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1. Primer
So, here it is then. Your number one film. Or, rather, my number one film. Without doubt, this is the film I have watched most over the last decade. This is, in part, due to the incomprehensibility of the thing: it demands re-watching just so that you can make sense of the mechanics of the plot. Of course, it's not normally complimentary to say that film takes several viewings to understand. What makes Primer my favourite is not that I had to re-watch it, but that I wanted to re-watch it.

In essence, the film is a puzzle. A puzzle that asks, 'What in the blazes is going on here?' Scientists Aaron and Abe build a box in Aaron's garage. They're not entirely sure what it does, but they're sure it does something cool. Maybe something really cool. One of my favourite bits is where Abe talks Aaron through the discoveries that he has made about their mysterious machine. This is an artificial device; one character is initially in the dark, and the other explains what's going on, thus enlightening the audience in the process. In normal films you'd expect some patronising and hammy expository dialogue. Not so with Primer; the 'expository' dialogue involves a protein called Aspergillus Ticor, Feynman diagrams, frame dragging and this wonderfully abstruse exchange that is presumably supposed to be the moment when the penny drops for both Aaron and the viewer;

Abe: Aaron, the weeble's stupid. It can't move.
Aaron: But if it were smart...You're talking about making a bigger one.
Abe: Hey, I didn't say anything.

And there you go, that's your Eureka moment. That's the moment when it all falls in to place and you realise the potential of the box. But of course, you don't. You can't. Or at least my feeble intellect can't conceive of somebody grasping the significance of this conversation first time round ("Of course! The weeble's stupid!") It's a difficult film to follow, sure, but what makes it really difficult is that the film-makers don't help you. Even after many (many, many) viewings, you still have to depend on supposition to put together the whole story. It takes guesswork rather than logic to work out, for example, why there's a comatose man in Abe's bedroom.

'Ok', I hear you saying, 'So it's a puzzle. So's fucking Tetris.' Which is reasonable enough young sir (although I don't see why you're so angry about it.) But Primer is more than an ingenious puzzle. It's also about power, for a start. It demonstrates that the box represents power far beyond wealth or knowledge. The genius is that there have been dozens of films that feature machines that can do what their box does, but Primer is the only one I have seen that even hints at the scale of its power. This leads to the breakdown of the key relationship in the film: power corrupts and sure enough it turns Aaron into a right scoundrel (although he was a bit of a cock to start with, in all fairness.)

Then there's the unique mood of the piece. Primer really looks, sounds, and feels unlike anything else. This is largely due to the combination of a tiny budget and the desire to use film rather than video. Pretty much all the money the producer raised was spent on film stock. This meant that the cast were mostly amateurs and that there was a tight limit on the amount of footage that could be shot. There were no second takes, so everything that was shot got thrown into the film, leading to dialogue that is variably flat, stilted, or mumbled. This, alongside the script's esotericism, and its grey, grainy palate, gives you an atmosphere that is curiously unwelcoming but also compelling, nonchalant, and satisfying.

It's such a flawed film really. There's scenes where the light is just awful, the explanatory dialogue explains nothing, and the actors sometimes look surprised to be in a film. But, there's just something about it that makes me come back again and again. And that's what it comes down to I'm afraid. "Something." 100 films, 10,000 words, and all I can give you as justification is "something." Thanks for reading and sorry for wasting your time folks.

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2. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
You know, through writing this list I've had to sort of face up to my own tastes. It's been quite revealing to me to spell out what I like and dislike, to expose to myself my preferences, prejudices, superficiality, and so on. What I've noticed is that I seem to get most engaged by plot and character, rather than, say, atmosphere or cinematography. Quite strange, then, that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is all the way up at number two. Strange, because what makes the film is it's visual inventiveness in the first half of the film, and it's lyricism in the second half. That's not to say that the characterisations aren't great in this film: Matthieu Almaric does a pretty amazing job of bringing Jean-Do to life, as the playboy turned invalid. But the really striking thing about the film is the way in which it puts you right inside his cage of a body. The woozy first person perspective is frighteningly effective - the bit where he has his eyelid sewn shut has to be one the most disturbing scenes of the decade, for instance. I think that it's really clever how it often focuses in on the fairly mundane aspects of his situation, like somebody putting on the wrong TV channel, or his sexual frustration at the frankly improbable parade of beautiful women that come into his life. You can empathise with these small frustrations, whereas total physical paralysis is a condition too massive for you to comprehend in it's entirety. The shocking first half then gives way to the gentle, meditative second part, where Jean-Do revels in the opportunity to revisit his life. Again, this isn't really about plot or character so much, just a series of poignant scenes about what it means to be alive, and what is most important in life. One of a kind stuff.

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3. United 93
You'll know this as the film about the 4th hijacked 9/11 plane. I've sometimes wondered what the point of this film is. But then, if you start thinking that, then you start wondering what the point of any film is. So I (with a bit of help from Lord Reith) came up with three things that a film might be expected to achieve if it is to be deemed a success: to entertain, to inform, or to express an abstract concept. That sounds reasonable enough, don't you think? Now, United 93 is clearly not about entertainment. It doesn't lightly amuse. Rather, it grips you round the neck and squeezes until you make a wee snorting noise from your nose. Of course, it would be repulsive if a film with this subject matter sought to entertain. Ok, so no entertainment. What about informing, then? It looks like the kind of film that is supposed to inform, what with it's documentary stylings and dead-eyed clarity. But then, it's a story that everyone knows, and surely if your aim is to inform, then you should be telling a hitherto unknown story? To bring attention to something at least slightly obscure. So it can't be that then. So, we're left with my 'expression of abstract concepts' mumbo jumbo. Ah, maybe that's it then. It reproduces the horror of the situation in a clear and rational way, and as a result showcases the extraordinary bravery of the people on the plane. These guys are proper, honest to god heroes, and their representation here is an expression of the potential depths of human valour. Is that justification enough?

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4. You Can Count on Me
Oh God, how much love do I have for this movie? Hunners, that's how much. Hunners of love. It's a family drama, and I know that that sounds like a pejorative, but bear with me. Mark Ruffalo plays a good-for-nothing bum, who turns up at his sister Laura Linney's house and upsets her well-ordered life. God, I'm making this sound like an absolutely terrible film. But it's not, trust me, honest, it's brilliant. It's the two lead actors that make the film for me. Laura Linney's great, but Mark Ruffalo is just incredible as the childish, sullen, self-pitying, exasperating younger brother. I mean, he's just such a convincing arsehole. He tries to do the right thing, but he just doesn't try very hard. He normally has his misdemeanours forgiven though, and it's not because he makes an effort to change or because he goes on some kind of charm offensive. Rather, it's partly because of his dopey charisma, but it's mostly down to people taking the same approach to him as his sister does to the other men in her life - "I just feel sorry for them. Isn't that ridiculous?" And that scene at the bus stop. Oh God. Funny and sad and true.

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5. Man on Wire
When you think about it, it's quite strange that this film is as uplifting and awe-inspiring as it is. After all, the act that the film centres on - guy walks between world trade towers on a tightrope - isn't heroic in the traditional sense. He's not rescuing people from burning buildings, or teaching blind kids to play the bassoon or anything. He sees his stunt as a work of art, which is reasonable enough, but it's a pretty fucking self-indulgent work of art. So I suppose it says something good about the film-makers that they managed to make something so magnificent. A big part of it is the music; the climax is set to that song, you know, the one that goes da ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra. ra. Very inspiring, the sound and vision combine to give you a kind of slack jawed fascination. (Actually, I'm feigning ignorance here, it's Gymnopedie No 1 as you've doubtlessly realised from my description.) Also, the film-makers are quite lucky that the most of the people in the documentary are French. There's a moment where Phillipe's girlfriend points him out to some passers-by: "It is a walker. It is beautiful!" It sounds quite good in her Pepe le Pew accent, but some of the magic would have been lost if this line had been delivered by a native of, say, Huddersfield.

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6. Pusher II/Pusher III
Yes, I agree that it's a bit cumbersome having parts 2 and 3 of a trilogy as one entry but what am I supposed to do? They're chapters in the same story, with the same characters drifting in and out, so I don't think it's fair to separate them; and the first Pusher was made back in 1996, so obviously I can't include that one. Ok, well, justification over.
Do you remember that sequence in Goodfellas, when Henry has to arrange some coke smuggling, pick up his brother from the airport, cook some pasta, sell some silencers etc etc, and all the while the music gets louder and faster, and the adrenaline practically squirts out the screen? Well, the Pusher trilogy is like that, non-stop. That's 6 hours of squirting adrenaline in total. My favourite instalment is the second one. Mads Mikkelsen is the focus here, playing serial loser Tonny, his rubishness marked out by the massive 'respect' tattoo on the back of his head. Och, and he's having a hard time of it. His father is keeping him as far away from the family business as possible; his ex-girlfriend is pregnant and only ever talks to him to laugh at him or hit him up for money; his partner in crime, Kurt the Cunt, is almost as big a loser as he is; he can't get an erection; and he keeps on doing stupid, stupid things. The whole film is swamped in coke, giving it an intense, paranoid feel. Tonny finally manages to take hold of his life, leaving you with an ambiguous ending which is fairly upbeat at first glance, but which on reflection offers little potential for a happy ending. Poor Tonny.
The third film centres on Milo, who pops up in the first two films as the ruthless, seemingly untouchable gang boss. The third film shows that he's not actually untouchable at all. He's got quite a few people touching him, like the scary new gangsters in town and his horrific daughter, and on top of that he just can't seem to stop smoking that darn heroin. Things get so bad that he has to rope in his old pal Branko for a hand. This is excellent news for the viewer, because Branko is grrrreat. He has a role in the first film as Milo's brutal enforcer, but he's conspicuously absent from the second instalment. Turns out that he's done pretty well for himself. Regardless, Milo needs some help from old Branko, who's surprisingly warm-hearted and gentle considering that he's a savage, murderous bastard.
All three films take place in the tight confines of Copenhagen, as far as I can recall there are no scenes that take place outside the city. There's characters from Scandanavia, Serbia, Albania, and fuck knows where else, but the films never really acknowledge the concept of other places. This is it. You're stuck here in Copenhagen with these crazy people. Relentlessly relentless.