The Godfather. Defying P.T. Barnum and William Peter Blatty and evil conspirators of all kinds, The Godfather is still numero uno--it's still the most-seen movie ever made. It is also, strangely, one of the most worthy, which practically sets the amber waves of grain back swaying in that great and oft-frozen historical Sky-Movie of the American taste buds. A picture this good being this popular is about as probable as David Eisenhower chanting Maoist slogans from the bleachers, so be patriotic and see it again. A dollar twenty-five is also very patriotic. Not to mention the fact that unless half the University shows up, a friend of mine is going to debtor's prison, also probably for the good of the country.

Tristana. "Sex without religion is like an egg without salt." Luis Bunuel--probably the most fanatical anti-cleric in the history of Iberian civilization--said that, with characteristic lucidity, of this his most lucid film. But it really is lucid: for once, there's no need to pardon this aging genius his obscure symbology or warped sense of humor or ideological obsessions, because Tristana is a beautifully integrated masterpiece. An aging gentleman (Fernando Rey) exploits a young and nunnish dependent (Catherine Deneuve) until she snatches the dominating role away from him, becoming perhaps the crueler tyrant. The story threads lightly, revealing rather than obscuring the texture of snow-particles skitting across the granite of the church; the walled and narrow-streeted Spanish village; the suffering and scorn in Deneuve's bloodless face; the wrench of Catholicism. The surrealism here is not extraneous or forced-it arises out of the material. Instead of a shock show of the contorted and bizarre, the film glides with the constant expectation of something more subtly strange, the ever-present possibility that some grazing sleight of hand will tamper with reality just enough to dip the action into a world of dreams. When Tristana climbs the bell-tower, with the deaf boy behind and looking up her skirt, she comes upon the bloodied, severed head of the gentleman, swinging crazily from the church bell. And the vision delicately propels--we go on, as viewers never picked up running by the nape of the neck to churn legs wildly in the air. Shot in 1970, in color, to my mind Bunuel's greatest film.