
Bad Romance
Written on a tour bus in Norway and premiered at Alexander McQueen's last show, all nonsense syllables and appetite.

Written on a tour bus in Norway and premiered at Alexander McQueen's last show, all nonsense syllables and appetite.

Christoph Waltz plays four languages and makes every one of them frightening: Tarantino builds his scenes as long conversations where somebody at the table already knows too much.

The four-minute marriage montage is the most devastating thing Pixar has ever done, and it is wordless: after that, an old man flies his house away on balloons.

The best prison film of this century, and it works like a business education: an illiterate nineteen-year-old walks into a French jail and starts learning very fast.

Bigelow made war feel like an addiction rather than a duty: a bomb disposal sergeant works without much fear, and every defusal is stretched until the room turns physical.

The Coens' most personal film and their least forgiving: a Minnesota physics professor's life comes apart for no reason at all, and nobody in it will explain anything.
Two songwriters homesick in London started it; Keys and a Moments piano loop made Jay-Z's first lead-artist number one.

An arpeggio out of Chicago house, a sample from the Cassini Saturn probe, Lennox wanting only a home.

Banjo, fiddle and mandolin under a scene Swift wrote after overhearing a touring musician's phone call with his girlfriend.

Chris Bear started the piano line on a Cape Cod weekend; Victoria Legrand's stacked harmonies make the rest glow.

A fantasy of Belle Epoque Paris, handed out free online, that then spent thirty-one weeks climbing to alternative number one.
Bedroom pop in the literal sense, a Gary Low disco record slowed to a crawl, and chillwave had its template.

Banjo hammering under a chorus that needed a radio edit, produced by Markus Dravs and voted Australia's song of 2009.

Reitman cast people who had actually just been laid off and filmed them reacting for real: a man who fires strangers for a living has arranged his whole existence around not landing.

Four lines, no instruments, one voice stacked through Auto-Tune into a choir Kanye West later built a song from.

There is no guitar anywhere on it, which for a rock band was the point. It is named after a Maryland concert amphitheatre.

The camera drops out of the sky into a packed football stadium and does not cut for five minutes: an Argentine investigator reopens a case he could never leave alone.

Heine coined the word for Liszt's swooning fans, and Philippe Zdar gave these guitars their chrome shine.