only to profit from the war, willingly serving both Allied sympathizers and Nazi officers in his popular cafe. Rick’s isolationism is tested when Ilsa (Bergman), an old flame, shows up seeking Rick’s help in saving her husband Victor, a formidable resistance fighter, from the Nazis by getting him out of the country.

Should Rick sacrifice Victor for a chance to reunite with the woman he loves? Or should he help Ilsa and her husband escape together in the interest of the greater good?

A highly topical film, Casablanca was released at the height of World War II and takes its anti-fascist politics seriously. It is also one of the most superbly crafted films of all time, regularly showing up on best-of lists. Perfectly cast, beautifully photographed, and sharply edited, Casablanca remains exemplary of the kind of high-quality films made by Hollywood’s during its vaunted studio era.

A blistering satire of both heavy metal music and the rock documentary genre, This Is Spinal Tap counts as one of cinema’s most potent, side-splittingly funny, comedies of all time. Every joke, every sight gag, every parodic skewering lands with such pitch-perfect comedic timing that it’s hard to believe it was all improv and no script.

Once lauded as “one of England’s loudest bands,” heavy metal outfit Spinal Tap is found to be far past its (modest) peak, struggling to attract an audience and on the verge of breaking up. A documentary crew chronicles their latest album release, which flops, and the accompanying tour, which lurches from one hilarious crisis to another.

Cast members Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer are so committed to authenticity that they actually play their own instruments and write their own songs, and even toured for real as Spinal Tap following the success of the “documentary” about the band.

Meanwhile, director Rob Reiner, who plays documentarist Marty Di Bergi (a deliberately clumsy portmanteau of Martin Scorsese, Brian De Palma, and Steven Spielberg), expertly and methodically deflates the pretensions of the documentary form.

The only film to dial it up to 11, This Is Spinal Tap remains a stone-cold classic.

Alfred Hitchcock’s 1959 spy thriller North by Northwest is a wonderfully lighthearted cocktail of action, comedy, romance, intrigue, and suspense. Advertising executive (and committed bachelor) Roger Thornhill, played by the effortlessly charming and impeccably dressed Cary Grant, is mistaken for a secret agent in possession of government secrets worth killing for. Aided by the enchanting Eve Kendall, played by luminous Eva Marie Saint, Thornhill attempts to clear his name while fending off his dastardly pursuers.

North by Northwest is such a distillation of Hitchcockian cinema that it verges on self-parody. Bursting with confidence and style, North by Northwest is recognized as one of the most visually iconic films of all time. All pretence to narrative logic is summarily dropped in favour of staging one dazzling set-piece after another, crowned by a tour-de-force sequence atop Mount Rushmore. Hitchcock was at the height of his powers as a director here, and it shows.

The Elephant Man is an achingly poignant and dramatically absorbing drama loosely based on the life of Joseph Merrick, a Victorian-era Englishman with severe physical deformities.

David Lynch directs in his first big-budget effort, and his trademark surrealism, although somewhat muted here, adds a dream-like quality that is perfectly in keeping with the material.

Highly acclaimed upon release, The Elephant Man garnered an impressive 11 Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture. The film boasts lush black and white photography, innovative sound techniques, striking production design, and a superb supporting cast.

However, it is the John Hurt’s lead performance as Merrick and Christopher Tucker’s ground-breaking special-effects make-up that is most memorable. Taken together, they transform what could have easily been a mawkish spectacle into a towering cinematic achievement.

Although cloaked in the familiar tropes of the horror and thriller film, Get Out transcends its genre trappings to offer a searing and penetrating indictment of complacent white liberalism.

Black photographer Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) is invited by his white girlfriend Rose (Allison Williams) to her family’s suburban home. While outwardly friendly and respectful, Rose’s family and friends are revealed to have a nefarious agenda for Chris and, more pointedly, his Black body.

The disquieting terror of Get Out stems from director Jordan Peele’s decision to limit the subjective perspective in the film to the Black protagonist. We see this bucolic and prosperous, but distinctly white, suburban enclave exclusively through Chris’ eyes, augmented by the camera he carries, which he wields as both weapon and shield. Peele brilliantly exploits this limited perspective, methodically but relentlessly stripping away the banal and seemingly innocuous veneer of this utterly common white space to reveal the racialized horror that lies at its centre.

While there is certainly pleasure to be had in Get Out ’s stylish reworking of the horror genre, it is the film’s philosophically rich and politically potent ideas about Black experience that will haunt the viewer.

World War II serves as the compelling backdrop to this bittersweet story of love and longing. Young Russian lovers Veronica and Boris are torn apart by the need for Boris to enlist in the Soviet army after Germany unexpectedly invades. Their desire to reunite is thwarted at every turn, leading finally to heartbreaking tragedy.

The Cranes Are Flying is a marvel of technical sophistication, boasting arguably the most advanced cinematography of its day, surpassing even the achievements of the American cinema. The film’s long, complicated tracking shots would make Orson Welles blush. The camera glides with the fluid grace of a ballerina, moving effortlessly from ground-level close-up to soaring crane shot in the blink of an eye.

Mikhail Kalatozov’s The Cranes are Flying was a sensation upon its release in 1957. It won the coveted Palme d’Or at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival, the most highly regarded film award in the world, and remains one of the high points of Soviet cinema.

Graced with abundant wit, charm, and poignant romance, Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows represents the pinnacle of 1950s Hollywood melodrama. Jane Wymann plays a lonely widow comfortably ensconced in high society who falls for her much younger gardner, played by Rock Hudson. Gossip and scandal threaten to doom their flourishing romance and they must challenge the oppressive social norms of their day in their struggle to remain together.

Although popular with audiences, melodramas of the era were routinely overlooked by critics, who dismissed them as mere “weepies” or “women’s pictures.” But the ensuing years saw their reputation grow and a critical reevaluation take place. Today, films like All That Heaven Allows are recognized for how they subtly repurpose the conventions of the melodrama to make pointed social critiques. Douglas Sirk, in particular, was a master of this.

The pleasures of the film, which is shot in gorgeous technicolor, can also be found in its sophisticated cinematography, stunning production design, and engaging performances. A true classic, All That Heaven Allows remains essential cinema.

Strictly Ballroom, Baz Luhrmann’s audacious, award-winning directorial debut, soars off the screen with unrestrained style and verve. Both heart-warming romantic comedy and thrilling sports movie in one, Luhrmann’s film is the ultimate crowd-pleasing, edge-of-your-seat cinematic confection.

Talented ballroom dancer Scott is chafing under the yoke of the dusty and unimaginative style of traditional ballroom, which forbids innovative steps and personal expression. Then along comes Fran, a shy but daring neophyte who longs to shine on the dance floor. Together, they take on the ballroom establishment at the all-important (and hilariously titled) Pan-Pacific Grand Prix Dancing Championship. The explosive final sequence is legitimately heart-pounding.

Made with zero regard for subtlety and good taste, Luhrmann’s hectic and colour-saturated film gleefully cranks the melodrama to 11. It is also unabashedly unconventional in style and form, mixing classical narrative with faux documentary and avant-garde touches to great effect. Strictly Ballroom is definitely not strictly cinema. But then again, neither it nor we want it to be.

Le Bonheur is French New Wave icon Agnès Varda’s third feature film, and her first in colour. The 1965 movie is a lush and sensual story of adultery in a working-class Paris suburb that is as enjoyable to watch as it is unsettling to think about.

Described by author Jenny Chamarette as “a horror movie wrapped up in sunflowers, an excoriating feminist diatribe strummed to the tune of a love ballad,” Le Bonheur follows François (Jean-Claude Drouot) through a life of perfect domestic bliss, with his wife, kids, and mistress all contributing to his utter serenity.

Varda’s masterful direction and script, as well as colourful camerawork by Claude Beausoleil and Jean Rabier, lush set design by Hubert Monloup and audacious editing by Janine Verneau make Le Bonheur one of the most enjoyable viewing experiences in Varda’s more than sixty-year career. Yet, the true power of the film lies in what is not mentioned by Varda, and what happens off screen. Few works take on the patriarchy, and traditional family values as effectively and indirectly as Le Bonheur.

Like all of Tati’s work, Trafic is a masterpiece of visual comedy. The film eschews meaningful, narrative-propelling dialogue in favour of a storytelling style in which the visual gag, which follow one another in great languid waves, is the driving force. In this, Trafic is closer to the silent-era antics of Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd, each of whom also had a tremendous gift for telling jokes with the camera.

Trafic a film about cars, and the absurd automobile culture they spawn. Tati’s character, Mr. Hulot, works for a car company that is attempting to transport their newly designed camper van to Amsterdam in time to participate in an auto show, an effort in which they are repeatedly frustrated. Almost everything that can go wrong, does.

This is in keeping with Tati’s general worldview, as expressed in his films, that the human element will always manage to make a mockery of the systems we put in place to keep us on the straight and narrow. In Trafic, this is literalized by the highway, which despite promising to lead them to their goal, serves only as a stage for a series of ever-more hilarious set-backs.

In Tati’s hands, digression and detour is the point. Adventure is to be found in the journey, not the destination, which may as well never be reached.

There is something ironic in the fact that Sunset Blvd. was released just as Hollywood cinema’s dominance as a popular art form was cresting in the early 1950s, for the film seethes with gleeful contempt for the very industry that made it. Despite biting the hand that feeds it, Sunset Blvd. was a smash hit, both critically and commercially, and continues to be regarded as the high point of mid-century Hollywood cinema.

Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) plays a long-forgotten movie star who ensnares unsuspecting Joe Gillis (William Holden), a struggling Hollywood screenwriter, into her deluded fantasy of making a glorious return to the silver screen. As her fantasy slips away and the reality of her inevitable obsolescence slowly sets in, Norma descends further and further into madness, with results that, while tragic, are also surprisingly touching.

Director Billy Wilder leavens his razor-sharp barbs at Hollywood with bracing wit and acid comedy. This is a film, after all, hilariously narrated by a dead man. Lead actress Gloria Swanson, all high drama and seductive menace, delivers one of the most impressive performances in all of cinema. This film, about Hollywood at its worst, also happens to represent Hollywood at its best.

A young peasant couple finds their marriage threatened by a murderous seductress from the city. As the husband and wife desperately struggle to rekindle their love, elemental forces conspire against them.

A film of unrivalled beauty and visual imagination, Sunrise is a masterpiece of silent cinema. Directed by the great F.W. Murnau, this evocative, lyrical film pairs eye-popping set design with painterly compositions to stunning effect.

Winner of several Oscars, the film’s stature has only grown with time.

Canadian director Guy Maddin makes the most of his distinctive retro style in this exuberant homage to (and/or ironic pastiche of) 1920s avant-garde cinema.

It’s 1933. The depression is in full swing. And a lucrative contest to determine the saddest music in the world is being held in Winnipeg, the “world capital of sorrow.”

Amidst the backdrop of the contest, a convoluted tale of love, lust, betrayal, and redemption spills over into oedipal farce. Secrets are revealed, long-lost lovers reunite, villains get their comeuppance as the strains of melodrama reach a fever pitch.

The Saddest Music in the World will leave you in tears.

Rusty James’ blind idolization of the Motorcycle Boy, his world-weary older brother, leads to heartbreaking tragedy in Rumble Fish, Francis Ford Coppola’s “art film for teenagers.”

Bold expressionistic design and lighting create an overpowering sense of romantic fatalism.

The percussive score by drummer Stewart Copeland underlines the film’s theme of subjective time: the irretrievable past, the passing present, and the unavoidable future.

And the cast of young and gifted performers bring a compelling sympathy to the existential drama of finally (or maybe never) growing up.

A charming serial killer who seduces then dispatches widows for their money, sets his murderous sights on two children, keepers of a lucrative secret.

Part horror story, part thriller, part fairy tale — The Night of the Hunter unfurls with ever-increasing dramatic tension, as the killer, unrelenting in his pursuit, closes in on his innocent targets.

Although shot in 1955, the film makes brilliant use of chiaroscruro lighting and abstract compositions of the kind we associate with silent-era German Expressionism. The effect is nightmarish and disturbing. A fitting mood for a film that so starkly pits light against dark, good against evil, love against hate.

The desolate Dragon Inn serves as the setting for this riveting story about a tense and violent stand-off between rival political factions.

Renowned for its exquisitely choreographed action and combat, Director King Hu brings unheard of elegance and artistry to the otherwise pulpy Wuxia genre.

The results are electrifying. Characters seem to float and glide with supernatural ease as they do battle. Action sequences unfold with the beauty and precision of ballet.

Although it spawned a sea of imitators, Dragon Inn set a standard for the martial arts film that few have been able match.

The cult status of Days of Heaven is earned on the back of its stunning cinematography. No film before or since has more effectively taken advantage of the “magic hour,” that brief twilight period of ethereal light that immediately follows the setting of the sun.

Bathed in the transcendent aura of this delicate light, the film creates a feeling of nostalgic melancholy perfectly befitting its bittersweet tale of love, jealousy, betrayal, and redemption.

This “magic” cinematography transforms what is otherwise an ordinary love triangle into a sublime expression of the divine. Profound and beautiful, Days of Heaven is cinema at its most awe-inspiring.

The set-up is simple but effective: a tough Coney Island street gang, in unfamiliar territory and surrounded by dangerous enemies, must find its way back to the safety of its home turf.

As they elude, fight, and negotiate their way, internal conflicts threaten the gang’s survival.

The gritty New York of the 1970s provides the compelling backdrop to the action, and the revolutionary subtext raises the stakes to a fever-pitch.

An exercise in sustained tension, The Warriors will have you gripping the edge of your seat.

A masterpiece of physical comedy, electrifying stunts, and ming-bending special effects, Sherlock Jr., ranks as one of the greatest films of all time.

Buster Keaton, who stars and directs, packs the screen with one thrilling set piece after another, each more ingeniously designed than the last. Like his contemporaries Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd, Keaton performed his own death-defying stunts. But Keaton’s daring and audacity is on another level, equaled only perhaps by the dizzying acrobatics of Jackie Chan, who greatly admired Keaton.

Along with his command of action, Keaton was blessed with impeccable comic timing, and the thrills in Sherlock Jr. are matched note for note with gut-busting laughs.

But the centrepiece of the film is a delirious special effects sequence, one whose power to astonish remains as potent as ever.

Sherlock Jr. is not to be missed.

Relentlessly kinetic and bursting with style, Darkman is a giddy, Grand Guignol masterpiece by schlock auteur Sam Raimi.

The film stars Liam Neeson as Peyton Westlake, a mild-mannered scientist who runs afoul of ruthless mobster Robert Durant (Larry Drake).

Grievously injured and hideously disfigured at the hands of Durant, Westlake resorts to an experimental treatment whose side effects include superhuman powers and barely contained psychosis.

Reborn as Darkman, Westlake turns sadistic vigilante and proceeds to extract his gruesome revenge.