1994: World Premieres 1994: U.S. Releases 1994: My Favorites 1994: Still Left to See 1994: Cannes Festival Looking Back Moving Ahead Browse Films by Title / Year / Reviews Home / Blog / E-Mail The Movies of 1994: Personal Favorites  These world premieres hold an important place in my heart.  Read fuller reflections in my Favorite Films Countdown. Bullets over Broadway Dir. Woody Allen. John Cusack, Chazz Palminteri B From my full write-up: "You can watch Bullets Over Broadway with the sound off and have a thrilling time. You can listen to it from the next room and achieve total bliss. The fullness and variety of its pleasures still don't amount to Allen's best movie, not even one of his best five... Still, of all of his pictures, I do think Bullets is his most easily, frothily, and durably enjoyable." Cemetery Man Dir. Michele Soavi. Rupert Everett, François Hadji-Lazaro, Anna Falchi B From my full write-up: "Talk about starting out ahead: tell me again why all movies don't begin with Rupert Everett, dripping wet with a towel around his waist, shooting a zombie in the head at point-blank range?... Maybe I love Cemetery Man because it's one of the few cult films in existence whose cult I blithely stumbled into, without even knowing it existed." Heavenly Creatures Dir. Peter Jackson. Melanie Lynskey, Kate Winslet, Sarah Peirse A Early proof of Oscar's value—I rented this in high school on the strength of its Screenplay nomination and had my already-high expectations surpassed. The filmmaking practically quivers with imagination. The way the movie sexualizes without labeling or simplifying the girls' bond is a miracle. Why did people care that Forrest Gump could be plopped into old stock footage, when these girls could sprint at a moment's notice into entire worlds that never existed? How does this movie do what it's doing? These days, it's a grand film to teach, losing none of its power to shock, sadden, bewilder, or impress. Both the locations and the cast have assumed dear personal associations over time. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein Dir. Kenneth Branagh. Kenneth Branagh, Robert De Niro C A welcome reminder of one's own critical fallibility, since in 1994 I insisted to all who would listen (and to some who wouldn't) that this was a masterwork. Most of what struck me then as vivid and muscular about the direction now seems ham-handed and undisciplined, inspired equally by Mary Shelley and Max Cady, but I have a soft spot for its reckless brio—and for my young susceptibility to such florid and weirdly earnest self-expression. The lensing and acting occasionally achieve the sensuous and emotional potency that most scenes crave but miss. Bonham Carter's final sequence is stirring, an odd but indelible phoenix rising from this inferno of kitsch. Natural Born Killers Dir. Oliver Stone. Woody Harrelson, Juliette Lewis A– I don't pop this into the player too often these days, for fear of how overcooked and even offensive I might find it—but as a young filmgoer, I had rarely witnessed such directorial zeal. I marveled at its photographic and sonic virtuosity, yielding effects I had never seen anyone attempt. In many ways, it still feels singular. Today, when invoked at all, it's often as the laughingstock obverse of Pulp Fiction's more measured Cool—the road that pop-cinema history elected not to take. But, partly for that very reason, there's something bracing in Stone's refusal to ironize his feelings as a way of insulating his audience. Also, Harrelson and especially Lewis are astounding. Nell Dir. Michael Apted. Jodie Foster, Liam Neeson, Natasha Richardson C– How do you not make fun of Nell? The screenplay lurches among improbable genres (ending as courtroom drama!), desperate to romanticize its bird-brained "scientific" conquistadors, bound by Hollywood fiat to find Love in a markedly hopeless place. Part of my affection for Nell derives absolutely from laughing at it; nobody's choices, the characters' or the creators', make any sense. The skinny-dipping scene is an all-time howler. But I confess to feeling humbled by Foster's profound sympathy with Nell, even when her acting and her material turn ludicrous. She goes out on limbs, emotional and corporeal, like nothing she dared before or since. There's never been this much behind her eyes; her loneliness has never been more nakedly confessed. I cannot laugh at that. Threesome Dir. Andrew Fleming. Josh Charles, Lara Flynn Boyle, Stephen Baldwin B– Priscilla and Muriel made more forcible plays for gay iconicity. Priest sweated harder over ambivalent desires. Reality Bites begged its quasi-collegiate demo to adopt it as our mascot. But, much as I liked all of those, I loved Threesome more. I appreciate its relaxed take on its premise, at least until the end. I thought it was funny. I thought it was sexy. I still extend this credit without being positive the movie deserves it. I don't care about its evident limitations, or about the latter-day catastrophe of Stephen Baldwin, or about his tragic haircut. This was my Love, Simon, and because it wasn't a hit—much less was it marketed as an Event—it felt just enough like a secret. A handsome stranger who came along, semi-publicly, and said exactly what teenage me wanted to hear: People desire differently. Your choices, and other people's, will surprise you. It's not that big a deal. Vanya on 42nd Street Dir. Louis Malle. Wallace Shawn, Julianne Moore, Brooke Smith A From my full write-up: "Capturing such a delicate lacework of feeling and compromise is difficult enough, but Malle does more than document a stirring production. He subtly tailors a form of Chekhovian direction that alights just as softly but lucidly on its subjects... [Vanya] is, in the translated words of Pablo Neruda, as bright as a lamp, as simple as a ring, remote and candid." Runners-Up: Chungking Express, Heart of Darkness, Pulp Fiction, What Happened Was..., Wild Reeds