The closer I get to #1, the more my choices will be second-guessed. That's okay for two reasons: (1) it comes with the territory, and (2) the list is opinion-based, so there's no right or wrong. (That statement might sound condescending, but you should read some of the e-mails I get about this list...) Over the past 30 years, nearly every critics' group that has cast a vote has named Citizen Kane as the best movie of all time. Objectively, that may indeed be the case, although I have no way of being certain. After all, my contention is that, in order to be able to name a movie the "best" of all-time, you have to have seen everything. I don't believe anyone qualifies. That's one reason this list is about subjective favorites, not objective quality. At any rate, I have a deep and abiding appreciation of Citizen Kane. Of course, it's one of the most influential films of all time (arguably second only to Birth of a Nation in terms of technical innovation), but it also tells an involving, compelling story and features a great performance (by Orson Welles). It is one of my favorites, although not quite beloved enough to crack the Top 10. I will admit that the first time I saw Citizen Kane (on television in the mid-1980s), I didn't understand what all the fuss was about. It took a few more viewings and a lot of reading to gain a full appreciation of the movie. For anyone who claims to love cinema, this is as iron-clad a "must see" as there is.

I was first exposed to Monty Python and the Holy Grail before I ever saw an episode of "Monty Python's Flying Circus." (In fact, it was in the same junior high school class where I first saw Patton, 2001, and The Great Escape.) My initial viewing left me nonplused – I wasn't sure what to make of the movie. Parts of it were certainly funny, but other scenes were simply... weird. (The knights that say "Ni?" A shrubbery? The air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?) Of course, at age 12 or 13, my sense of humor had not developed, and, in order to fully appreciate Monty Python, a mature (and, at times, twisted) sense of humor is mandatory. Needless to say, when I revisited The Holy Grail some time during high school, I thought it was one of the most hilarious motion pictures I had ever seen. In addition to being laugh-aloud funny (to use the newspaper ad cliché), Monty Python and the Holy Grail is probably the second-most quoted movie (right behind Casablanca). Even those who have never seen the film are probably familiar with about a quarter of its lines. It has been said that you can determine how much of Python geek you are by how much of The Holy Grail you can quote. While I'm not nearly as familiar with the film as some of my friends, I can recite a few of the better bits. In terms of pure humor, nothing done by the Pythons as a group is funnier. The best skits in "Monty Python's Flying Circus" (such as "The Spanish Inquisition," "The Dead Parrot Sketch," "The Lumberjack Song," and "Defending Yourself with Fruit") are on par with The Holy Grail, but not superior. Which brings us to the natural question of which is the best Python movie. And, to answer that, I can only say... to be continued.

Since its 1968 debut, movie fans have been divided in their opinions of Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece, 2001. There are those who think this is an incoherent, intentionally obtuse bore that may rank as one of the most overrated motion pictures of all time. Then there are those who view this as one of the most visually arresting, thought provoking science fiction films ever to reach the silver screen. Obviously, I am in the second camp. In addition to asking some really deep questions about life and the place of humanity in the universe, 2001 makes us believe that reaching for the stars is an achievable goal, not a myth. (Keep in mind that the film came out before a man walked on the Moon.) The film is made for science fiction viewers with patience. It's far closer to Solaris than Star Wars. This is yet another film that I grew to appreciate. I first saw 2001 when I was in junior high school. The video tape apparatus (circa 1981) was primitive, and the viewing screen was a 28" TV on top of a rolling cabinet at the front of a small auditorium. Not surprisingly, my enthusiasm was muted. In the advent of The Empire Strikes Back, I found this to be intriguing but slow, and the visual and audio poetry of the production was completely lost. Eight years later, when I saw the movie in a theater, I was amazed by the richness of the experience. This was not the 2001 I remembered from my childhood. One of the things I appreciated then and continue to appreciate about this movie is that every time I watch it, it provides new material for thought. Even amongst the best of films, that's a rarity. Finally, a note on 2010. It's an okay movie, but, because it is intended as a continuation of 2001, its straightforward approach and lack of artistry comes across as a letdown. The movie answers some questions, but I can't help but wonder if it wasn't better when the solutions remained mysteries. For those who see and enjoy 2001, 2010 is little more than a curiosity, and is not mandatory viewing.

This is a "two for one" pick in the Top 100, but it's easy enough to justify. Together, Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources (or, if you prefer, Manon of the Spring) represent a masterful telling of a single story. The split occurred because director Claude Berri believed that four hours was too long for viewers to comfortably sit in theaters, and he did not want to randomly cut scenes to make things shorter. This is sort of the same approach Miramax/Tarantino is taking for Kill Bill (except that it's harder to justify cutting a three-hour movie in half than a four-hour one with a natural break point). Jean/Manon has been a favorite of mine for a long time, although I didn't see it during its theatrical release. I watched Berri's films after being enraptured by the Daniel Auteuil/Emmanuelle Béart chemistry in Un Coeur en Hiver. Recognizing that they had previously appeared in Manon, I rented it. Before viewing it, I discovered that Jean was a prerequiste, so I rented that as well. Since then, I have owned copies of the movies in all three major formats: VHS, laserdisc, and DVD. I find the film so engaging that I am often able to sit through all four hours with only a brief interruption at the intermission. There are only two other four-hour movies I can make that claim for: Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet and Ron Maxwell's Gettysburg. On balance, Jean de Florette/Manon des Sources offers a better motion picture experience than either. It is beautiful, sublime, and emotionally powerful. In short, it is unforgettable.

Watching Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove can lead to a depressing recognition. The movie is so brilliant, clever, and wickedly funny – as black and edgy a satire as has ever been filmed – that, by comparison, it makes most of today's so-called "comedies" seem like warmed-over leftovers fried in a microwave oven then left out in the sun to rot. The first time I watched Dr. Strangelove, in a social studies class in junior high school (circa 1979), I wasn't that impressed. After all, it was in – gasp! – black and white. Maturity and repeated viewings have radically changed my opinion. Only four years after seeing the movie for the first time, I was extolling its virtues during an oral presentation for a high school current affairs class. Like Peter Sellers, I took on various different roles for the report. Unlike Peter Sellers, I was horrible (although I did elicit a fair number of guffaws). The cold war is a thing of the past – as much an historical relic as the Berlin Wall – but its passing has not robbed Dr. Strangelove of its power or humor. Cautionary tales like this rarely go out of style, especially when they skewer their targets with such lethal force. "You can't fight in here! This is the war room!" By playing three roles, Sellers steals the show. Yet George C. Scott was so good as the pompous General Turgidson that he became a front-runner for a biography of Patton. Most experts believe that, had it not been for Scott's Turgidson, we would have seen another actor in the 1970 film. Many have wondered how long it would take for a Kubrick movie to make it onto the Top 100. This is the first, and there's another yet to come.

Red represents the culmination of Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski's Three Colors trilogy, and the conclusion of his magnificent career. (One final script, Heaven, credited in part to him was made several years after his death by German filmmaker Tom Tykwer.) My placement of Red on the Top 100 List should not be viewed as a slight to the other pictures in the series. Blue is a powerful meditation upon grief and White is a darkly comedic story of revenge. But, as good as those films are, Red is the transcendent one. In a way, this film's themes of love and fate summarize all of Kieslowski's career. Domestically, the three movies were released six months apart (Blue in December 1993, White in June 1994, and Red in December 1994), and I can recall awaiting the final chapter will ill-suppressed excitement. Unlike too many highly anticipated films, it did not disappoint. The moment I saw it, I knew Red would have a spot in my Top 10 for the year. Since then, my opinion of it has only grown. I suppose I could have cheated and grouped the three films into one entry, but, since Blue, White, and Red are distinct movies, it didn't feel right to do so. While there are certain thematic connections between them, each can stand solidly on its own. It is possible to experience Red to its fullest without having seen Blue or White. (Although, for anyone who does that, my guess is their next action will be to go out and rent to previous two entries.) For the longest time, Miramax Films kept these movies largely out of circulation. Finally, early this year, they arrived on DVD, causing much celebration amongst foreign and art film fans. Now, for those who missed it in the theater, the opportunity has finally arrived to see one of the greatest foreign films of the '90s.

In the North American market, there are two versions of Cinema Paradiso available. The first, released domestically in 1990, is a slimmed-down, trimmed-down version that was subjected to major cuts by Miramax Films to get it close to the two-hour running length. The second, the so-called "Director's Cut," arrived briefly in theaters during 2002 before being ushered onto DVD. The extended version is actually the one that was released in Europe during the late-'80s, so the 2002 edition was just a case of North America coming up to speed with the rest of the world. There's something to be said in favor of both cuts. The 1990 one is faster-paced and more concise, but leaves a major question unanswered: What about Elena? The 2002 one requires a little more patience, but is ultimately more rewarding. Cinema Paradiso is one of those movies that evokes powerful feelings of nostalgia, even for those who weren't around during the time period it depicts. Watching this movie, I wished (however momentarily) I had lived in that small town in Italy during the first half of the 20th century. The film is also about the love affair that we romantic human beings have with movies. I have said it before and I'll say it again: the kissing montage in Cinema Paradiso is one of my five favorite clips from any movie made at any time by any director in any genre. It is remarkable and has, on more than one occasion, brought tears to my eyes. Anyone who has skipped this movie because of a dislike of subtitles has done themselves a disservice. Go out, rent the DVD, and give yourself over to the experience. 30 minutes into the movie, you'll forget you're reading. By the end, you'll swear it was in English. How many non-English language films are that absorbing?