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Ten years ago, it seemed like we all had a pretty solid idea of movies —
what they can do, who they’re for, and where they’re watched. That idea
was inflexible, and supported by a century of precedent. It came with the
added benefit of making the people in charge comfortable with the idea
that cinema’s future wouldn’t look all that different from its past. DVD
sales were strong, Netflix was still just a sad little envelope at the bottom
of your mailbox, and China was starting to give studios the biggest safety
net it ever had. Perhaps the arrival of James Cameron’s “Avatar” in the
waning moments of 2009 could have been seen as a harbinger of strange
things to come, but no one in Hollywood has ever lost sleep over a movie
that grossed nearly $3 billion.
Things have changed. Cinema is in a constant state of flux, but it’s never
mutated faster or more restlessly than it has over the last 10 years. And
while the decade will no doubt be remembered for the paradigm shifts
precipitated by streaming and monolithic superhero movies, hindsight
makes it clear that the definition of film itself is exponentially wider now
than it was a decade ago. Places. Products. Mirrors. Windows. Reflections
of who we are. Visions of who we want to be. A way of capturing reality. A
way of changing it. If the most vital work of the 2010s has made one thing
clear, it’s that movies have never been more things to more people than
they are today. And our week-long celebration list of the Best Films of the
2010s has us more excited than ever about what they might be to you
tomorrow.
As the week goes on, we’ll be posting lists of the decade’s best
performances, scenes, scores, and posters, as well as a timeline of the
news stories that shaped the last 10 years, and interviews with the
filmmakers who made it all happen.
But for now, IndieWire is proud to kick things off with our list of the 100
best movies of the 2010s.
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A few years later, Ruben Östlund would enter similar terrain with the
masterful dark comedy “Force Majeure,” but Loktev probes her
conundrum in pure cinematic terms: Her movie deals with the
assumptions about trust and companionship that so often go
unquestioned until they’re forced into the open, but it never states its
themes outright. The tension bursts into the story and then sits there, like
an open wound, while its extraordinary performances address the rich
thematic depths of each disquieting scene. Loktev hasn’t made a movie
since then, but her two features together speak to the unique anxieties of
this present moment — what it means to experience a sudden shock to the
system, and then linger in the fallout, uncertain what to do next.—EK
“The Great Gatsby” (Baz Luhrmann, 2013)
Baz Luhrmann’s movies have such a pulse that by the time you’re done
watching one you feel like it’s in your bloodstream. No wonder some
people hate them. But if you can get on their wavelength, there’s nothing
more purely cinematic. “The Great Gatsby” is Luhrmann’s style distilled
to its most potent essence, more a visual concept album riffing on Scott
Fitzgerald’s novel than an adaptation; it has a lot more in common with
“Lemonade” and The National’s “I Am Easy To Find” than the Francis
Ford Coppola-adapted “Gatsby” from 1974. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jay
Gatsby might as well be Jay-Z Gatsby (Jay-Z was a producer of
Luhrmann’s film and contributed several tracks to it), a self-made
gangster with a poetic streak, committed to outrageous experiences of
sensation to fill the hole inside. Luhrmann crams enough sensation into
his frames to overwhelm the retinas — this is one of three or four movies
to justify a 3-D release this decade — and to put you in the front seat of a
life, and a society, racing to a head-on crash.—CB
Nothing else this decade quite tapped into the bittersweet euphoria that
Marczak was able to capture through his camera, which the director
wielded with a custom rig that he designed himself in order to trace the
ephemeral moments that spark when his characters twirl down the empty
city streets and dance through each other’s lives. Creating a cinematic
language far more sophisticated and satisfying than the handheld
aesthetic that so many of today’s scripted indies port over from
documentary filmmaking, “All These Sleepless Nights” is a miraculous
film that, decades from now, we will recognize as being light years ahead
of its time.—CO
And then there’s “Girl Walk // All Day,” a visionary and euphoric work of
lighting-in-a-bottle genius that only exists because director Jacob
Krupnick recognized what the rest of the world had yet to figure out for
themselves: In an age where the line between public and private spaces
was about to be erased forever, art could happen at all times — anywhere
and to anyone.
“Fire at Sea” is told largely from the point of view of Samuele, a 10-year-
old boy who lives on the sleepy Mediterranean island of Lampedusa. In
the waters just beyond what Samuele can see from his bedroom, a near-
daily life-and-death battle rages as rescue boats try to save hundreds of
desperate refugees trying to reach European shores. For Rosi, this
juxtaposition between Samuele’s self-contained universe and the
humanitarian crisis that’s spreading across the sea — close in proximity,
but a world apart — is a damning metaphor for modern-day Europe. It’s a
simple connection on its surface, but one that Rosi cut into with his
camera until he exposes the raw feeling lurking underneath.
Controversy surrounded the film’s release because, not only did Tati
choose not to make it himself (and otherwise never even publicly
acknowledged the daughter he left behind), but the film seems to continue
to erase her existence. Those are valid criticisms, but the film is so damn
sad it seems to confront them head-on. When the magician finally
abandons the girl, as Tati had in real life, he leaves her a note that simply
reads: “Magicians do not exist.” Yes, that sound you hear is your heart
being ripped out of your chest. The feeling that follows is subtler, sadder
even somehow, and yet also hopeful: We still need illusions, especially
when we no longer believe in them. —CB
First-time actor Tom Mercier delivers one of the decade’s best (or at least
most exposed) breakout performances as Yoav, a twentysomething who
arrives in Paris with a pledge to never speak another word of Hebrew.
Alas, the rich young couple he falls in with don’t make it easy for Yoav to
sort himself out. In broad strokes, his story becomes the unshakeable
story of a man who’s grown tired of carrying the baggage that comes with
being an Israeli, and who’s driven to the brink of madness by a world that
forcibly identifies people by the place they were born. It’s a raw and
intransigent tale, and one that’s sure to provoke a fascinating shitstorm
when it hits theaters this fall. —DE
It was a natural progression for Davies, who sculpts by omission and tells
impossibly wistful stories in the time between time. His films are rooted
in memory and swaddled by nostalgia, suspended between an acutely
remembered past and the unbearably painful present that it left in its
wake. With Chris, he found a character who feels that dislocation in her
bones, and the ache of it would be too much to bear if not for the strength
of her roots. “Nothing endured but the land,” she says, sublimating herself
into the earth itself. “Sea, sky, and the folk who lived there were but a
breath. But the land endured. And she felt in the moment that she was the
land.”—DE
An oblique and freeze-dried hunk of sci-fi that’s wrestling with the future
(or the lack of it) and preoccupied with the obsidian darkness that
stretches out before us all, “High Life” is as horrifying and monolith-black
a space odyssey as you might expect from the mind behind “Trouble Every
Day” and “Beau Travail.” But Denis’ genius is in her ability to find the
tender spots in even the most apocalyptic of circumstances, and her best
film of the last decade is all the more powerful for how it finds light and
hope as it soars towards oblivion. Plus, it features a scene in which
Pattinson warns us about the dangers of eating our own shit. The more
you know! —DE
Yet “No Home Movie,” which Akerman edited from over 40 hours of
footage after her mother passed away, is hardly just an act of
preservation. On the contrary, it hews closer to self-portraiture, as the
film poignantly erodes into another piercing examination of Akerman’s
rootless existence. Tying together several of the threads that Akerman had
always pulled at, “No Home Movie” nods at a lifetime of nomadism, and
dissects the complicated role that her mother played as her constant;
Akerman saw Natalie as a siren’s call away from her isolation (see 1977’s
“News from Home”), and “No Home Movie” brings the two women face-
to-face in a way that echoes with decades of cinematic tension.
A formalist if ever there was one, Akerman stated that “No Home Movie”
was shot in the spirit of a home movie because, “I think if I knew I was
going to do this, I wouldn’t have dared to do it.” Yet by embracing
elements of the home movie form — regardless of what the film’s title tells
us — Akerman crafted a film so clear and acutely mundane that it feels
like an act of holding on and letting go at the same time. “No Home
Movie” is a perfect distillation of how it feels to say goodbye, both to a
loved one and an artist.—CO
At its best, Pixar produces animated films that delight children without
ever condescending to them. But after a few rough years of sequels and
cash grabs, audiences couldn’t be blamed for asking if the studio had lost
its touch. Then came “Inside Out.” By showing an 11-year-old girl’s mind
as complex enough to merit exploration, and doing so with an instantly-
graspable plot device, the studio fulfilled its brand promise and then
some. Wrapped in a Technicolor bow that never feels moralizing, “Inside
Out” is the most compelling argument Pixar could make for its ongoing
place in American pop culture. —CZ
While “A Star Is Born” has, across four films, always offered up a two-
pronged approach to the fame trajectory, following one star has she rises,
the other as he falls, Cooper’s film is really about Ally more than it’s about
Jackson. (That the film’s major twist, if you can call it that after three
earlier films, is about Jackson does not detract from this bent.) Gaga is
more than up for the challenge, but the generosity of the film extends to
Cooper’s hard-won performance, alongside supporting turns from players
as diverse as Sam Elliott and Andrew Dice Clay. This is a film in which
every moment, every breath, every look matters (thank you,
cinematographer Matthew Libatique), set to a stirring soundtrack and
gorgeous scenery for added “oh, look, it’s my first film” jealousy points.
There’s nothing to be jealous of here though, not really, because once the
film wrings the tears from its audience — those too are hard-won — it’s
hard to feel anything but wonder that this story still holds such a sway.
Some stars shine forever.—KE
Forty years after the original, the saga grew up — and some of its fans
couldn’t handle it. In this most mythic of Star Wars films, rendered in the
boldest of cinematic strokes by Rian Johnson, there was no happily ever
after for Luke Skywalker. But he does live up to the purest ideal of the
Jedi: Like he does in his final battle with Darth Vader, he throws his
lightsaber away, realizing that a sacrifice of himself will distract his
enemies and allow his beloved “community” to survive. John Williams
mixed leitmotifs from all seven of the previous films with Wagnerian
panache — try not to rock out when “Rey’s Theme” propulsively dissolves
into “Attack of the TIE Fighters” from “A New Hope” in the final battle –
and DP Steve Yedlin lavished the color red on several key setpieces to
create an explosion of emotion. It’s tempting to imagine what the movies
would be like if more blockbusters shot for this level of ambition, beauty,
and resonance. It’s almost unfathomable that one of this size was able to
achieve it. —CB
Larraín’s film neatly shifts between past and present, providing rich and
often unexpected looks inside Jackie’s life and psyche during one of the
worst times of her — and the country’s — life. There are no grace notes
here, no redemption, no sense that everything will be okay in the end, but
such honesty suits what actually happened, and while the film might take
a few liberties (see: Jackie’s extended stroll with a shocked priest), it gets
the emotions exactly right. It’s the kind of veracity — emotional, mental,
psychological — that more fact-based features should strive for. For now,
at least, there is “Jackie” and its inimitable leading lady. —KE
It almost feels arbitrary to single out just one of the great observational
documentaries that Wiseman made over the last 10 years, but his
examination of the University of California at Berkeley — a spellbinding
four-hour wonder set against the backdrop of a decrease in state funding
— strikes a particularly resonant chord. Wiseman trains his lens not only
on the ideals of higher learning, but also on Berkeley’s unique spirit of
idealism, and how the school might struggle to maintain its values of
activism and accessibility in the face of an unforgiving climate.
Universities can be such vibrant places, and even the longest of
Wiseman’s protracted scenes feels like it’s brimming with potential and
hope for the future. But it’s the finale that leaves the most fraught and
lasting impression, as Wiseman jettisons his discrete style of editing in
order to cross-cut between the faculty and the students during a sit-in
protest that feels like a microcosm of the paradox that defines Berkeley’s
future. One way or the other, that future will be the product of a painful
compromise, a subject that Wiseman captures better than anyone. —CO
One of the best action movies of the modern studio era, “Fallout” is
basically like watching the most intense man on Earth compete in a
relentless foot race against his own demons, as Cruise laughs at death for
our entertainment. From the HALO jump sequence to the climactic
helicopter duel, the stunts in this one combine the gobsmacking scale of
“Ghost Protocol” with the sheer velocity of “Mission: Impossible — III,”
and McQuarrie weaves them all together into a breathless ride with nary a
single wasted shot. It’s a veritable symphony of stunt work, a timeless
piece of classical filmmaking, and an enduring reminder that great movies
only get made because someone out there is crazy enough to think that
they can. —DE
A substantial bulk of this brilliant film is spent peering into the nuanced
worlds of each family member, as Kore-eda builds them all into complex,
endearing characters. The Shibatas have a lot of love, but they also have a
wealth of complicated secrets, and they’re all splayed out in the film’s
heightened and heartbreaking final 30 minutes. “Shoplifters” is a
shattering experience, but it’s more than worth it, if only for how it forces
viewers to reckon with what forces truly galvanize people into a family. —
LL
“Faces Places” (Agnès Varda & JR, 2017)
A moving, funny, life-affirming, and altogether wonderful twilight
dispatch from the original queen of the French New Wave, “Faces Places”
was the second-to-last film that Agnès Varda was able to complete before
her death earlier this year, but it endures as a perfect entry point into a
body of work that will make your life a better place. A testament to the
creative imagination, Varda’s heart-tugger — made when she was 89 years
old — found the late artist bringing her powerful personality, boundless
visual acumen, and canny documentary instincts to a road movie made in
collaboration with deferential younger street artist, JR. Together, the odd
couple packed into a van that doubled as a massive Polaroid camera and
toured the French countryside, taking giant photos of the strangers they
meet and restoring a sense of visibility and wonder to working-class
people who are often overlooked.
A true dramedy (a less graceful film would shout, “just like life!” at every
turn, and “The Farewell” doesn’t have to), the movie flows between
crowded doctors’ appointment, one wonderfully over-the-top wedding,
and enough scenes centered on tasty dim sum to leave audiences in
screaming hunger pains. Along the way, Billi and her family are forced to
deal with both their lie and the imminent goodbye Wang’s title implies,
pushing them into reckonings that go far beyond just the singular tragedy
they’re anticipating. The film might be built on dichotomies — American
versus Chinese life, lies versus the truth, family versus everything else —
but it coalesces into a rich and relatable slice of life that illuminates every
topic it touches. —KE
This ancient story is cut with new ribbons of satire and surrealism, as
Takahata creates a mesmerizing swirl of hope and darkness — past and
future — that builds to a bottomless (yet bittersweet) hole in the pit of
your stomach. How does a movie so sad not get overwhelmed by its own
tragedy? The only explanation is that “The Tale of the Princess Kaguya” is
touched with the same magic as its title character, and will remain perfect
forever even if the source of its beauty is gone. —CO
Now a couple with two daughters, Jesse and Celine are still as charismatic
as ever. Watching the couple chat on vacation in Greece, it’s easy to feel
like nothing has changed in the last two decades. But the film catches up
with them at a time when things are closer to falling apart than they first
appear, and the usual pseudo-philosophical banter soon gives way to a
broken dam of unaired grievances. It turns out that finding each other
twice, while living on different continents, was the easy part. Sharing the
fullness of your life with someone? That’s another story.
Here, the “Before” movies collected into the rare franchise that truly aged
with its characters; each film is whatever Jesse and Celine needed it to be.
The trilogy started with fantasy, and a magical infatuation with a stranger
who would be nothing but a memory by the morning. It ends with
permanence, and the realization that every relationship eventually
becomes about doing the best you can together. “If you want true love,
this is it,” Jesse tells Celine. “It’s not perfect, but it’s real.”—CZ
“Parasite” (Bong Joon-ho, 2019)
A comically violent class parable that examines how a society can only be
as strong as its most vulnerable people, Bong Joon-ho’s electric Palme
d’Or-winner is a tender shiv of a movie that doesn’t rely on its metaphors,
or even let them survive; unlike some of the “Snowpiercer” auteur’s other
high-concept work, “Parasite” is nothing if not eminently possible.
A grounded enough story about the members of a poor Seoul family (led
by the great Song Kang-ho) who, one-by-one, each begin working for a
nouveau riche family in their sleek mansion up the hill, “Parasite” starts
as an off-kilter class comedy of sorts before sinking into something wild,
unclassifiable, and burning with rage. As heightened as “Okja,” as realistic
as “Mother,” and as heart-in-your-throat haunting as “Memories of
Murder,” Bong’s latest is a madcap excoriation of life under the pall of late
capitalism, and it leaves everyone a little richer at the end of it. American
viewers may not have gotten their chance to see it yet (Neon will begin to
release the film stateside on October 11), but “Parasite” already seems
certain to go down as a defining expression of the inequality that reared
its head in the early part of the 21st century, both in Korea and beyond. —
DE
“The Lost City of Z” (James Gray, 2016)
“The jungle is hell,” a bearded Robert Pattinson spits out. “But one kind of
likes it.” It might as well be a mission statement for all of the great
adventure films. And James Gray’s “The Lost City of Z,” a lush and
intoxicating adaptation of David Grann’s book about the ill-fated Amazon
expeditions of British explorer Percy Fawcett, is one of the greatest
adventure films ever made.
Played by Charlie Hunnam in the film, Fawcett makes three journeys into
the rainforests of Bolivia and Brazil in search of the ruins of a lost
civilization; the last results in a mystery that’s never been solved, as
Fawcett and his son (future Spider-Man Tom Holland) disappear without
a trace. Shot by Darius Khondji with the unfussy naturalism of an
Alexander Korda adventure, and molded with the same nuance that Gray
previously brought to smaller (but no less intimate) films like “Two
Lovers,” “The Lost City of Z” is a swooning character study that teases out
both the optimism and the frustration of exploration — the hope of
discovering something new, and the desolate realization that what you
already have must not be enough.—CB
“Hereditary” (Ari Aster, 2018)
So head-and-shoulders above the majority of its genre that people insisted
on referring to it as “elevated horror,” Ari Aster’s “Hereditary” made it
clear (yet again) that scary movies can make for serious art. Led by an
astonishing Toni Collette, the film turns a standard-issue story of
demonic possession in the foundation for a wrenching examination of
grief, mental illness, and inherited trauma. Holding his own against a
Collette in top form, Alex Wolff emerges as an impressive talent capable
of toggling between terror, vulnerability, and teenage rebellion in the span
of a single scene, while Ann Dowd plays a chilling villain who pushes the
movie right up to the brink of camp. But “Hereditary” stands out not only
for the performances Aster elicited from his cast, but also because of how
he wove them together into a domestic horror story that churns with the
unimpeachable terror of a truly fucked up family, and builds to the queasy
conclusion that there’s nothing scarier than our own innate darkness. —
JD
“A Separation” (Asghar Farhadi, 2011)
The 2010s were the decade when Iranian filmmaker Asghar Farhadi
announced himself as cinema’s reigning master of marital deconstruction,
and the 2011 drama “A Separation” remains his magnum opus. Winner of
the Golden Bear, the Golden Globe, and the Academy Award for Best
Foreign Language film, Farhadi’s shattering drama meticulously leverages
a custody battle into a searing examination of the ties that bind families
together (and break them apart) in an oppressive society. The director’s
sharp script embeds the audience with Simin (Leila Hatami), who wants
to leave Iran to give her daughter a better chance at freedom, and her
husband Nader (Peyman Moaadi), whose ailing father is anchoring him in
place. The two only divorce in order to avoid compromising their
respective priorities, but their best laid plan is upended by the variety of
systemic factors (including a religious caretaker and a biased court
system) that conspire to turn the parents against each other. Farhadi
traces the emotional fallout of his film’s central dilemma with such
intensity and evenhanded rigor that “A Separation” fully realizes the
painful inertia of a relationship in free fall. Over time, the situation
becomes so fraught that it starts to feel as though the future of society
itself hangs in the balance. —ZS
“Cameraperson” (Kirsten Johnson, 2016)
At a time when the documentary community was deep in a prolonged and
overdue discussion about how to represent their subjects on screen,
filmmaker and cinematographer Kirsten Johnson opted to look in the
mirror instead. “Cameraperson,” Johnson’s magnum opus, is the work of
someone who’s swan-diving into her seemingly bottomless archives in
order to re-examine her 25 years behind the camera. While Johnson made
this film out of an intense personal need — triggered by a subject, who out
of fear for her safety pulled the plug on a film Johnson was making — the
world of nonfiction cinema owes her a debt of gratitude for such an
honest act of introspection.
What emerges from the repurposed footage, which is taken from a wide
array of the unused footage that Johnson has shot over the years, is less
an academic exercise and more a deeply personal memoir that’s been
salvaged off the cutting room floor. While Johnson seldom appears on
screen, her perspective assumes a physical presence of some kind, and —
through her lens — viewers soon become as emotionally tethered to the
woman behind the camera as we do any of the fascinating people who
move into its field of vision. While Johnson’s formalism might sound
distancing (the footage isn’t framed with title cards or any other kind of
hard context), the lack of information focuses our attention on the act of
capturing these images more than it does the images themselves, which
allows “Cameraperson” to become a vital act of self-portraiture, as well as
one of the decade’s most engrossing films. —CO
Bracingly direct one moment and elliptical the next, “Personal Shopper”
isn’t just a story about a young woman trying to connect with her brother
across the great beyond, it’s also a knowing portrait of how technology
shapes the way people remember the dead and process their absence. A
numbed Stewart is brilliant as Maureen, a celebrity assistant who
moonlights as a medium in the hopes of making contact with her dead
twin. And since spiritualists have always been magnetized to spectacle, it’s
only natural that Maureen is constantly staring at her iPhone, using it to
google the paintings of Swedish mystic Hilma af Klint or watch an
amusing clip from a (fake) old TV drama in which Victor Hugo conducts a
hokey séance. These digital communions lend Assayas’ laconic thriller the
feeling of a Russian nesting doll, each layer hiding a new dead body, and
the film’s infamous centerpiece sequence managed to infuse the simple
(and decidedly uncinematic) act of texting with Hitchockian suspense. —
DE
In the end, “Roma” wasn’t really like anything that had come before it.
The Venice Golden Lion winner was the first Netflix movie to not only be
released online in 190 countries, also to get an extended theatrical release
in more than 100 theaters. Its unprecedented release helped “Roma” earn
10 Oscar nominations, and saw it became the first movie from Mexico to
ever win Best International Feature Film. —AT
Before the film was unveiled, Polley wrote a blog post explaining why she
was not giving any interviews about what was revealed in the film. When
she finally screened the movie to festival audiences, the “Away from Her”
filmmaker was stunned that when people came up to her after screenings,
they did not want to talk about her family mysteries, but their own. She
had struck a universal chord. —AT
“Madeline’s Madeline” (Josephine Decker, 2018)
One of the boldest and most invigorating American films of the 21st
century, Josephine Decker’s “Madeline’s Madeline” is an ecstatically
disorienting experience that defines its terms right from the start and
then obliterates any trace of traditional film language, achieving a
cinematic aphasia that allows Decker to redraw the boundaries between
the stories we tell and the people we tell them about. The saga of a single
mother Regina (the multi-talented Miranda July), her irrepressible
teenage daughter Madeline (a life-altering Helena Howard), and the
experimental theater troupe that drives a wedge between them, this
mesmeric tour de force claws at its premise with feral energy and
boundless vision. The result is an experimental movie with the emotional
tug of a mainstream hit, a fragmented coming-of-age drama that explores
the vast space between Jacques Rivette and Greta Gerwig in order to find
something truly new and ineffably of its time. —DE
The simple, sun-dappled tale of a guy who learns to stop driving in circles
— and eventually even get out of his car — “Somewhere” hitches itself to a
fading star named Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff, weary and perfect in
one of the decade’s most well-realized performances). He’s happy to drink
the rest of his career away in the Chateau Marmont, watching Lanthimos-
like stripteases and having sex with everything that moves. It’s an idyllic
purgatory; the kind of limbo that could make someone forget the outside
world and everyone in it. But then Cleo shows up. Played by an 11-year-
old Elle Fanning, who’s nuanced and curious in a kid role that never feels
like anything less than a three-dimensional character, Cleo just wants to
be in her dad’s life, even if he has no idea where it went. The dynamic
between the two of them is as electric as Phoenix’s synth-driven score,
and as delicate as the late Harris Savides’ bright and inviting
cinematography.
Of course, it was a film — and a brilliant, furious one at that. But it was
also a defiant sign that our definition of film itself was about to be
challenged in several fundamental ways, and potentially for the better.
Resourceful and self-reflexive proof that some artists are at their best with
their backs against the wall, “This Is Not a Film” isn’t just an embittered
middle finger to the “undemocratic democracy” that Panahi had always
called home, it’s also a galaxy brain meditation on the power of cinema
and its ultimate purpose. “Why would you make a film if you could just
talk through it?” Panahi asks himself while sitting on the floor of his
apartment and telling us the story of the other, larger movie that Iran’s
government wouldn’t let him shoot. Panahi, canny and playful as always,
knows full well that he’s answering his own question. —DE
And yet, much like the fussy Wes Anderson films that King looked to for
inspiration, “Paddington 2” uses its cock-eyed comic energy to stare down
some very serious matters. Washed-up actor Phoenix Buchanan (an iconic
Hugh Grant) may be the story’s villain, but his broad dastardliness brings
a wide coalition of people — including immigrants, prisoners, and
children — together in a way that refutes the idea that nice movies have to
distract us from the horrors of our world. The second half of this decade
was dominated by movies that promised to be “the thing we need right
now,” but “Paddington 2,” which so winsomely encourages people to look
out for each other, was one of the few that deserved the description. It still
does. —DE
“The Wind Rises” (Miyazaki Hayao, 2013)
A strange thing happened when beloved filmmaker (and godhead of
Studio Ghibli) Hayao Miyazaki ended his most recent bout of retirement
and announced that he’s working on another feature, which is slated to be
released in time for the Tokyo Olympics in 2020: Some of his most
dedicated fans were disappointed to learn that he was coming back for
more. They weren’t surprised, necessarily — Miyazaki had pulled this
stunt before — nor did they doubt his ability to add yet another perfect
limb to one of cinema’s most extraordinary bodies of work. On the
contrary, the problem was that Miyazaki was at the height of his powers,
and that his would-be swan song was such a perfect summation of his life
as an artist that making another movie would risk gilding the lily. Of
messing with Miyazaki’s legend.
Only time will tell how that pans out (there will never be another
Miyazaki, so this critic is coming around to the idea of getting to see
another Miyazaki film), but for now “The Wind Rises” is still one of
cinema’s most sensational closing statements, and just because it won’t
stay that way for much longer doesn’t detract from how beautifully it
captures Miyazaki’s tortured humanism and singular genius.
A far cry from the fantasticality that defines Ghibli’s output, “The Wind
Rises” is, of all things, a (fictionalized and composited) biopic of Japanese
engineer Horikoshi Jiro (stunningly voiced by “Neon Genesis Evangelion”
creator Anno Hideaki), who designed the A6M Zero fighter jets that were
used to attack Pearl Harbor. Some people made a compelling case that the
film glosses over Japan’s role in World War II, and paints the Nazi-allied
nation as a victim rather than a perpetrator, but others felt the three-
hankie melodrama resolves into a wistful meditation on the true cost of
making beautiful things; that a latent guilt is drawn into every scene.
Miyazaki has always been obsessed with aeronautics, but he’s been just as
consumed by various kinds of corruption, including that of his family at
the hands of a workaholic father — by the volatile relationship between
the purity of our dreams and the violence required for them to become
real. Yes, “The Wind Rises” is the portrait of a man who conceived of
killing machines, but it’s one that Miyazaki devastatingly reframes into
the self-portrait of a man struggling to assess the ultimate value of his
creations. In hindsight, Miyazaki was never going to leave it at that and
walk away forever; he knows that this is the only thing that draws air into
his lungs. “The wind is rising!” the poet said. “We must try to live.” —DE
For this grim family saga, Haneke adopted a more simple and contained
mise-en-scene than his usual style, reducing his canvas to the Paris
apartment where a wealthy older couple (the brilliant Emmanuelle Riva
and Jean-Louis Trintignant, the latter of whom agreed to act in his first
movie in 14 years) is left to battle their decaying bodies. In order to
concentrate on the emotional relationship between the two characters,
Haneke returned to the three classical unities of place, time, and action.
That stripped-down approach focuses our attention on Trintignant and
Riva, and makes the silent bond between husband and wife almost
unbearably palpable as their story lurches towards a conclusion that’s
both heartbreaking and also — however morbid this might be — as tender
an ending as any marriage can hope to enjoy.
Shot over the course of 39 days spread across more than a decade,
“Boyhood” is an entirely fluid work that puts the process of maturity
under the microscope and analyzes its nuances with remarkable detail.
More than that, it amplifies the elusive qualities that feed into a single
conscious experience: passing moments that might seem meaningful,
dramatic, amusing or scary in the moment before fading into our
cluttered memory banks. The “story” of “Boyhood” is less relevant than its
ability to enthrall us with small asides even as the years keep moving
along. Linklater consolidates his fascination with time and existential
yearning found in many of his movies, but it’s never forces here. The
ultimate triumph of “Boyhood” is that its brilliance creeps up on you. —
EK
Peele’s concern was whether white audiences would be able to roll with a
movie about a black man (a brilliant Daniel Kaluuya) who gets ensnared
by the diabolical machinations of his white girlfriend’s family — a movie
in which every white character was pure evil. “What if white people don’t
want to come see the movie because they’re afraid of being villainized
with black people in the crowd?,” the writer-director said in an interview
in advance of the film’s debut. True enough, “race film” images of a black
man gruesomely slaughtering an entire white family (no matter how
justified) are as radical as ever at a time when the president draws the
brunt of his power from racial animus. But white audiences turned out in
droves; they would have seen “Get Out” three times if they could have.
Black viewers, meanwhile, were treated to a movie that was effectively
“Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song” for a new generation; a movie that
used genre tropes to reflect America’s foundational history of racial
dehumanization against a disarmingly entertaining funhouse mirror. The
horror has seldom been clearer. —TO
“Phantom Thread” (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2017)
Before “Phantom Thread” was finally unveiled at the tail end of 2017, it
was rumored that Paul Thomas Anderson’s eighth feature was an S&M
period piece that had more in common with “Fifty Shades of Grey” than it
did any of the classic British melodramas that were made around the time
this story is set. In truth, this perverse love story about a renowned
dressmaker (a career-capping Daniel Day-Lewis as Reynolds Woodcock)
and the soft-spoken waitress Alma (Vicki Krieps) he takes as his muse
turned out to be a strictly PG affair, one far more interested in adding
clothes than taking them off. In the end, however that buttoned-up
chasteness is precisely what permitted Anderson to sew such a compelling
piece about love and control, dominance and submission, as the auteur
thread the needle between haute escapism and something much closer to
home.
That “Phantom Thread” feels like Anderson’s most personal feature may
have surprised some viewers, but diehard fans can see the evidence
stitched into every frame. In his meticulous eye for detail, fastidious work
ethic, and obsessive need for control over his surroundings, Anderson
created his perfect spiritual twin in Reynolds, and the demanding
couturier became an ideal vessel for Anderson’s own self-flagellation. The
director was so hands-on here that he even shot the film himself, his
stunning cinematography aided by Mark Bridges’ sumptuous costume
design and a Jonny Greenwood score that throbbed with decades of pent-
up frustration. Krieps and Lesley Manville are both extraordinary as the
women of Woodcock, and the film’s reverence for them grows into a
gloriously twisted mea culpa.
“Phantom Thread” takes the ugliness of its central romance and turns it
into something beautiful, as Anderson riffed on the likes of “Rebecca”
(with a whiff of “The War of the Roses” for good measure) to create an
immaculately old-fashioned portrait of obsession. Anderson had already
made a number of spirited duets about two strange people who need each
other for balance, but the sly genius of Krieps’ performance — the way
Alma slowly casts her shadow over Reynolds and takes control of the
wheel for herself — added a beautiful new wrinkle to a story about the
ugly strength that people derive from their partners’ weaknesses.
Powerlessness, Anderson conceded in the end, can offer real pleasures of
its own. —JD
On the surface, “World of Tomorrow” just looks like a pair of stick figures
wandering through colorful bursts of jagged computer imagery. One of
them talks about falling in love with a moon rock and growing so lonely
that she can hear death; the other draws a triangle. And yet, by the time
the duo arrives back where they started, their circular adventure through
time and space has somehow resolved into an unspeakably profound
meditation on the preciousness of the present. What more could you want
from a movie that’s shorter than an episode of “Young Sheldon?” That’s a
rhetorical question, but Hertzfeldt was kind enough to answer it anyway:
“World of Tomorrow Episode Two: The Burden of Other People’s
Thoughts” was released in 2017, and it’s every bit as grim and glorious as
the first installment. —DE
There are timely films, and then there’s “The Social Network,” which was
good enough back in 2010 to notch eight Oscar noms (and three wins,
including Best Adapted Screenplay) and somehow seems as fierce and
prescient and essential now, nearly a decade later. Pre-dating fake news,
the rise of Twitter, and whatever the hell Tik Tok is, “The Social Network”
is both a thrilling, queasy exploration of how Facebook came to be and a
searing indictment of what it would inevitably become. Bonus: two Armie
Hammers, surely cooler than just one. —KE
“Dogtooth” (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2010)
In the decade since “Dogtooth” surfaced in a sidebar at the Cannes Film
Festival, Yorgos Lanthimos has become an internationally revered auteur,
the master of twisting weird narrative conceits into funny, inspired
commentary on human behavior. Given that track record, it’s easy to
forget just how shocking this sophomore effort was when it caught
audiences off-guard. Lanthimos’ Orwellian look at a deranged set of
parents that keep their children in lockdown, forcing them to adhere to a
bizarre set of rituals that they assume limit the entirety of their world,
merges many tropes at once: It’s a deranged suburban satire and a
mortifying dystopian thriller, a meditation on emerging sexual identity,
and intergenerational violence.
It also created the template for the many Lanthimosian tales to come,
with a consistent logic to its invented world that allowed for a zillion
strange twists that all fit within the context of a bigger disturbing picture.
Lanthimos is seen as a provocateur, but he’s actually a canny artist who
pokes at some of the stranger rituals of civilization by taking them to
certain extremes until they become alien. Make no mistake: “Dogtooth” is
a searing indictment of family values that positions them as the ultimate
corruptive instinct. It’s the most subversive filmmaking achievement in
recent memory because it hits so close to home. —EK
“Leviathan” (Vérena Paravel & Lucien Castain-Taylor,
2012)
There are moments in “Leviathan” so breathtaking that it’s easy to forget
they’re also familiar. Documentarians Vérena Paravel and Lucien Castain-
Taylor follow a pair of fishing vessels off the coast of Massachusetts from
nearly every imaginable angle as well as a few impossible ones: Captured
on small digital cameras fixed to fishermen helmets, tossed beneath the
waves and strewn across the deck among the dead-eyed haul, the barrage
of visuals populating “Leviathan” produce a dissociative effect. The
dialogue is sparse and distant, drowned out by hulking machinery, wind
and water.
The movie could take place on another planet; instead, it peers at this one
from a jarring and entirely fresh point of view. The star filmmakers from
Harvard’s Sensory Ethnographic Lab deliver one of the finest illustrations
of digital technology as a means of forwarding cinematic art — but even
those lofty ambitions can’t evoke the sheer visceral impact of this
absorbing look at men and nature, intwined in a chaotic ballet of motion
and sound. More than any overproduced IMAX nature documentary,
“Leviathan” revises the wonders of the natural world to a whole new
plane. —EK
“The Tree of Life” (Terrence Malick, 2011)
The decade’s ultimate cinematic meditation — and regrettably also one of
its most powerful marketing influences — Terrence Malick’s Palme d’Or-
winning “The Tree of Life” saw the fabled auteur pivot away from
historical epics and towards the more intimate and confessional searches
for meaning that he’s been making ever since. And yet, for obvious
reasons, this remains his most personal film, and the one that best hones
his free-wheeling approach into a hopeful cry for help.
Malick, whose vision has never been so vast or so precise, juxtaposes this
internal strife with events as cosmic as the Big Bang (the movie’s 20-
minute “creation of the universe” sequence unfolds with almost biblical
awe), and as tactile as a mother feeling the softness of her newborn’s feet.
The weightless aesthetic language that Malick created with
cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki would soon become the stuff of self-
parody, but here it’s tinged with the sweet pain of nostalgia and an
interstellar feeling of nothingness all at once. To watch “The Tree of Life”
is to see someone locate their place in the universe, and cathartic final
stretch of Malick’s film encourages us all to look at ourselves through that
humbling lens. —ZS
The title character is a middle-aged man living in the forest and dying
from an illness. One evening, during a visit from his nephew, Boonmee
also gets met by the ghost of his long-dead wife and missing son. They
discuss the sense of displacement that death brings them, marrying the
strange tone to seriously lyrical observations of mortality. But
Weerasethakul doesn’t take the scene any more seriously than we do:
Another living person joins the table and takes in the eclectic group,
concluding, “I feel like I’m the strange one here.”
And while it’s true that this only became Scorsese’s most successful movie
because some people saw it for the wrong reasons and eagerly chugged
from its poison chalice, the lack of moralizing is precisely what makes this
film so righteous. It’s what empowers Leonardo DiCaprio to go into hot
buffoon mode and deliver the most full-throttle performance of his career,
what galvanizes Margot Robbie’s gold-digging sexpot into an
unforgettable icon of upward mobility, and what allows screenwriter
Terence Winter to turn the story of a Ponzi scheme into a clear-eyed look
at what people really want.
As Lady Bird, Ronan is all energy and spirit and angst, an eye-rolling teen
on the cusp of something new, something more, just something else. She
doesn’t have it all figured out, and she doesn’t have to. It doesn’t hurt that
she’s surrounded by an aces supporting cast, including Oscar winner
Laurie Metcalf, a breakout Beanie Feldstein, and very different (yet
equally “dope”) love interests in Lucas Hedges and Timothee Chalamet.
At the same time, it’s an amusing dark comedy about how alienation can
lead to outright rebellion, and why all organized approaches to life are
doomed to fail. At its center are the experiences of disgruntled WWII
Navy man Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) who stumbles in an
inebriated stupor onto the cult-infested ship commanded by Lancester
Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a dead ringer for Scientology founder
L. Ron Hubbard. Their jarring, idiosyncratic exchanges unfold as a series
of mysterious encounters against the exploratory notes of Jonny
Greenwood’s wondrous score.
By the time the movie gets going, Freddie has already lost his way.
Initially drawn to Lancester’s warm community, he’s quickly subsumed by
older man’s unorthodox approach to personal therapy. Once Freddie
comes to terms with Lancester’s con artistry, he’s too immersed in the
community to simply walk away. Bookmarked by farcical images of
Phoenix on the beach cuddling with a naked woman carved in sand, “The
Master” shows how personal indulgences are a form of religion, too.
Lancaster might have been a nutty puppet master, but without some
sense of order, Freddie’s a slave to his baser desires. The alarming
punchline suggests that even a manipulative cult has the power to save a
broken man; at the end of the day, we’re all slaves to the system, and
without it, most of us are merely adrift. In a filmmaking career defined by
gut-punch emotional revelations, this one stings the hardest. —EK
Brought to life by the careful genius of Phyllis Nagy’s script, the supple
glow of Ed Lachmann’s 16mm cinematography, and two of the most
extraordinary performances ever committed to celluloid (which isn’t to
sweep old Harge under the rug where he belongs), Haynes’ Carol is more
than just a bone-deep melodrama about a mutual infatuation during a
repressive time. It’s more than a vessel for Carter Burwell’s swooning
career-best score, or Sandy Powell’s seductive costumes, or the rare queer
romance that gave its characters a happy ending — an ending that
resonates through Cate Blanchett’s coy smile with the blunt force of every
impossible dream Carol Aird has ever had for herself. It’s more than just
an immaculate response to decades of “if only” dramas like David Lean’s
“Brief Encounter,” or a heartstopping series of small gestures that builds
into the single most cathartic last shot of the 21st century. It’s all of those
things (and more!), but most of all it’s an indivisibly pure distillation of
what it feels like to fall in love alone and land somewhere together. —DE
As entertaining and rich as the film is, many of its pleasures and truths
work because it’s clear how much more is going on in both Llewyn’s life
and the dirty, cold, magical NYC he’s trapped inside. Impeccably crafted
from top to bottom, from a Coens-penned script that teeters between
wrenching drama and throw-up-your-hands, “that’s life!” comedy to
cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel’s loving lensing of a period New York.
And that’s to say nothing of the music — the music! — from T Bone
Burnett and Marcus Mumford that set Llewyn firmly into an era he never
existed inside while also crafting a new musical legacy. Just like the film
they inhabit, they zing from wacky jams (before his “Star Wars” turn,
Adam Driver was out there issuing “wooopps” on “Please Mr. Kennedy”
with his same Oscar-level attention) to heartbreakers like “Fare Thee
Well.” It’s got everything, and all of it feels achingly real. —KE
Prior to “The Act of Killing,” the ’65-66 genocide had been buried by all of
the perpetrators who were still in power; an erasure that dictated the class
and power structures of modern Indonesia. In “The Act of Killing,” the
proud butchers are encouraged to tell the story themselves, and as they
see it: A heroic fantasy of mass murder in the name of expunging
“communists” and saving the country. Inviting the killers to re-enact their
version of events and bring their delusional self-sacrifice to life on screen,
Oppenheimer effectively allows these men to tell on themselves. The
result is a film powerful enough to break the fever dream that had been
holding Indonesia hostage for so long, as the national media reported on
“The Act of Killing” and began the process of reconsidering Indonesia’s
past.
With “The Look of Silence” — released two years later, but dangerously
shot in the weeks right after the production of “The Act of Killing” —
Oppenheimer flipped the script and looked at the genocide from the
survivors’ perspective, seeing the slaughter through the eyes of those who
had no power to challenge the false narrative that had entrapped them for
so long. Via the film’s protagonist, Adi Rukun, whose very birth and
existence had been shaped by the brutal murder of his older brother (an
event described in “The Act of Killing”), Oppenheimer was able to
confront the killers with the reality of their crimes. “The Look of Silence”
foregoes the operatic style of its predecessor in order to better dovetail
with Rukin’s contemplative nature and observational precision, and the
approach results in some of the most wrenching reaction shots ever
caught on camera. With “The Look of Silence,” Oppenheimer not only
gave voice to the survivors, he empowered them to speak the truth they
had always seen with their own two eyes. —CO
“Certified Copy” (Abbas Kiarostami, 2010)
Authoring a tortured romance set against the Soviet invasion of
Czechoslovakia, Milan Kundera wrote that “loves are like empires: when
the idea they are founded on crumbles, they, too, fade away.” Those
famous words from “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” echo through
the cobblestone Tuscan alleys of Abbas Kiarostami’s “Certified Copy,” an
Escher-like romance that examines how this world and everyone in it is
held together by our shared convictions in half-remembered sources —
how countries and relationships and even artistic canons are sustained by
the mutual agreement (or mass delusion) that something, sometime, was
real.
But what does it even mean for something to be “authentic?” Is the “Mona
Lisa” not a copy of the woman who posed for it? Is a marriage not an ever-
fading echo of some ancient vows — a dual performance between two
perfect strangers who’ve committed to keep playing the long-forgotten
people they were when they first fell in love? Is “Certified Copy” not still
bracingly original, even though Kiarostami pulled from “Last Year at
Marienbad,” “Journey to Italy,” and his own previous explorations of
truth and beauty to make it?
Even before “fake news” became the decade’s most insidious catchphrase
and deepfakes and Disney remakes destabilized the truth in ways that
science-fiction always told us the future would, “Certified Copy” latched
onto the anxieties of a world in which our own feelings are the only thing
we know for sure. The film’s story, such as it is, begins in a small Italian
village where a nameless woman (a never-better Juliette Binoche)
encounters a writer (William Shimmel) who likes to question the order of
things. When a local restaurant owner “mistakes” the two for a long-
married couple, the characters lean into the idea — hard, and even when
they’re alone. The thought occurs to every viewer at their own time, but it
always lands with the thud of a Shyamalan-level plot twist: What if they
are married, and were only pretending to be meet-cute!? Are they a real
couple, or a convincing forgery? Kiarostami doesn’t care about the
answer, but he’s utterly compelled by the difference.
More than just “Before Midnight” for philosophy majors, “Certified Copy”
is a masterfully built house of mirrors for the ages that invites you to get
lost in its halls time and time again. What begins as a heady conceptual
exercise thaws into an emotionally overwhelming vivisection of truth, art,
and the very nature of love itself. It was the first movie that Kiarostami
shot outside of his native “Iran,” and — sadly in a way that just keeps
stinging — one of the last that he was able to make before his death. And
yet, the film’s influence can already be felt across this list, from “The Duke
of Burgundy” to “Phantom Thread.” Or is that the influence of the work
that Kiarostami channeled to make it? He’d certainly want us to wonder.
And he’d welcome anyone to riff on what he left behind. As Binoche’s
character put it: “Without the existence of copies, we wouldn’t understand
originals.”—DE
“Under the Skin” (Jonathan Glazer, 2013)
A mysterious woman drives a van through Glasgow, Scotland hunting for
men that she can harvest for her alien home planet. She lures her prey
into a watery black, strips off her clothes, and watches impassively as they
sink into the dark and deflate. The pattern repeats and repeats and
repeats until the alien meets someone who inspires her to take stock of
who she might be hiding beneath her mission.
Yet “Moonlight” manages to slip its profundity into the guise of more
traditional dramatic tropes. The movie explores the plight of a young
black man across three eras, searching for his place in the world while
struggling with his sexual identity under the burdens of class and a
broken family. But much of that arc unfolds through sequences that defy
the boundaries of a traditional plot. Instead, the story’s power comes from
the gaps between words — and an ongoing battle to find the right ones. It’s
an astonishing mood piece about the nature of being marginalized on
many levels at once.
The tale of young Chiron, as he grows up and misses his opportunity to
find a satisfying life, gets more desperate and mournful as it moves along.
Finally, the boy becomes a man as he attempts one last shot at setting
things right. Despite the somber tone, it’s a beacon of hope for the
prospects of speaking up. Released a month before the 2016 presidential
election, “Moonlight” nailed the sense of disconnect in American society
well before it became supercharged. The tone reflects the mixture of
despair and yearning at the center of our troubles times, but hovers above
any precise historic moment. Its final image, of young Chiron gazing at
the camera from the nighttime beach where his true self will always
linger, is nothing short of iconic. —EK