Set mainly in the Ireland the tourist board didn't tell you about, Into the West is the story of a "traveling" family who have given up their traditional life of roaming, and find themselves trying to make it in the gritty, violent projects of Dublin. Gabriel Byrne is excellent as Papa Reilly, a once-proud father and leader whose grief over his wife's death has turned him into a booze-sodden has-been. His two sons, Tito (Ruaidhri Conroy) and Ossie (Ciaran Fitzgerald), escape the projects on an apparently magical white horse, Tir Na Nog, which leads them back to the West. After being forced to steal the horse back from a wealthy and ruthless horse dealer, they are pursued across the increasingly beautiful landscape by virtually all the policemen in Ireland. The much-loved actor David Kelly (Waking Ned Devine) does a nice turn as the grandfather, and Ellen Barkin is a surprising but believable choice as an old "traveling" friend of Papa Reilly. For better or for worse-mainly better-this is not the story Disney would have told: redemptive and uplifting at the end, it's realistic to the point of ugliness on the way there, with a style of cinematography that the Magic Kingdom has never been able to stomach. The younger brother, Ossie, is supposed to be 7, but the story itself is perhaps more appropriate for somewhat older children. Entertainment Weekly's best family video for 1994. -Richard Farr.

Cheyenne Autumn is a beautiful title to grace John Ford's final Western, an earnest attempt at long last to "tell the story from the Indians' point of view. " The film has moments of grandeur, thanks especially to William H. Clothier's majestic Technicolor compositions-restored to their proper Panavision dimensions on the DVD release-and moments of graceful action thanks to that peerless horseman, Ben Johnson. In other respects, the film falls short of the occasion. Ford is unambiguously supportive of the Cheyennes' resolve to bolt their assigned reservation in the desert Southwest and trek north to their ancestral lands. By emphatic contrast, most of white society, the military, the bureaucracy, and the sensationalist press are portrayed as insensitive, foolish, or downright hateful. Unfortunately, the Cheyenne are nobly wooden and, apart from some Navajo extras, played by non-Indians: Ricardo Montalban, Gilbert Roland, Sal Mineo, Victor Jory (who's pretty magnificent, actually), and Dolores Del Rio (who's breathtakingly beautiful as ever). As for point of view, it's sympathetic cavalry officer Richard Widmark and Quaker missionary Carroll Baker through whose eyes most of the epic narrative unfolds. A scabrous Dodge City interlude in midfilm, featuring James Stewart as a thoroughly disreputable Wyatt Earp (as opposed to the noble figure Henry Fonda played in My Darling Clementine), was chopped in half after the New York roadshow opening in 1964; it's all there on the DVD. Add to the list of sympathetic whites U. [+]

"The love impulse in man," says a psychiatrist in Bringing Up Baby, "frequently reveals itself in terms of conflict. " That's for sure. For a primer on the rules and regulations of the classic screwball comedy, which throws love and conflict into close proximity, look no further. A straight-laced paleontologist (Cary Grant) loses a dinosaur bone to a dog belonging to free-spirited heiress Katharine Hepburn. In trying to retrieve said bone, Grant is drawn into the vortex surrounding the delicious Hepburn, which becomes a flirtatious pas de deux that will transform both of them. Director Howard Hawks plays the complications as a breathless escalation of their "love impulse," yet the movie is nonetheless romantic for all its speed. (Hawks's His Girl Friday, also with Grant, goes even faster. ) Grant and Hepburn are a match made in movie heaven, in sync with each other throughout. Not a great box-office success when first released, Bringing Up Baby has since taken its place as a high-water mark of the screwball form, and it was used as a model for Peter Bogdanovich's What's Up, Doc? -Robert Horton.

Gordon Parks (The Learning Tree) directed this 1971 detective story about John Shaft (Richard Roundtree), an African American private eye who has a rocky relationship with cops, an even rockier one with Harlem gangsters, and a healthy sex life. The script finds Shaft tracking down the kidnapped daughter of a black mobster, but the pleasure of the film is the sum of its attitude, Roundtree's uncompromising performance, and the thrilling, Oscar-winning score by Isaac Hayes. Parks seems fond of certain detective genre clichés (e. g. , the hero walking into his low-rent office and finding a hood waiting to talk with him), but he and Roundtree make those moments their own. Shaft had a couple of sequels and a follow-up television series, but none had the impact this movie did. -Tom Keogh.

This sweet and genuine Tibetan comedy was promoted as a feel-good foreign flick-but anyone looking for guffaws and big feel-good moments will miss out on all the small, quiet pleasures The Cup has to offer. Set in a Tibetan monastery-in-exile in India, the movie follows a few young monks whose devotion to Buddhism is rivaled by their fervor for football (soccer to us blinkered Americans). They risk punishment to sneak out at night and watch games on a black and white TV in a neighboring house. One night they get into a squabble and are kicked out of the house; then, to make matters worse, they get caught by a stern monastery official named Geko. But the World Cup final match is the very next night! They beg the abbot of the monastery to let them rent a TV and satellite dish so they can watch the final game, and Geko and the abbot relent-now, if they can only gather the money and assemble the satellite dish, the game is within their grasp. The Cup contrasts the abbot's gentle musings about progress with the young monks' enthusiasm, but avoids being too didactic about its points. Instead, the movie favors light humor and quiet observations of character, slowly accumulating a bemused sense of the contradictions of modern life. The movie centers on a surly but immensely charming young monk and rabid football fan named Orgyen, whose implacable determination to see the World Cup match is tested when he realizes he's jeopardized what another young monk holds dear. A serene and lyrical movie. -Bret Fetzer.

No Hollywood studio was willing to buy or distribute this 1974 family film made in Texas, but it managed to find a considerable audience anyway in the U. S. and become a minor classic under its own steam. While Benji's production values aren't everything they could be, and the acting is at best uneven, the movie is really held together by the immense charm of the unassuming mutt who plays the title character. He may not look as impressive as Lassie or Rin Tin Tin, but poor stray Benji (played by a pooch named Higgins) is as brave and resourceful as they come, especially when a couple of neighborhood children are kidnapped and in need of rescuing. And what about that romantic subplot: Benji falling for a pampered pup from the good side of the tracks. Director Joe Camp earned himself a profitable franchise with Benji and its several sequels, but it was this first film and the debut of a new canine icon that stirs pleasant memories. -Tom Keogh.

Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald (Klaus Kinski), known as Fitzcarraldo to the native Peruvians, is an avid opera lover and rubber baron who dreams of building an opera house in the Peruvian jungle. To accomplish this, he plans to reach an isolated patch of rubber trees and make his fortune. But these trees are not directly accessible by river because of dangerous rapids, so Fitzcarraldo runs his ship as close as possible via an alternate river and then enlists the aid of the native Peruvians to drag his ship over a mountain to the desired area. However, the natives seem to have their own agenda in so mysteriously acceding to Fitzcarraldo's wishes. The results manage to both mock and affirm the dreams of determined figures like Fitzcarraldo, making absurdity out of the stuff of human endeavor without negating the beauty of that effort. There is hardly a more awe-inspiring or arresting image than that of Fitzcarraldo's ship pulling itself up the mountain with cables and pulleys, or of the ship resting in mid-ascent as seen through the thick morning fog of the jungle. The tortured production history of Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo (ably recorded in Les Blank's documentary Burden of Dreams) tends to take the spotlight away from this deeply mesmerizing film. And that's unfortunate, because the film itself is even more fascinating than the trials and tribulations, amazing though they might be, that led to its being made. Part of the problem is the film's deliberate, some might say ponderous, pace, which invites the viewer to experience the slow immersion into the jungle that Fitzcarraldo and company experience. Herzog did something similar in Aguirre, the Wrath of God, sometimes aiming his camera at the river rapids for extended periods of time, with hypnotic results. [+]