The frustrating thing about being a Woody Allen fan, particularly these days, is the sheer volume of his output, and the unfortunate lack of quality control; one has to sit through an awful lot of mediocrity in wait for those wonderful, supremely idiosyncratic moments of sheer genius that we all know he is capable of. For all of his intellectualism, and over-indulged love of the zany, he is at heart a romantic: a director, writer and sometimes performer of genuine sweetness, as evidenced more recently with the wonderfully lovely likes of Sweet and Lowdown and Everyone Says I Love You. But it is safe to say that he will never, never make a more achingly touching film than his 1977 masterpiece Annie Hall, a timeless treasure always worth revisiting for its wit and wisdom on life, and love.

By 1977 Woody Allen was already an established director, as well as on-screen personality. But to what degree did his performances reflected his own actual character? In his capacity as screenwriter, to an extent all of the characters in his films are manifestations of his personality. A more modern and obvious example of this would be Quentin Tarantino – the characters in his films all seem to share his world view and speak his highly idiosyncratic dialogue, ending up with his cameo performances (as himself) being in the absurd position of being less Tarantino-like than everyone else’s, thanks to his terrible acting.

So Allen, even off-screen, is ever-present in his films, and even non-Allenophiles could at least semi-accurately identify a ‘Woody Allen’-like persona. But these up until this point in his career had been situation-based comedies, whether the Cuban Revolution satire Bananas (1971), dystopian hijinks of Sleeper (1973), or the Russian Napoleonic ‘epic’ Love and Death (1975). Within these, his persona was present, but its juxtaposition to historical contexts somewhat limited the feeling that his protagonists could be any way autobiographical.

Allen had delved into quasi-autobiography before; the Herbert Ross-directed adaptation of his stage-play Play It Again, Sam (1972), though transplanting him from his beloved New York to San Francisco, felt the closest to home – his neurotic, self-doubting, film obsessed Allen Felix character more than partially based on himself. But Annie Hall represents the first real foray into this territory, playing with the audience’s prejudices about his personality, while at the same time having a brutal honesty about the nature of relationships, specifically that between he and one-time beau Diane Keaton.

It is the worst-kept secret about the film’s that its title is representative Keaton herself – her real surname is Hall, and close friends of her would call her ‘Annie’. That Allen’s character, Alvy Singer, is largely representative of his supposed persona would then suggest that the film’s content is based on fact. But is this a true self-reflexivity, or a kind of perverse directorial manipulation? That entire books have been written on the subject illustrates that this is a debate that will inevitably rumble on, especially as Allen remains tight-lipped on the subject of any of his previous films.

But to get too entangled in this messy argument is really to miss the true joys of the film. Annie Hall is Woody Allen’s Citizen Kane (another film with controversy about its supposed biographical content). It is technically daring; fourth-wall conventions fly out of the window, Allen addressing the camera directly, appealing to the viewer, a trick borrowed from Groucho Marx which would be later copied in the likes of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) and High Fidelity (2000). Characters eavesdrop into, and sometimes even wander around, each others’ flashbacks. In one sequence, the film shifts into a Snow White-like cartoon, affectionately apeing Disney ideas about happily-ever-after stories, again a device which will be taken up later by the likes of Tarantino and Almodóvar. Like Kane, that the film is technically innovative is not immediately noticeable on first watch, as it seems to all flow with such ease.

One key development, in relation to Allen’s prior more slapstick work, was the use of noticeably longer than standard shot lengths. Roger Ebert has clocked the average shot length as being 14.5 seconds, considerably higher than the contemporary average of approximately 4-5 seconds. Long takes are traditionally the preserve of the art-house circuit, and it is particularly noteworthy for a romantic comedy to try to venture into this territory. The effect is to slow down the pace, but also to allow the viewer to become more familiar with locations and situations. In the extraordinarily emotional montage of scenes at the end of the film, accompanied with Keaton’s singing of Seems Like Old Times, we remember those moments they shared together so much more vividly because of the slow, patient way they were shot.

Ultimately, Annie Hall feels true to life because we can all somehow relate to it; the ups, downs, thrills and troughs of relationships are universal to us all, as is the sad melancholy of reflecting on things in life that didn’t quite work out the way they should have. Alvy Singer is inspired to writes his first play, where the main character manages to reclaim his Annie Hall in the end, something that Alvy, and of course Woody, never manage to do. Allen continues to make films at the rate of about one per year, some good, some terrible; sometimes I wonder what makes him continue, but then I think that maybe he just needs the eggs.

In Andrei Tarkovsky’s earlier, and more famous Solyaris (1972), a science-fiction setting allowed the director to explore philosophical and exisitential themes via its artificially created environment: a vast ocean mysteriously created lifelike clones based on certain individuals from the characters’ pasts, forcing them to confront their deepest innermost regrets. Stalker offers a different artifice, a mysterious ‘Zone’ where, by contrast, people’s deepest wishes are made to come true; through this setup, Tarkovsky again is able to meditate on the nature of the human condition, exploring ideas and emotions like few other directors have been able to.

The Zone is a mystery: it has been cordoned off by the military, with security checkpoints guarding the entrances. The film opens with the Stalker of the title about to embark on a journey into the Zone, and we soon discover that he is a kind of hired people smuggler, ferrying in those who wish to enter for a mercenary fee. On this occasion, two such individuals are undertaking the journey, intellectuals named Writer and Professor.

Tarkovsky himself was famously an unashamedly intellectual director, and the setup of these three characters is a Beckett-like device to explore different aspects and facets of the human condition. The two intellectuals have differing backgrounds, as evidenced by their pseudonyms; Writer believes in artistic expression, in the unselfishness of his craft, while Professor is a scientist who is more rational, and more believing in cast-iron rules governing life. Stalker is a more passive character; acting as their escort into the Zone, he seems not to ask their motivations for wanting to go there, but becomes increasingly haughty as they disobey his safety instructions.

The Zone is a dangerous place, almost a sentient living organism which plays games and tricks on those who enter, constantly setting traps for those who do not take sufficient care in their traversal. But the facts of the Zone are not important; as the journey continues, it is the Writer’s and Professor’s attitudes and reactions towards it that become of greater significance, and in turn what the construct of the Zone appears to reveal to them about themselves. We become increasingly aware that the Zone is in effect a metaphor for spirituality, religion, hope, in essence a Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Stalker, then, is the spiritual guide, a combination of preacher, priest and theological ferryman for Writer and Professor, and the others who wish to enter the Zone.

Writer is a man who appears to believe in artistic expression, its selflessness in providing enjoyment for others. He claims to have many followers, and countless women throwing themselves at him. He appears not to want for anything, but he is unhappy; for all of his triumphs in the material world, he is spiritually devoid, even the love of his admirers leaving him empty of feeling. In one moment as they near the Room, the centre of the Zone, he dons a crown of thorns – does he wish to become a Jesus-like figure, and does this imply some form of martyrdom?

As for Professor, he seems to represent the rational perspective on faith: one driven by fear and scepticism. Whilst seemingly interested by the nature of the Zone, and motivated by a desire to study and measure it in order to gain professional recognition, he seems also to be afraid of its potential if it fell into the wrong hands. This fear indeed prompts Professor to plan its destruction – perhaps in order to give meaning to his otherwise unremarkable academic life. Like Writer, he is unsatisfied with his lot in life, and the Zone appears to offer some sort of reason for his existence.

This theme is later turned on Stalker himself, for the most part a benign influence on proceedings. When confronted with the others’ existential doubts, and challenged himself, he admits that he has become defined by his relationship to the Zone, and those venturing into it; his family, who we glimpse at the beginning and end of the film, despair at his constant travelling there, so fraught with danger it is that they are never sure whether he will return. His daughter is crippled, yet he never seems to consider that entering the Room may cure her – does he realise that his deepest wish is not to see her finally walk? Stalker appears to me to represent Kierkegaard’s model of the true Christian believer – filled with fear and trembling, despising others’ lack of true faith.

It is truly remarkable that Stalker, through its conceits of construction, manages to touch on such deep and varied philosophical issues; while the three characters may seem to be archetypes, they rarely seem predictable or overly stereotypical. One’s reation to the film, and one’s sympathy with the various characters, is highly dependent on one’s individual point of view and philosophy. As our three protagonists descend on their projected destination, we ourselves are able to discover the Writer, Professor and Stalker within ourselves.

The recent passing of Roy Scheider has obviously saddened the film world, his charismatic talent having always been a welcome presence on-screen. Best remembered for his role of Martin Brody in Steven Spielberg’s landmark blockbuster Jaws (1975), it is nevertheless his portrayal of Sonny Grasso in William Friedkin’s The French Connection that was his greatest performance, a miracle of supporting character acting, and the perfect foil for Gene Hackman’s abrasive Popeye Doyle. Aside from its hugely distinctive style, it is the chemistry between these two leads which raises the film from simply being great to being one of the true Greats of American Cinema.

Based on the popular Robin Moore non-fiction book of the same name, the film centres on one of the most famous and successful drug busts in the history of policing, when a drugs trafficking scheme between Marseilles and New York was smashed, in part thanks to the tireless and somewhat obsessive work of detectives Doyle and Russo, based on real-life cops Eddie Egan and Sonny Grosso. But the film could so easily have been a run-of-the-mill cop drama; how did this relatively low budget film turn into the critical and popular smash hit which swept through the 1971 Academy Awards, and help launch the so-called New Hollywood of the 1970s?

William Friedkin had moved to Hollywood in 1965, with a reputation as something of a prodigy in the field of documentary and factual filmmaking. By the turn of the next decade had already completed four feature films: a Sonny and Cher vehicle, two play adaptations and a vaudeville period piece, all met with strictly limited critical acclaim.

The French Connection would see the director return to his documentary roots, filming in a cinéma-vérité fashion influenced by the recent European landmarks Z (1969) and The Battle of Algiers (1966), which lent the film a gritty, grimy feel throughout. This matched perfectly the side of New York Friedkin wanted to show us: not the glittering lights of Manhattan, but the mean streets of Brooklyn and the deserted warehouses of Randall’s Island. This, in effect, paved the way for further great New York films of the 1970s, made by Friedkin’s peers: Coppola’s The Godfather (1973), Scorsese’s Mean Streets (1973) and Taxi Driver (1976), Lumet’s Serpico (1973) and Dog Day Afternoon (1975).

There are of course many memorable, iconic scenes that stay etched into the memory: THAT car chase, THAT shooting in the back, THAT ending. The editing in these scenes and others is also of particular note, lending a panicked, frenzied air to proceedings. All of this does add up to a great film, but what really lifts it up further into the pantheon of the true greats is what Friedkin managed to acheive with actors Scheider and Hackman, creating a dynamic between them which is often unspoken but always entirely realistic. Scheider is clearly the foil for Hackman’s Doyle, technically a lesser role, but it is their somewhat strained working relationship which serves to flesh-out our feelings towards Popeye more satisfactorily.

As for Hackman, his is such a committed performance, that one feels that his sanity was hanging by a thread during production. Friedkin knew how to marshall the best out of him, and the results speak for themselves; Doyle is neurotically obsessed with cracking the case, but his motivation not based in any ideology or pious belief – he has become driven by a strange mixture of habitualization, self-loathing, racism, the need to bully others, and the need to ‘win’, whatever the cost to himself and others. To an extent, there is some similarity between this character and the one Hackman would portray in Coppola’s 1974 masterpiece The Conversation – Harry Caul is just as obsessive and neurotic as Doyle, just more mild-mannered, and secretive.

The French Connection will always be remembered as a great film, but its popular appeal should not diminish what an extraordinarily important and landmark work it was for filmmaking in the USA; here was a statement of intent from the first of a new breed of director, ones who wanted to rewrite the language of American cinema on their own terms, to take the influence of European art cinema and mould it into something their own, something exciting and new.

Last year, the BBC carried out a highly unscientific poll to see what the nation’s favourite Valentine’s Day film was. The top two nominated were Casablanca and Dirty Dancing, both of which are understandable, if slightly broad, choices. But for me, there is really only one choice: Richard Linklater’s 1995 film Before Sunrise, a film so wonderful and true that it makes even the likes of me believe in soppy things like love at first sight. Bleargh.

Richard Linklater’s first two full-length films, Slacker (1991) and Dazed and Confused (1993), were dialogue-driven ensemble pieces, dizzily paced yet full of insights into their characters and settings. There are elements of that construction in his third feature here, but we are limited to focusing on just two people: Jesse, an American travelling to Vienna for a flight, and Celine, a young French woman on her way to Paris. They meet in a train, feel a connection between each other, and the former convinces the latter to alight with him in the Austrian capital in order to get to know each other better.

This is the only leap of faith the film asks us to make: there are no Richard Curtis-style dashes to airports or absurdly over-the-top public declarations of love, just a decision between two people to spend time together. And spend time they do; the film merely consists of the two roaming the streets of Vienna late at night, in the knowledge that in the morning Jesse must catch his flight, and Celine must get back on the train to Paris. It is a clever device; although the film does not unfold in real time, it never seems to take massive temporal jumps, and this continuity coupled with the knowledge of their strict time limit forms a strange kind of a dramatic tension as the film goes on. It is, in a sense, like the timer on the bomb in a James Bond film, relentlessly counting itself down.

The idea of time running out is in direct contrast to the characters themselves; from their early conversations onwards, we establish that they are both young, free, and with the world seemingly at their feet. Time, life, careers, relationships: all of these stretch out before them like an endless highway vanishing into the horizon. They are still young enough to be idealistic, to set their sights on goals they may never come close to touching, to still believe that their true love is waiting for them, somewhere.

It is to the actors’ credit that most of this is said implicitly, and that even the most weary and cynical among us can recognise something of our younger selves in these characters and their outlook on life. But greatest credit should go to director Linklater; with a premise and script such as this, it would still have been easy to turn the project into a slushy, sentimental, overly saccharine Meg Ryan of a film; there was also the danger of allowing the beautiful setting to overwhelm the characters, and the whole thing to turn into a picture postcard of Vienna. But there is a remarkable series of shots towards the end of the film, a collage of the various places our characters have been, at daybreak now deserted; but for all their splendour, the beautiful Viennese buildings and parks, deprived of Jesse and Celine, now seem hollow and lifeless, the antithesis of the picture postcard image.

Linklater, Delpy and Hawke would reprise their roles twice further, briefly in Waking Life (2001) and then in Before Sunset (2004), arguably the better film, where we see older, more experienced and cynical versions of the characters, meet again and start the magical process of discovering each other all over again. That film is more savvy, more technically bold, and the characters have more to lose, so feels more edgy and risky. But Before Sunrise is the perfect film for Valentine’s Day, a film which time and again so easily fools us into believing that falling in love is as simple as stepping off a train, and into someone else’s life.

Andrei Tarkovsky’s rather intimidating critical reputation rests on just seven feature films, of which The Sacrifice is chronologically the last, completed and released shortly before his untimely death in 1986. And in many ways this swansong can be considered his crowning glory, a bold, striking work rich in ideas, artistry and humanity, and one which is very distinctly ‘Tarkovskian’ in style.

To try to make out a clear conventional narrative thread through a Tarkovsky film is like trying to look for belly laughs in Schindler’s List; you ain’t going to find a lot. But The Sacrifice is his most straighforward of stories; the film is set in an unnamed Swedish coastal village, much like the island of Faro, where filmmaker Ingmar Bergman chose to retreat to in his later years. Alexander, an ageing atheist who lives on the island, is telling his young son a Zen-like parable about the planting and nurturing of a tree. The local postman (and doctor) cycles by, and offers up a discussion of Nietzche’s idea of eternal recurrence, which seems to chime with Alexander’s story. Visually, we are awash with tranquil seascapes and lush greenery.

It is Alexander’s birthday, and a small group of friends and family gather at his house. Discussion turns to his acting past, which then leads to a strange story about a lady who loses her son in a war, only to find him appearing in a photograph some twenty years later. Inside the house, the screen begins to asssume more desaturated, darker tones, which foretell what is to come; uncontrollable shaking in the room signals jets flying overhead, and in a nightmare-like sequence, we hear the official announcement that this is because some kind of nuclear armageddon has been initiated. As a mixture of hysteria and resignation overcomes those present, Alexander begins to question the nature of his lack of faith, but appears to be shown a possible way-out, the sacrifice of the title.

Loaded with religious symbolism, the film tries to show how man reacts when faced not merely with a spiritual crisis, but one brought on by the seemingly arbitrary annihilation of everything and everyone he loves. There are references to other Christian-inspired pieces of art, notably Leonardo’s The Adoration of the Magi and Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion, and this is clearly Tarkovsky’s own attempt to find religious expression through his chosen medium. It is perhaps ladelled on a bit too heavily at times; his visit to ‘Maria’, the supposed source of his possible redemption, teeters over the edge of subtlety, though it the scene is thankfully visually spare.

That the film is set on a Faro-like island is of great significance, as the spirit of Ingmar Bergman is ever-present, in part also to the presence of legendary Swedish cinematographer and long-time Bergman collaborator Sven Nykvist. The dialogue, in particular towards the start, has the air of the great master director’s work, in particular the films of his ‘Faith Trilogy’ of the early 1960s. The collaboration with Nykvist, who was DP on those three films, produces an interesting mixing of styles; the Swede’s trademark naturalistic lighting adding a mysterious air to Tarkvosky’s almost balletic, rhythmic long takes. The Sacrifice is famous for having one of the longest Average Shot Lengths in cinema history, some 72 seconds, one of the opening shots alone lasting nine and a half minutes.

Critics of the film may suggest that it is in fact overly stylised, and too Bergman-like in places. The symbolism, as mentioned above, is very heavy at times, but there are also moments of extreme painterly beauty, shots worthy of a Vermeer or Rembrandt painting. The transition from the lush, rich-hued palette at the start of the film, to the dark, menacing tones through the bulk of the middle apocalypse section is one of the most successful stylistic contrasts in cinema history. In one scene, Alexander tells a story about how he tried to tidy his dying mother’s overgrown garden for her, but once he had finished, he found the ‘order’ he had created to be ugly; this story, and the film as a whole, underlines Tarkovsky’s love of the natural world, the divine order which seems at times in contradiction to man’s destructive wills.

Andrei Rublev and Solyaris are generally regarded as Tarkovsky’s masterpieces, with The Sacrifice seen as being too difficult a watch, and possibly too flawed. But the film’s end dedication is the clue to its mysteries, and its contradictions: to his son, Andrejusja, “with hope and confidence”. Tarkovsky knew he was dying when he was making the film; perhaps it is best read as a message to his son, the culmination of a lifetime’s experiences, joys and sadnesses, with the wish that he would be always able to learn from it.