As a previous pick of mine revealed, Luis Buñuel is one of my favorite directors—a master surrealist and as quotable as Alfred Hitchcock. He uses the medium of film to search out psychoses, to understand the machinations of the human mind, and to rail against any- and every- thing that he ever found hypocritical. He also lets personal experiences, dreams, and symbolism seep into his films, but never allows them to become self-indulgent or egotistical. He's an uncanny filmmaker, addressing the 'real' in the most unreal ways possible.

While Discreet Charm will always be my favorite Buñuel, Le Fantôme de la Liberté (The Phantom of Liberty), made just 2 years afterward, has a mettle to it that even Discreet Charm can't match. It's a braver and looser 'narrative—one with the poise to follow themes and ideas rather than characters or plot. And this is a literal statement: Liberty jumps around so many times, from character to character, from time period to time period, and to different levels of reality. Whether something is history, a dream, an hallucination, or hyperbole is always in question. It's not only a deconstruction of film language and purpose, but a sly commentary on the pre-dispositions of film audiences and their expectations.

Liberty is certainly influenced by politics; its name comes from a nod to Tthe Communist Manifesto, but the title has other insinuations. As Buñuel, himself, says, chance is our ultimate master, and his surrealistic landscapes represent this perfectly. Edits, dialogue, images are all determined in a Buñuel film by chance; they link together in often tenuous or inexplicable ways and, yet,form their own unique language, their own actuality. The 'phantom' of liberty is just that—a slippery concept that never fulfills its own promises; something always struggled and fought over, but never truly gained. And Buñuel refuses to take us down that same road; rather than bowing to our presumptions of story, of arcs, of 'payoffs', he takes us somewhere new.

† Liberty also contains my all-time favorite scene in cinema—an absurdist, brilliant stroke involving toilets and the dinner table.

3-Iron is the only film I've seen from this Korean savant, but it's a fully realized piece of cinema, and one that sparked a recent personal interest in Korean film.

The story is as simple as it is beautiful: the almost silent tale of a young man who places take-out menus on the doors of local neighborhoods, and later returns to see which are still in place. By deduction, we see that he's looking for people who aren't at home. When successful in this quest, he takes out a simple lock-pick, enters the house or apartment, and resides there for a night or two. The best is yet to come, though, when we realize this man is neither a thief, nor a vandal. In fact, during his residence, he washes clothes, dishes, and even performs minor home repairs.

By fate, one night, he enters the home of an abused woman, who hides rather than answer the door or leave the confines of her abode. The two form an instant bond, but it's not sexual, heroic, or dependent. It's a quiet harmony, a peaceful understanding, and a reality where emotion and bonds are communicated through looks and touch. She follows him on his journey, until they accidentally find a home that lands both of them in trouble.

Without going further, it's important to note that Kim has a mastery of visuals that truly surprised me. Though there's sound, and even a bit of dialogue, the majority of the film is, essentially, noiseless; yet, never is anything unclear, theatrical, or forced. I found myself believing in a world, in a modern story, where people rarely spoke but still communicated. Where people still existed but, sometimes, were never seen.

The film is highly sensory in nature, and it seems to follow a supposed truth about those who lose a sense—that their remaining ones are heightened because of it. With so little auditory stimulation, I found myself more attuned to visuals and how those visuals channeled other senses—a surreal but grounding experience.

3-Iron is, perhaps, one of the most experiential films I've viewed, part of a cultural and cinematic re-examination. In a way, this is hyper-reality, hyper-cinema, but without the bombastic overtones of today's HD-ready action flicks. Reality is enhanced not by computers or technology, but by imagination and a particular harmony of spirit.

Everyone's 'favorite' non-fiction filmmaker is back. And if you thought Fahrenheit 9/11 pushed some buttons, Sicko may just press them all. Moore's already been acclaimed for making a film about America's iniquitous healthcare system, that has politicians on both sides of the aisle responding to its significance. If you want to talk about a skewed reality, you need only look at one of the film's primary statistics—the ranking of the U.S. healthcare system in the world today. We've already been through the Moore controversy, here in 'Deleted Scenes', especially with regard to what constitutes a documentary. But what I'd argue continually—no matter what you think of Moore or his politics—is that his reality comes from a place of care, of compassion, and activism. Even if you think he's a blowhard, at least what he's trying to make the world a better place. His methods can be brash and rude, perfunctory and over-hyped, but his end result is to call attention to a problem of social mores. There's a reason that Fahrenheit grossed an absurd amount of money for a documentary, and why it's also so unlikely for it to ever happen again: people are now more interested in changing and becoming involved in the world around them. And if you don't agree with him, at least Moore's got you angry and responsive…and thinking. That's a reality I want in on.

Animation is at the heart of all 'skewed reality'. These are the worlds that children so like to escape to—ones that resemble our own, or exist in our own, through portals, transformations, or subtle shifts in perspective. Pixar has now been the king of this type of world, where toys carry on when children aren't around, insects act out Seven Samurai on our front lawns, and monsters and superheroes dwell just beyond the purview of what we know to be. And now, my favorite animation-based filmmaker, Brad Bird, who crafted the aptly-titled The Incredibles, has helmed the newest Pixar offering, the first wholly-Disney production since the company was bought by the Mouse, last year. Unlike his superhero opus, however, this is not entirely Bird's concoction—the story of a rat who yearns to cook, and engages a down-on-his-luck chef for both of them to fulfill their dreams. It seems cute enough, but the trailer doesn't inspire the must-see response to the likes of events like The Incredibles or The Iron Giant. This is a work-in-progress that Bird took over, polished, and brought to completion. And when these films come out, the too-many-cooks scenario rarely accomplishes exceptional or memorable filmmaking.

'Just as long as it's better than Cars…

Fido will not be your typical zombie film. This will not be the post-apocalyptic landscapes of George Romero and Danny Boyle, or the blood-soaked mayhem of innumerable splatter pictures and pseudo-spoof indulgences. What Andrew Currie and friends have created is the perfect use of skewed reality—a '50s-era cult fairytale, wherein our planet passes through a dust cloud and brings the dead back to life. But instead of apocalypse, we get pseudo-science: a company creates a collar for the zombies, and allows them to be re-integrated into society (think the hints of Day of the Dead and the almost-human 'Bub'). As they must, things go wrong when one such zombie, who's befriended by little Timmy Robinson, seems to break off his leash. This one has been receiving accolades since last year's Sundance Film Festival, and may even develop a stronger reputation than Shaun of the Dead.

Although I'll never forgive David Milch if he doesn't finish off "Deadwood” properly, I can't deny that his new series inspires a lot of hope for the future of HBO. With many of its big series ending (as described in last month's column), it's good to know that they're invested in a risk-taker. Someone who loves to play with language, as well as with the concepts of destiny and history, Milch is a mad scientist in the very tame laboratory of television.

If you don't believe me, check out the "Deadwood” 2nd season DVD extras, which shows the process he underwent in writing or supervising the writing of each episode of that show. It's shocking and extraordinary to see how every chapter came to life, in a writing process unlike any other I've ever witnessed.

"John from Cincinnati” is possibly the densest and most absurd pilot I've seen, and I need to see it again before I can even approach the second episode. It's a series that looks to be about surfing but has a unique framework of family, drugs, and the sins of the past, all rolled up into a strange and deliberately religious allegory. Milch's trademark language—as easily identifiable as Mamet's, nowadays—is all over the first episode, sometime to its own detriment. This is a world hard to crack, hard to see into; but, as with "Deadwood”, I feel its best is yet to come. Its flourishes, its permutations, and its characters have yet to fully emerge from the shadow of that strange ad campaign in which we see Bruce Greenwood floating above the ground, still fresh from the waters of the Pacific.

Unlike "Deadwood”, which was firmly entrenched in digging through the dirt of the past, and doing so in impressively anachronistic ways, "John” will have to navigate a modern landscape, and reconcile its religious symbols and suggestions in more concrete terms. But if there's anyone who can merge a modern reality with modern spirituality, I think it'll be my favorite mad scientist.