Awhile back, I was flipping channels and came across Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Now, normally, that would mean that I’d keep flipping, but in this case I had to stop. There, in the contestant’s chair, was an adult male, wearing a Goofy hat.

Amadeus (1984), directed by Milos Foreman.

Every year, critics, myself among them, trot out lists of their favorite Christmas movies. It doesn’t take much investigation to get past the iconic It’s a Wonderful Life, which is a damn fine film, to find The Shop Around the Corner, Christmas in Connecticut, or, darkly, Gremlins, which is a favorite of a friend of mine. Thing is, having grown up in the seventies and early eighties, most of these movies hadn’t made it to the video stores of tiny Mt. Pleasant, Michigan, where I grew up. We forget, too, that in the mid-eighties, no one watched Wonderful Life, since it was still forgotten at that time.

My favorite film book, David Thomson’s New Biographical Dictionary of Film, has a new edition out just in time for the holidays.

Thanks to the publication of the newest edition of David Thomson’s wonderful New Biographical Dictionary of Film (2010, Alfred A. Knopf, $40), I thought it would be nice to discuss favorite movie books. Honest to God, I had no intention of writing a piece that would get you and yours out to the malls to shop, much less on this horrific post-Thanksgiving weekend. For the love of all that is holy, I might add that you should, in fact, run screaming in the other direction. On the other hand, you can get many of these precious tomes at your local bookstore (like, say, Chop Suey Books…) Or, if you’re not going to give them away, head out to your local library. Bottom line: don’t just watch the movies, read for Crissake!

Marty (1953), Delbert Mann (not to be confused with the movie version with Ernest Borgnine).

From the files of “street” critic Guy Fresno.

Did I ever tell you about my pal Alvin Fitzsimmons? A short, mealy little guy, nice guy, one of those squirts who does one thing really well and bumbles about in everything else. Actually, I take that back: Alvin did quite a few things well, really well. First of all, from a young age he showed a pretty God damn amazing talent at flower arranging. Seriously. Dude got himself a job at Roethke Flowers, well after the poet clan left it behind, and he was good. That’s all he did in short order–kid went from deliveries and pushing a broom to making bouquets for brides in just a few months. Too bad he thought it was “girly”. I’ll grant him that it didn’t pay anything, but he went and became an actuary.

It goes without saying that no one who loves movies or film noir in particular would completely agree with his list of five favorites (though they’re all fantastic movies) just as no one agrees on any list. But it got me to wondering about the history of noir, and how its last great gasp was in the tumultuous decade of the 1970s.

Is it wrong to be in love with someone, oh, sixty-eight years your senior? Who is, I might also add, uh, deceased (and for almost two decades)? Honestly, you can’t blame me–it’s nothing I can control. I mean, you’ve seen Jean Arthur, haven’t you?

Every year there’s a slew of new remakes, often times in the form of bloodying up some old slasher film, like Nightmare on Elm Street or Friday the 13th. But 2010 is ripe with more stylish remakes, attempts to tell a good story all over again. And who doesn’t like to hear a great story again and again?

The Social Network (2010), directed by David Fincher.

Facebook is here to stay. Like the telephone, the horseless carriage, and the television before it, the “social network” that has certain pundits raging, is not going anywhere. Is it a fad? It is… just like those aforementioned technologies.

12 Angry Men (1957), directed by Sidney Lumet.

Democracy is loud. Even Plato knew this, all those centuries ago. There’s a line in The Republic where Socrates grumbles about the din of a government run by the citizenry (which is odd when you consider he wasn’t a guy who kept quiet himself.) But in this age of endless news feeds, of Rush Limbaughs and Michael Moores and Glenn Becks and Keith Olbermann’s, it sometimes seems as if we’ve gotten a bit too loud. Is there room for rational debate?

Detour (1945), directed by Edgar G. Ulmer.

You set the paper down, wondering what to do this weekend. The movies at the local Cineplex seem uninspiring, or perhaps the thought of being at a theater, no matter how nice, just doesn’t float your boat. Sometimes, the joy of movies can be found in your own living room, late at night, a few choice intoxicants in your system, with the right DVD from your local shoppe. For your consideration: Detour, by Edgar G. Ulmer, whose birthday we celebrate today.