"There is no winning! Only degrees of losing!" —Gavin D'Amato

The War of the Roses is Danny Devito's second excursion into feature film direction, having received accolades for his slapstick comedy Throw Momma from the Train two years earlier. It concerns the courtship, marriage, and, mostly, the comedically bitter divorce of Oliver and Barbara Rose, played by Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, as recounted by their chain-smoking attorney Gavin D'Amato, played by DeVito himself.

The ingredients in the Roses opening title sequence are basic: a static, nouveau sans-serif typeface is superimposed over a neutral gray background, soon revealed to be a swath of white fabric – presumably a bedsheet or a wedding gown detail, given the film's premise. Over the course of the sequence, the fabric gains depth and relief, presented at first by subtle gradients and delicate shafts of light, then becoming a contoured landscape of rolling hills. The folds become more pronounced and dramatic over time and by the end, we find ourselves face-down in a crumpled mess of fabric.

The sequence is capped by D'Amato removing the fabric from his coat pocket and blowing his nose into it.

As with many of Bass' previous title entries (Saul crafted this sequence with his wife Elaine), the opening titles to Roses can be read as a microcosm of the film itself, albeit entirely allegorical. Oliver Rose's dull existence is given new meaning and definition when he meets Barbara, but their honeymoon is short-lived, and soon the pretense of marriage becomes a catalyst for destruction instead of salvation. This narrative is played out in its entirety during the opening sequence, right under the noses of an unsuspecting audience.

The titles to The War of the Roses are not the most memorable in the Bass portfolio. Their signature op-art approach in the ’50s and ’60s had fallen out of vogue, and they had long since migrated over to commercial design. Along with Penny Marshall's film Big in 1988, Roses represented a return to titling for the Basses, having won the favor of a new generation of directors who had grown up on their work. And with that revival came a paradigm shift in their approach to the craft: sharp lines gave way to smooth surfaces and graphic representation was replaced by photographic imagery. And while it would take some time for the Basses to regain their footing with this new vernacular, their trademark less-is-more, concept-over-content approach to title design remained intact.

WRITER: Ben Radatz

While title sequences come in all shapes and sizes, it is of course inevitable that similar topics and themes will emerge from the pile. These don't necessarily have to be genre-specific and in fact, their ability to transcend film genres is part of the lasting appeal. Consider the Saul Bass school of graphic animation and the many genres that particular aesthetic has been applied to, from comedies and romances to thrillers and capers. The detail-oriented montage is another example, where the audience is introduced to themes in a film or information about its players through relevant close-up or overlapping imagery.

Whether by accident or due to a trend, these categories are born from ideas with universal appeal and are often broad in scope: graphic animation, nostalgic influence, situational type (in which the titles are integrated realistically into live-action footage), photomontage, and so on. Microscopic and inner worlds are also common topics, embracing both the mechanical and the organic – and, sometimes, a combination of the two.

There are certain narrative, technical, and graphic techniques for which title design is an ideal venue. Because of its short format and creative license – and sometimes because of their budgets – title sequence real estate is often used to explore elaborate, abstract worlds previously unknown or unseen, letting us see the world in a different way, or conjuring up worlds of their own. For this reason – combined with an enduring human fascination with how things tick – Inner Workings is a theme that is frequented by a broad spectrum of genres (though, to be fair, most often associated with sci-fi and fantasy).

The following are a collection of some of our favorite sequences under this umbrella, selected not only for their superior execution but also their creative significance and contribution to the craft.

"When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness." — Alexis de Tocqueville

Adam Jensen is dying. The blinding lights of an operating theater melt away in a mechanical fever dream of pleading voices, surgical tools, and rent flesh. Memories of lost love flash between images of a broken and dissected form, while shattered limbs and failing organs – the embodiment of Jensen’s flawed humanity – are replaced with the cold perfection of carbon fiber and silicon. A body restored, a soul fractured – but what remains of the man? A corporate thrall bound to unseen masters or a transcendent being gifted with the power to change everything?

Echoing the central motif of Eidos-Montreal’s video game – the merging of the real and artificial – Goldtooth Creative’s stunning title sequence for Deus Ex: Human Revolution seamlessly blends both live-action and computer-generated imagery to introduce players to a world at the dawn of a cybernetic renaissance.

“One final thing I have to do… and then I’ll be free of the past. “ —John ‘Scottie’ Ferguson

There is a threshold in art and design where a work can become so iconic as to transcend its own scope and become a symbol for its medium. Consider Warhol’s soup cans or Mondrian’s color fields, or – to bring it closer to home – Saul Bass’ iconic AT&T or United Airlines logos. And just as it would be difficult to find an American unfamiliar with these works, so too would it be difficult to find a moviegoer unfamiliar with the title sequence to Vertigo. Credit Bernard Herrmann’s haunting score or Bass’ odd synthesis of sensual Kim Novak closeups and spirographic imagery, but it’s likely an alchemy of the three that makes the Vertigo titles an enduring classic.

The spirographic images (called Lissajous waves, technically) were contributed by artist John Whitney, a pioneer of computer arts and a long-time animator at UPA, a commercial animation studio well-known for their modern aesthetic and experimental techniques. (In fact, Bass would again use a UPA alum, Bill Melendez – best known as the Peanuts sole animator – three years later in his sequence for It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.)

While seemingly unrelated to the story and perhaps even too modern for their own good, Whitney’s contributions to Vertigo were validated by Bass’ graphic direction and Hermann’s score, folding his designs into their tried-and-true audio-visual template. The resulting sequence is a landmark work both for Bass and the title industry, framing the film’s premise through evocative-yet-unlikely imagery and Hitchcock’s unique branding eye.

WRITER: Ben Radatz

"Not every conspiracy is a theory."

An unseen agent trails the truth, circling mysteries and raising questions with every paranoid swipe of the highlighter. Newspapers, bar codes, maps, documents, and photos – otherwise mundane minutiae is checked and rechecked for evidence, a pattern of some kind, or perhaps nothing at all. Every whir and click of the microfilm reader widens the web, as the line between conspiracy theorist and intelligence analyst is blurred in Imaginary Forces’ title sequence for AMC’s Rubicon.

A steady beat of stadium claps sets the stage for Buck 65’s gravelly voice as he weaves a miscellaneous lyrical list in the first verse of his track, “Superstars Don’t Love.” Simultaneously, Travis Hopkins’ fictional title cards stream forward in a blitz of elegant homage. These 69 individually-crafted title cards salute films like 2001: A Space Odyssey, Wild Style, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Royal Tenenbaums, and others, turning Hopkins’ clear enthusiasm for film and typography into a charming panegyric in the style of the masters.

"If you're wondering how he eats and breathes
and other science facts (la la la),
Then repeat to yourself, 'It's just a show,
I should really just relax
For Mystery Science Theater 3000!'"

Drawing on a fascination with home-made props and blending imagery from sources as diverse as Frank Zappa, the Mickey Mouse Club, and 2001: A Space Odyssey, Joel Hodgson and his team created a title sequence with its roots in UHF television broadcasting. Tom Servo, Crow, and the rest of the gang show their seams unabashedly, embracing the spirit of the movies so endearingly skewered aboard the Satellite of Love.

Joel Robinson’s space-borne imprisonment by distant jailers is a trial of the will, every film a battle. Each successive gauntlet of schlock that Joel (and the viewer) survives drives these tormentors further and further into manic desperation. How bad will they get? How bad can they get?! Joel and his impish robot companions may be prisoners to cinematic dreck and straight-to-video garbage, but no matter how terrible the film, they joyfully embrace it. The journey to Mystery Science Theater 3000 reminds viewers of the true meaning of “so bad it’s good.”