The clinically style-obsessed Tony Scott might not have been everybody's choice to helm a Tarantino script just as St Quentin was white-hot (seems a while ago now, huh?), but he made a splendid 1993 pulpy pot-boiler which, in sum, outshines its pithy but disjointed parts. Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette are the doomed Detroit lovers-on-the-run with a suitcase of coke, negotiating baroque badlands after Slater kills sleazoid pimp Gary Oldman and his comedy dreadlocks. Everyone who's anyone turns up to harass the couple and their sad dad Dennis Hopper.

A Bosnian and a Serb share a trench in this Oscar-winning anti-war film which uses farce and satire to convey its message. The director's an experienced documentary maker; there's truth in his portrayal of an absurd conflict. Sadly the late, great British actress Katrin Cartlidge, ever one to support worthy causes, is miscast as an egocentric reporter.

A cult favourite back when our people were fair and had stars in their hair, this addled 1974 sensory epic follows legendary surfer and cameraman George Greenough's search for the perfect wave. Set to the ping-pongs of Pink Floyd's "Echoes", the final 20 minutes are surf-cinema's equivalent of 2001's Stargate sequence—but it's for boardheads and Floyd completists only. Give us Point Break any day.

An assured if unspectacular directorial debut from Bill Paxton, Frailty turns Se7en on its head, splices in The Sixth Sense and casts a crazy-eyed Matthew McConaughey as an enigmatic witness to the mysterious "Hand of God" serial killings. The look is Southern Gothic, the performances solid, and the final reel twist wildly courageous.

Someone seems to have decided that Ashley Judd and Morgan Freeman are a marketable team, and their umpteenth crime thriller together is brought to you by the estimable Carl Franklin. Judd's a perky lawyer whose husband (a wooden Jim Caviezel) may or may not be a mass murderer. Freeman's an amusing drunk, but sadly the plot's the last word in generic, and the 'twists' wear neon signs on their heads.

Koyaanisqatsi is arguably the best stoner movie of all time, although Godfrey Reggio probably didn't realise that in '83. Aerial photography of forests, animals; etc, sweeps across to expansive time-lapse shots of factory complexes and nuclear power plants. The big country's poeticised and exposed to Philip Glass' insistent score. Powaqqatsi, the '88 sequel, explored Third World exploitation, but the original's the must-see.

Fifteen years on, the only thing that's dated about John Cleese's romantic-comedy-cum-caper-movie is the fashions. Cleese honed the script for years, and it shows—plus the entire supporting cast are a treat, especially Michael Palin's stuttering animal rights assassin, Jamie Lee Curtis'sexy double-crosser and Kevin Kline's psychopathic fish-killer. Immensely likeable.

Made for HBO, John Frankenheimer's final film shows how the US stumbled into the Vietnam war. Alternating choppy chaos with slow control, it considers the view from the White House during Lyndon B Johnson's troubled administration. An ambitious three hours in length, with Michael Gambon's LBJ backed by an incredible cast including Donald Sutherland, Alec Baldwin and Philip Baker Hall.

Compelling Alaskan chiller from Memento director deserves reappraisal

Producer Lawrence Bender wears his Tarantino badge with pride. Which is fine when producing QT movies but problematic in everything else (see Killing Zoe, From Dusk Till Dawn 3). Knockaround Guys, in classic Tarantino fashion, has edgy twenty somethings (Barry Pepper and Vin Diesel), a bag of loot, leather jackets, guns, the mob and, natch, a high-intensity Mexican stand-off finale. Derivative.