Classicflix boasts a beautiful array of excellent foreign-language films in its library, but they don't get talked about much. That's a shame because an understanding and appreciation of world cinema should be a part of every movie lover's experience.

Growing up in Ohio, I didn't see a lot of foreign films; my impression of the ones I did see was that they were bleak, dark, dull and depressing, filled with poverty-stricken characters who drone on and on in voiceover while going through the paces of their mundane lives. The more I watch classic foreign films, though, the more I discover they're nothing like the description above. Here are just a few of the films that proved me wrong.

Pickpocket (France, 1959, dir. Robert Bresson) This film actually IS dark and depressing. Marcel has nothing better to do, so he decides to become a pickpocket. He's not very good at it, but through luck and stupidity he gets to make an okay living. Then he meets some REAL good pickpockets, and they form a team and start to do REAL well at it. He falls for Jeanne (lovely in that way that only women in French movies can be), who loves him just because she's a single mom and could use a good pickpocket for a mate.

The Criterion disc of this includes a 15 min. talk with screenwriter Paul Schrader on the subject; this is his favorite film, and Taxi Driver was his attempt to do an American version, more or less.

Seven Samurai (Japan, 1954, dir. Akira Kurosawa) I've written about this before as it's my favorite film. In 16th-century Japan, a small farming village that is at the mercy of a gang of bandits decides to hire ronin (masterless samurai) to protect them. Over the film's 3 1/2 hour running time, we meet the villagers, join their search for samurai who will take the job (for food but no pay or honor), see the defenses being built around the village, and then witness the battles between evil and what passes for good. The film's leisure running time is a strength, not a weakness; you'll get so involved in the characters and their story you'll forget it's only a movie.

Nights of Cabiria (Italy, 1957, dir. Federico Fellini) The Criterion packaging does a better job of describing the film than I could: 'A naive prostitute searches for true love in the seediest sections of Rome.'

Giulietta Masina won the Best Actress award at Cannes for starring in this film, which itself won the Best Foreign Language Film Academy Award. Masina is absolutely stunning in this film as the prostitute who, despite everything, sees the blessings of what she's got and hopes for True Romance while trapped in the squalor of her surroundings. 'I never slept under the archway' (with the homeless) she boasts. 'Well, maybe once. Or twice.' She's in virtually every scene, and the film begins with her boyfriend trying to kill her and steal what little money she has; the film ends with her hoping she's found her true love at last, but whatever happens, her despair never lasts very long. She's charming and unforgettable, and very much the female Chaplin Fellini intended her to be. (She even does a crazy dance in a nightclub!) The disc includes a 7-min. segment previously censored by the Catholic Church, and when you see the segment, you'll be floored at what was cut and why (it was cut for NONE of the reasons you might think).

Rififi (France, 1956, dir. Jules Dassin) Four gangsters plan and pull off the perfect robbery, stealing 240 million francs worth of diamonds. Unfortunately, their post-robbery planning doesn't go off nearly as flawlessly in this great film that set the model for all caper films to follow.

Director Jules Dassin had been out of work and living in Paris for four years, where he'd escaped after being blacklisted. Broke, depressed, and miserable, he agreed to direct this film despite his misgivings (it was based, supposedly, on the 'worst noir novel ever written'). He created his greatest film, two hours of suspense, violence, eye for detail, and gorgeous snapshots of Parisian streets. The heart of the movie is the heist itself, more than 30 minutes of no dialog, no music, just four guys going about their business as professionally as you can. Dassin himself has a key role as the safecracker Cesar, who eventually makes the slip that leads to the crew's downfall.

The Seventh Seal (Sweden, 1958, dir. Ingmar Bergman)
The Crusades have ended; returning to his Swedish homeland after 10 years fighting in the Holy Land, a weary knight (Max Von Sydow) encounters Death on the beach. Stalling for time, he challenges Death to a game of chess. He wants to stay alive long enough to know God. As the game progresses -- badly for the knight -- he continues his journey, picking up new friends along the way. The doomed knight fears he has lived a life of indifference, and hopes to perform 'one meaningful deed' before Death takes him.

Besides the stoic, quizzical knight and his sardonic squire, the group comes to include a married couple of actors and their baby, a blacksmith and his unfaithful wife, and a servant girl who was rescued by the squire from an assailant. As they travel the countryside, they meet various dead and dying individuals, including a witch being burned at the stake (the knight begs her to show him the devil, so that he may ask Satan about the existence of God), a group of flagellants, and an artist painting the dance of death on a chapel wall.

In the end, Death comes -- as he must. The knight is able to perform his one meaningful deed. The answer as to what lies beyond life's horizon remains a puzzle. And the dance of death sweeps across a hillside as the rain washes away salty tears. There is not a single image in the film which isn't beautiful, thought-provoking, artful. Like all great films, it can only gain in stature with each rewatching.


Note: The Seventh Seal is a reference to the passage in the Biblical book of Revelations in which the seal of heaven is opened and God remains silent.

Sansho the Bailiff (Japan, 1954, dir. Kenji Mizoguchi) In feudal Japan, a time when 'people were not yet set as human beings' the opening scrawl advises us, one of the regional governors is sent into exile for not driving his people hard enough to pay more taxes. His wife, her servant, and their two young children attempt to join him, but are snatched by slave traders, separated, and sold. While facing a lifetime of misery and cruelty, the children struggle to remember their father's words: 'Without mercy, man is like a beast. Even if you are hard on yourself, be merciful to others.'

Roger Ebert called Sansho, the slaveowner who acquires the children, the screen's greatest villain. He may be right; what separates Sansho from the slobbering Fu Manchu or James Bond-type miscreants is that Sansho is utterly without mercy because he IS the law and no one ever crosses him. When in the course of the film he's ordered to do something by the new governor, he's completely perplexed: 'I don't understand.' It's Sansho's world, and everyone he sees caters to him.

Mizoguchi's film is based on an ancient legend but fits the sensibilities of postwar Japan. It's a brilliant film, one of the best photographed I've seen.

Les Miserables (France, 1936, dir. Raymond Bernard) A sprawling, massive version of the much-filmed Victor Hugo classic; Bernard divided the epic novel into three sections and created three separate films, to be screened separately. The three parts are Tempest in a Skull, The Thenardiers, and Liberty, Sweet Liberty, and their combined running time stretches to more than four and a half hours.

Harry Baur is Jean Valjean, paroled after 19 years of hard labor (he stole a loaf of bread and resisted arrest) in early 19th-century France. As an ex-convict, he's unable to find lodging or work, and even the children throw stones at him. He steals silver from a bishop, the only man who shows him kindness, but when he's captured and the bishop tells the police the silver was a gift, Valjean is on the road to redemption. He changes his identity and eventually builds a successful factory, employing most of the town and growing quite wealthy. He becomes as good a man as there is, and is revered by those who know him. He's named Mayor, but the Chief of Police, Inspector Javert (Charles Vanel) begins to suspect his true identity.

One of the seamstresses in Valjean's employ is discharged when it's revealed she has a child, Cosette, out of wedlock; events dictate that Valjean will eventually become the child's guardian and protector. First, he's got to avoid the dogged Javert, which becomes impossible when an innocent man is arrested and erroneously identified as the 'notorious' escapee, Valjean. Only the real Valjean can save him from life in prison, but at the cost of his own freedom.

Bernard keeps the show moving and accessible; we get a dazzling array of camera angles from which to watch the story develop (the cinematography is by Jules Kruger, who had shot Abel Gance's 1927 epic Napoleon). At first, I thought Baur was miscast as Valjean, but I grew to love him, and Vanel is letter-perfect as the tenacious Javert. The film itself tells a timeless story about the struggle between man and forces beyond his control ('The state counted the money,' the warder tells Valjean, who is complaining that he did not receive his full stipend after his release on parole, 'and the state never makes a mistake').

The film had a checkered history; apparently successful as a three-parter in its initial run, a year later it was edited down to a single feature, and when it debuted in New York in 1935, its running time was 162 min. The film was re-released in France as a 2-parter in 1944, with all references to revolution and political uprising sheared away. It wasn't until the 1970s when a near-blind, aged Bernard was commissioned to restore the film, that Les Miserables was restored to an approximation of its original intent and nearly five hours' running time.

L' Atalante (France, 1934, dir. Jean Vigo) A young woman in a small village in France is swept off her feet by a handsome barge captain whose ship is passing through; they hastily wed and hop onto his boat, L'Atalante, where they get to know each other while spending time with the guy's crew, a ridiculous, barely-toothed old man with a hundred tattoos (and nearly as many cats) and a dream of building his own Victrola, and a young boy who can't do anything right.

Granted, not a lot of plot here, but this is a gorgeous film about two young lovers getting to know each other in a series of life's little moments. It's lovely to look at, beautifully filmed and acted, and unforgettable. Director Jean Vigo died of TB shortly after completing the film, which was then mercilessly mutilated by the film studio and not reconstructed until 1990.

Just a handful of films for your consideration, but every one of them reflects what I've long said about foreign-language films: they're not just different than American films because they're not in English, they reflect a different perspective on life and the world, and that's why they're must-see cinema.

Clifford Weimer is a writer and film historian in Sacramento, CA. He can usually be found lurking about the dark corners of a movie theatre at inthebalcony.com.