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To anyone familiar with Shinji Ikami’s tortured psyche, however — his daddy issues and severe uncertainties of self-worth, not to mention the depressive anguish that compelled Shinji’s precise creator to revisit the kid’s ultimate choice — Anno’s “The top of Evangelion” is nothing less than a mind-scrambling, fourth-wall-demolishing, soul-on-the-display meditation around the upside of suffering. It’s a self-portrait of an artist who’s convincing himself to stay alive, no matter how disgusted he might be with what that entails. 

But this drama has even more than the exceptionally unique story that it really is within the surface. Place these guys and the way they experience their world and each other, in the deeper context.

With Tyler Durden, novelist Chuck Palahniuk invented an impossibly cool avatar who could bark truisms at us with a quasi-religious touch, like Zen Buddhist koans that have been deep-fried in Axe body spray. With Brad Pitt, David Fincher found the perfect specimen to make that gentleman as real to audiences as He's towards the story’s narrator — a superstar who could seduce us and make us resent him for it within the same time. In the masterfully directed movie that served as a reckoning with the 20th Century as we readied ourselves to the twenty first (and ended with a man reconciling his aged demons just in time for some towers to implode under the weight of his new ones), Tyler became the physical embodiment of buyer masculinity: Aspirational, impossible, insufferable.

Opulence on film can sometimes feel like artifice, a glittering layer that compensates for a lack of ideas. But in Zhang Yimou’s “Raise the Pink Lantern,” the utter decadence in the imagery is just a delicious extra layer to the beautifully prepared, exquisitely performed and utterly thrilling bit of work.

Oh, and blink so you won’t miss legendary dancer and actress Ann Miller in her final huge-screen performance.

The second of three very low-finances 16mm films that Olivier Assayas would make between 1994 and 1997, “Irma Vep” wrestles with the inexorable presentness of cinema’s previous in order to help divine its future; it’s a lithe and unassuming piece of meta-fiction that goes all of the way back for the silent era in order to reach at something that feels completely new — or that at least reminds audiences of how latina milf deepthroating and giving rimjob thrilling that big deek ideas discovery could be.

And nonetheless, since the number of survivors continues to dwindle plus the Holocaust fades ever further more into the rear-view (making it that much less difficult for online cranks and elected officers alike to fulfill Göth’s dream of turning generations of Jewish history into the stuff of rumor), it's got grown much easier to understand the upside of Hoberman’s prediction.

And yet “Eyes Wide Shut” hardly needs its astounding meta-textual mythology (which includes the tabloid fascination around Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman’s sick-fated marriage) to earn its place because the definitive film with the 1990s. What’s more vital is that its release in the last year of the last 10 years of the 20th century feels like a fated rhyme for the fin-de-siècle Electrical power of Schnitzler’s novella — set in Vienna roughly a hundred years before — a rhyme that resonates with another story about upper-class people floating so high above their have lives they can begin to see the whole world clearly save for your abyss that’s yawning open at their feet. 

The film ends with a haunting repetition of names, all former lovers and friends of Jarman’s who died of AIDS. This haunting elegy is meditation on disease, silence, and also the void is the closest film has ever come to representing Demise. hotmail log in —JD

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That Stanley Tong’s “Rumble from the Bronx” emerged from that embarrassment of riches as being the only Hong Kong action movie on this list is both a perverse testament to the fact that everyone has their have personal favorites — How can you pick between “Hard Boiled” and “Bullet during the Head?” — and a clear reminder that a person star managed to fight his way above the fray and conquer the world without leaving home behind.

David Cronenberg adapting a J.G. Ballard novel about people who get turned on by vehicle crashes was bound to get provocative. “Crash” transcends the label, grinning in perverse delight as it sticks sex appeal brunette bianca alves caressed tenderly its fingers into a gaping wound. Something similar happens during the backseat of an automobile in this movie, just just one within the cavalcade of perversions enacted with the film’s cast of pansexual risk-takers.