To begin with, Marley is dead, and top ten lists are insane, or, at the very least, they can drive you insane. It's a sweet kind of madness, however, blood kin to that of Bram Stoker's insectivorous Renfield. Locked away in a small, dark room, sustaining himself on madhouse flies and in thrall to the black-light flickerings of his master, Renfield is the very model of a modern minor film critic at year's end. "He's coming," this pasty-faced fanatic gibbers to anyone within earshot. "The Master is coming!" Which, frankly, sounds way too close to what I and my fellow critical counterparts have been writing lately: "It's coming! The best movie of ... ever! For god's sake, man, you've simply got to see it!" Or, in the case of, say, Baz Luhrman's Australia, "Unclean! Unclean! Beware! Steer clear!" Frankly, I much prefer Brian Trenchard-Smith's Australia: Still, we are similar in our derangements, Renfield and I. We inhabit the dark and we worship the shadows that play across the walls. True, he devours bugs while I prefer to snack on edamame, and my dreams-to-nightmares ratio benefits from a superior audio/video system and precious few rats to speak of, but the metaphor remains apt. Mad about the cinema is still mad. Call me crazy. Like all art and most worthwhile experiences, writing about film is an innately subjective endeavor: one person's Death Race 2000 is another, lesser person's Death Race. And no critic's top ten list is ever truly complete. Ten is a fine figure with which to tally digits, dimes, and dames, but movies? Not so good. Even the worst year has twice that many overlooked, under-marketed, or unreleased gems that simply beg to be seen, and believed. Hence this addendum list. Ten extremely worthy films (in one case a book) that didn't make it onto my official Austin Chronicle year end canon. Why not? Various reasons: some only screened at Fantastic Fest, a couple didn't play at all and went straight to DVD, or they simply haven't been released. Nevertheless, each and every one blew my eyes out the back of my head, or made me cheer, or had somebody cheering at the fact my eyes were exploding out the back of my head (David Cronenberg, I suspect). They're all cinematic triumphs in their own unique ways, and they deserve to be seen. Preferably in the dark, and nowhere near Carfax Abbey, unless, you know, you're mad too...

It's only the second day of the year and 2009 is already looking better than '08. On January 1, 2009, the MLB Network began airing on Time Warner Cable Ch. 423 and DirecTV Ch. 213 – available at no extra charge to TWC digital-cable subscribers, unlike the NFL Network which is only available by subscription through DirecTV. I tuned in a couple hours ago and haven't changed the channel since. Lou Gehrig's courageous speech (baseball's Gettysburg Address), Roberto Clemente's tragic flight, Jackie Robinson's heroic debut as the first African-American player in the league, and Cal Ripken's epic consecutive-games-played streak are just a few of the stories I've seen today on the MLB Network. Happy New Year, baseball fans!

A few final thoughts from the year in film 2008: 1. Why does Hollywood insist on hiring British actors for the lead roles in Philip Roth adaptations? A few years back Anthony Hopkins played an African-American posing as a white American Jew (with a Welsh accent) in The Human Stain; this year we had Ben Kingsley as American Jewish professor David Kapesh in Elegy. I don’t get it. Richard Benjamin is still acting, right? What about Judd Hirsch? Dustin Hoffman? Jeff Goldblum? Harvey Fierstein? Steve Guttenberg? Albert Brooks? Larry David? Richard Dreyfuss? Harvey Keitel? Rob Reiner? Mel Brooks? Ron Jeremy? Alan Greenspan? Elie Weisel? Mel Gibson? I’m starting to understand how Puerto Ricans must have felt when they watched West Side Story for the first time. 2. I’m worried that people might read my top 10 list and think I’m a snob who hates America and loves Europe, when in reality I’m a snob who hates America and Europe in equal measure.

By and large, the big studio pictures didn’t do bubkes for me this year. That might sound like the regular grumblings of some art snob, but believe you me, I love a big, expensive, studio to-do – the epics, the adaptations, the serious dramas Hollywood only seems to put out when we’re rounding awards season. But again and again, they just fell flat for me. Gran Torino was a joke, Benjamin Button a bore, and Milk should have been so much more (which is not to say that, as is, it isn't a hell of a lot). Slumdog was a slick feel-gooder that left me tepid (sweet dance, though). Frost/Nixon was a well-executed, satisfying film, and that's fine. And sure, The Wrestler had a terrific performance by Mickey Rourke (surprisingly emotive for a face so reconstructed it looks like you could stick a pushpin through it and still not make a dent) and a loose, lovely camaraderie with the other wrestlers – but its arc was paint by numbers. (An estranged daughter? Stripper with a heart of gold? Garrr.) So 2008 didn’t have the kind of films that got a universal nod – no There Will Be Blood, no No Country for Old Men, no Lives of Others. But I liked 2008 even better, because what we got – at least from the foreign and arthouse offices – were demanding and dividing movies. Ask any critic and they’re bound to start frothing over that one or two or three movies that set them on fire this year; ask the next critic and you’ll get a good lather over three totally different movies. (It’s also worth noting that in the end-of-the-year crush, we’re watching anywhere from 1 to 3 movies a day; screening fatigue for me set in about a week ago, which is why I still haven’t seen Che or Doubt or Gomorrah or My Winnipeg. Just… step off, alright? I’m dancing as fast I can.)

You know when you love a movie and you want to shout it from the rooftops? Well, this is me scaling the wall and bellowing with all the bluster I've got in me, Austin: Go see A Christmas Tale! You have three crummy chances left to see this marvelous French film before it skips town for good.

Now I could go on and on about how ridiculous it is that a supposedly cinema-loving town can't sustain one of the best-reviewed films of the year for more than a week, or that IFC Films really bungled the job here, by under-advertising the film and mailing out screeners too late for some critics groups to give it the proper attention it deserves – but that's all in the past. What we have now is the present, and, like I said, presently only three more chances to see this funny, sexy, ecstatic panorama of despair and family dysfunction. (It's feel-good, too, I swear it!) It's playing tonight through Wednesday at 7:45pm at the Dobie.

Still not convinced? Don't take my word for it. Here's A.O. Scott's word. And Karina Longworth's. And Roger Ebert's. And Stephanie Zacharek's...

The Austin Film Critics Association just announced its 2008 awards, with The Dark Knight doing a lot of damage. Top ten anointed films of the year below, with the 16 other categories after the jump.

Top 10 Films:
The Dark Knight
Slumdog Millionaire
Milk
Synecdoche, New York
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Wrestler
WALL*E
Frost/Nixon
Let the Right One In
Gran Torino

A couple of new developments came down the pike from our friends and neighbors at SXSW Film. (Seriously -- they live on the other side of our volleyball court. And, yes, seriously, we have a volleyball court.) Firstly, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced that SXSW is now recognized as an Oscar-qualifying venue for the short film category. What does that mean? Well, let's ask the nice folks at Cinematical: "[F]or short films [to be considered for an Oscar], they either have to play theatrically (for three consecutive days, at least twice a day), OR win a best-in-category award at an Academy-approved film festival." And now SXSW is Academy-approved. (Little late to the game, aren't you, Academy?) Secondly was last night's announcement of opening night film I Love You, Man. Based on the tagline alone, we're calling it as another addition to the rapidly expanding bromance canon – it stars Paul Rudd as a groom shopping around for a best man. The film, written and directed by John Hamburg (Along Came Polly), also stars Jason Segel, Rashida Jones, Andy Samberg, J.K. Simmons, Jane Curtin, Jon Favreau, and Jamie Pressly. It's an interesting selection – under former SXSW director Matt Dentler's leadership, SXSW developed a reputation as a buzz-building launchpad for comedy. The selection of I Love You, Man may – or may not – indicate that new director Janet Pierson is committed to keeping SXSW in the comedy loop. Then again, Todd Haynes has already been announced as one of SXSW 2009's featured speakers... and I doubt we'll be seeing any bromances from him anytime soon. It'd be kinda awesome if we did, though.

"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort." – Emma The weatherman says the temperature won't top 40 degrees today, which makes it the perfect day to celebrate the birth of Jane Austen – that endless fount of wit and witticism, that sly tweaker of social mores, that shockingly sensible romantic – by staying in and curling up with one of her delicious reads. But, if like me, you're stuck at work, then I guess the next best thing is to troll YouTube for the many Austen offerings – I especially recommend 1995's Persuasion and the sparky, protofeminist Mansfield Park (with Harold Pinter!), the definitive BBC Pride and Prejudice miniseries (BBC, those cheeky bastards, have the celebrated pond dip up, but won't let me embed it) and Joe Wright's abbreviated, but still very worthy adaptation. But certainly at the top of the charts of Austen moments in film is Emma Thompson's spontaneous sob at the end of Sense and Sensibility. Like I said – the end of Sense and Sensibility, so, you know, spoiler alert.

Forrest J Ackerman, 92, passed away last Friday and it seems the entire blogosphere -- or at the very least those parts that have even the slightest interest in filmmaking and, more specifically, genre filmmaking -- is in mourning. We know we are. Ackerman's influence on the world of fantastic films, fiction, and fandom simply cannot be underestimated, nor can it be encapsulated in a single blog post like this one. We're not even going to try because, frankly, there's not enough internet. Forry, a fan's fan to the very end, never ceased his tireless, genial quest to collect and archive and offer (free of charge, natch) to the world all manner of fantastic film history. He edited the greatest monster magazine of all time, Famous Monsters of Filmland. He coined the term "sci-fi". He worked as literary agent for Ray Bradbury. He was best pals with Ray Harryhausen. He created Vampirella. He owned the signet ring Bela Lugosi wore in Tod Browning's Dracula. He never met a pun he didn't like. We grew up with Famous Monsters and all those other Warren Publications and, alongside Mad Magazine, E.C. Comics, Toho kaiju eiga flicks, and Saturday morning cathode ray brain warpers, FM played a huge role in shaping our omnivorous passion for all things cinematically (and literarily) weird, wild, and wonderful. We know we speak for many, many people when we say it feels like a beloved member of our own family has died. It cuts that deep. It hurts that much. He was that great. And so we say to Forrest J Ackerman, onetime resident of both the real and the reel and now a permanent fixture in the land beyond beyond, good night, and thanks for all the dreams. (Even the nightmares. Especially the nightmares.)