The Best (maybe?) Films of the 21st Century - At Last ! The Final 40

 

Here at last! The final list - still in alphabetical order. (Sort of, anyway.  A few entries here are out of order, due to being sorted incorrectly in my Excel spreadsheet!)

As you may notice, it’s been almost three weeks since my last installment. I had a tough time finishing this up, and not only because I was busy on several other fronts. I had second thoughts about some of my initial choices, eventually swapping them out in favor of other films I remembered more fondly -even if they weren't generally considered "great" by the larger critical community. 

(In case you missed them, you can find the previous installments of this list here and here.)

Moonlight (director: Barry Jenkins; 2016)

Moonlight is a beautiful, poetic, emotionally shattering coming-of-age drama of a young, gay, black man growing up in the projects of South Florida.  It's a linear narrative, but one that communicates most powerfully through images and wordless sequences (the motion of water beneath and around the boy as he learns to swim, the sensation of his free hand digging into beach sand as he embraces and kisses another boy for the first time.)  These scenes have an intimacy and emotional resonance that nearly breaks your heart.

Mulholland Drive (director: David Lynch; 2000)

I've never been a huge fan of David Lynch's work. With a few notable exceptions (The Elephant Man, The Straight Story and this one) I've mainly been an occasional, often puzzled admirer. But Mullholland Drive is something else again: an insane, impenetrable, surreal Hollywood dreamscape, both beautiful and bizarre. It seems to be about something - it may be about nothing. I've never really cared. It's just so beautiful and thrilling to watch that, for me, it resists all attempts at interpretation. The late Rebekah Del Rio's stunning Spanish-language performance of Roy Orbison's Crying is, all by itself, worth the streaming rental price. 

Museum Hours (director: Jen Cohen, 2012)

A quiet, lovely film about friendship and the power of art, in which a Canadian woman and a Viennese museum guard strike up a friendship that alleviates their mutual loneliness. Starts out in “what is this movie and where is it going?” territory - but its emotional power sneaks up on you as you go.  

Nebraska (director: Alexander Payne; 2013)

Nebraska is very funny and, at the same time, sad and elegiac, a perfect evocation of small-town life in the flyover states as lived by a generation that is aging into oblivion.  It may play like satire to those unfamiliar with the territory, and some may dismiss it as more of Alexander Payne's condescending comedy at the expense of rubes, but they'd be wrong on both counts.  Nebraska, a deceptively simple film, evinces a profound understanding of its characters - their unspoken dreams and disappointments, their hard-nosed common sense - as well as the slow, quiet decay of the American small town.

Never Let Me Go (director: Mark Romanek; 2010) 

An exceptionally fine screen adaptation of Kasuo Ishiguaro's acclaimed novel, thus is a dystopian tale with a deeply broken heart. Set in a meticulously rendered alternative version of 1980s Britain and suffused with a deep and pervasive sense of melancholy that never once abates, it lays out the terrible secrets of its characters' fates in haunting and deeply moving fashion.

Nomadland (director: Chloe Zhao; 2020)

This is a sad story. But when I remember the film, it's not the sadness I think about, but rather its beauty. The gorgeous musical score and the breathtaking cinematography that takes in so many natural wonders of the western United States. The sense of community that develops between the modern-day nomads who have lost their homes and live out of their vans and trucks, while eking out meager livings from temporary service jobs.  Many of the characters in the film are real-life nomads who are profiled in the non-fiction book on which it is based. I've not read the book myself, but people who have read it assure me that their actual lives are a good deal more dire and hardscrabble than the film version fully depicts. Still, I respect Chloe Zhao for finding something transcendent in the lives of people whose hardships we barely know. She turns the story into visual poetry, anchored by a reliably brilliant performance by Frances McDormand.

Notes on a Scandal (director: Richard Eyre: 2006)

Judi Dench is the embittered spinster schoolteacher who becomes obsessed with a new, younger teacher at her school (Cate Blanchett). Meanwhile, Blanchett becomes involved with a teenage student (Andrew Simpson). Dench discovers their affair, and uses the knowledge as leverage to get ever closer to Blanchett. The performances are superb and the escalating tension is unnerving.  It's an actor's showcase, not only for Dench and Blanchett, but for a fine supporting cast as well (including Bill Nighy as Blanchett's husband, plus significant roles for Michael Maloney, Joanna Scanlon and Phil Davis).

 O Brother Where Art Thou? (directors Joel and Ethan Coen; 2000)

The Coen brothers transplant Homer's Odyssey ( in a very loose adaptation) to 1930s rural Mississippi where a trio of escaped convicts (George Clooney, John Turturro and Tim Blake Nelson) search for buried treasure and become country singing stars in the process. This may not be the goofiest Coen Brothers film ever made, but it's definitely in contention for that honor. Deliriously funny, and featuring a terrific soundtrack of gospel and country music (I have the soundtrack CD and I still listen to it sometimes), it's a wild and joyous ride. 

OJ: Made in America (director: Ezra Edelman; 2016)

A masterful, nearly 8-hour documentary that exhaustively examines race and celebrity in America through the prism of O. J. Simpson's rise and fall. Simpson's story plays like Greek tragedy. Director Ezra Edelman shapes a mountain of material and interviews into riveting drama, the equivalent of a great book that you can't bring yourself to put down.

Once (director; John Carney; 2007)

It centers around the brief, chaste romance of a Dublin street singer/guitarist (Glen Hansard) and a young Czech pianist (Marketa Irglova). Actually, it's barely even a romance - Irglova keeps Hansard at arm's length throughout the film, and only allows him a brief kiss on her cheek late in the film. But there is a definite romance in the way these two play and sing music together, in their mutual love of musical expression.

Actually, Once is not so much about the love between a man and a woman as it is about the love between musicians and their music - and how that shared love binds them to other musicians. I can't think of another movie that captures so well the dizzying communal joy of people getting together to sing and play. 

Oppenheimer (director Christopher Nolan; 2023)

Christopher Nolan seamlessly integrates the many facets of a complex story about a complex man into a film both thrilling and intellectually stimulating. He is absolutely masterful when incorporating scientific information, giving us just enough for a high-level understanding of how the bomb works, but not so much that we’re baffled and constantly trying to keep up. Cillian Murphy’s portrayal of Robert Oppenheimer is mostly in his eyes. He's soft spoken and his body language is restrained, but you can see the curiosity or moral panic in his subtlest sweeping glances.

Paddington 2 (director Paul King; 2017)

I first watched Paddington 2 on an airplane, where I surreptitiously dabbed at tears several times while watching. Like Mr. Rogers, the little Peruvian bear has a kinder heart and a purer spirit than most of the humans around him - sufficient to soften the hearts of some particularly gnarly prison inmates just by introducing them to the life-changing magic of marmalade sandwiches. There is such a welcome sweetness to a film where the stakes are no higher than Paddington's quest to send his beloved Aunt Lucy an antique pop-up picture book of London. When was life ever that simple?  Hugh Grant is on hand in a deliciously flamboyant performance as the villain of the piece - an overbearing, over-dressed has-been actor with an ego as big as his wardrobe. Characters like this keep the film from becoming overly saccharine and make it as appealing to adults as it is to children.

Parasite (director Bong Joon-Ho; 2019)

Highly entertaining, provocative and sad, this tale of one South Korean family's doomed attempt to transcend their social class is a compelling and chilling wild ride.  Even my friends who normally hate sub-titled foreign films have embraced it.  One friend aptly described it thus: "If Dostoyevsky wrote a screenplay and Alfred Hitchcock directed it, it would be Parasite."  I can think of no better recommendation - see it for yourself. 

Phantom Thread (director Paul Thomas Anderson; 2017)

I don't just watch this film - I luxuriate in it.  It's big and gorgeous, with a lush, romantic musical score... and a few distinctly creepy plot twists involving lightly poisoned mushrooms being fed to a cranky man to keep him in line.  P.T. Anderson borrows heavily from both Alfred Hitchcock and David Lean for this strange romance between a fussy fashion designer (whose life is carefully managed by his icy, controlling sister) and the deceptively mild, mouse-like woman he falls for.  Sure the cinematography and clothes are gorgeous and the actors are great. (It's Daniel Day-Lewis, for Pete's sake!) But it's the weird and twisty parts that make Phantom Thread such a irresistible cinematic treat.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (director: Celine Schiamma; 2019)

This movie is many things - a love story, a feminist fable, a story about painters and their subjects and the fraught relationship between them.  It has the grand sweep of an epic period piece, yet feels entirely contemporary.  As a meditation on the process of artistic creation, it is, itself, gorgeous to look  at; every shot is composed in a painterly fashion with meticulous attention to lighting and composition.

From a feminist point of view, it depicts a rare, blessed window of time when no men are present in the household of a 19th century aristocratic French family and shows women bonding and taking care of one another in ways that men cannot. You can sense the relaxation in all the female characters during this chapter. And as a love story between two women, it is undeniably romantic, in spite of the fact that the relationship must ultimately give way to the demands of practicality and propriety.

The Power of the Dog (director Jane Campion; 2021)

Benedict Cumberbatch is unnerving here as an inexplicably cruel and conniving rancher. He and his gentler, more refined brother (Jesse Plemons) run a family ranch together in uneasy partnership where Plemmons steadfastly deflects his brother's insults. When Plemmons meets and marries a sweet-tempered widow (Kirsten Dunst), Cumberbatch makes it his mission to undermine and unnerve her, and succeeds in driving her to drink.  Dunst's teenage son, sensitive and shy, also becomes the target of Cumberbatch's nastiness.

What I've just given you is a bare outline of the story.  It's far more twisty and subtle than I can properly convey, and let's just say that at least two of these characters are not quite what they seem to be at first glance.  Cumberbatch is electrifying in every scene, always managing to suggest a vulnerability - or at least some unplumbed complexity - beneath every wincingly nasty wisecrack. The gorgeously photographed landscape that surrounds them all is beautiful and forbidding at the same time. The It keeps you off balance and guessing at things right up to the final shot.

Pride and Prejudice (director Joe Wright; 2005)

This fine adaptation of the beloved novel has a bit more grit that your typical Austen adaptation. Keira Knightley's take on Elizabeth Bennett is tomboyish, rather than merely sharp-witted, while Matthew McFadyen brings interesting nuances of melancholy and longing to his portrayal of the legendarily uptight Mr. Darcy. 

 Rachel Getting Married (director Johnathan Demme; 2008)

Anne Hathaway plays Kym,  a recovering addict on temporary release from a rehab hospital to attend her sister’s wedding.  Hathaway is a revelation here. Her Kym is a haunted soul whose emotional pain is palpable even (and especially) when she can't stop putting herself at the center of everyone's attention on a day that ostensibly belongs to her sister. She gives a rambling, embarrassingly self-revelatory toast at the rehearsal dinner, and we acutely feel her loneliness as her attempted jokes fall flat, while other toasters receive warm applause and appreciation for their inarticulate stammering.

Kym is guilty of causing a terrible family tragedy, and the scene in which we learn about this (set at a 12-step meeting) is handled and acted with breathtaking delicacy. Director Jonathan Demme used Dogme 95-like techniques (hand-held cameras, a soundtrack provided by musician characters rehearsing for a wedding) to create vibe that is intimate and raw. We're not allowed a comfortable distance from which to view the family's dysfunctions - we live them.

Red Rocket (director Sean Baker; 2021)

Sean Baker is Hollywood's Golden Boy these days since his multiple Oscar wins for Anora. But this earlier, scruffier, and largely unsung film is superior to the one that took the Best Picture trophy. Here a thoroughly reprehensible - but oddly captivating - doofus (Simon Rex) returns to his economically depressed Texas hometown after a failed attempt to become a porn star. He moves in with his ex-wife, romances a girl who works behind the corner at a donut shop, and tries to make a new life, but with faltering (and usually dishonorable) results. Nothing about this character should engage our interest or sympathies, but under Baker's skillful direction, Rex makes him endlessly fun, if  sometimes maddening, to watch.

The Royal Tenenbaums (director Wes Anderson; 2001)

Gene Hackman, in one of his best performances, is the estranged paterfamilias of an almost indescribably eccentric and dysfunctional family. For most of the film, he's busy concocting elaborate schemes and hoaxes (including a fake cancer diagnosis) to get back into his adult children's good graces.  But his kids (Ben Stiller, Gwyneth Paltrow and Luke Wilson) have more than enough issues of their own to overcome.

That's the straightforward, prosaic version of what happens in The Royal Tenenbaums. But it doesn't convey the delightfully eccentric sense of whimsy that drives the narrative. In everything from Alec Baldwin's narration to the art direction to the excessively mannered performances, Anderson's film consistently delivers twisted comedy while still getting at the genuine emotional truths of its characters' lives.

A Serious Man (directors Joel and Ethan Coen; 2009)

While in many ways a radical departure and an uncharacteristically personal work for the Coens, it’s of a piece with the nihilistic tomfoolery in their preceding film, Burn After Reading. And it resoundingly reaffirms that film's closing line: "What have we learned from this? Not a thing." It's many things all at once: a take-off on the Book of Job; an unsettling, absurdist meditation on human suffering and the limited efficacy of religion to help us make sense of it; and a meticulously detailed remembrance of growing up Jewish in the suburban Midwest of the 1960s. Ultimately it's the kind of film in which the words to Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody to Love" prove to contain more wisdom than those of three revered rabbis put together. But its final shot is every bit as ambiguously ominous as the conclusion of No Country for Old Men.

Sexy Beast (director Jonathan Glazer; 2000)

A retired safecracker (Ray Winstone) is lured out of a luxurious retirement in Spain for one more job by a cold, terrifying gangster (played with psychotic flair by Ben Kingsley). Glazer's direction is visually stylish and the entire film crackles with an almost unbearable tension.

Sideways (director Alexander Payne; 2004)

Two longtime friends. Miles and Jack, make a last "bachelor's" trip together to California's wine country before Jack's wedding. That trip will ultimately test their friendship and push them both to become a little better men by the time the closing credits roll. Ultimately much more than a mismatched buddy comedy or a road movie, it's a showcase for the phenomenal acting talent of Paul Giamatti. His portrayal of Miles - a perpetually morose and miserable would-be writer and oenophile, still pining for his ex-wife -  could easily have just been annoying. But Giamatti brings him to full, complicated life. We can even forgive him when he explodes in rage to declare, "I'm not drinking any fucking merlot!" 

The  Squid and the Whale (director Noah Baumbach; 2005)

This dysfunctional family drama is lacerating, sad and honest all at once. There were a fair number of pompous academics portrayed on film in that decade, but Jeff Daniels' performance will make you both cringe and cry like no one else's I can recall. Noah Baumbach's semi-autobiographical drama of a couple's divorce and its effect on their two teen-aged sons is uncomfortable in ways that feel absolutely real and unsparing in exposing every one of its characters at both their most vulnerable and most despicable.

Stan and Ollie (director Jon S. Baird; 2018)

I’m fully prepared for the eye rolls this choice will provoke among my serious cinephile friends, but I make no apologies for it. In their portrayals of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy at the twilight of their careers, Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly are nothing short of brilliant. I pretty much grew up on Laurel and Hardy, who were favorites of my comedy connoisseur dad. The acid test for me is that Coogan and Reilly are every bit as much fun to watch doing classic Laurel and Hardy bits as were the men themselves. And when they aren’t performing bits, they bring enormous sensitivity to their roles.

Starting Out in the Evening (director Andrew Wagner; 2007)

This is an obscure and probably unexpected choice, but it has stayed in my mind for years, and I’ve revisited it a few times since first watching it. I’m listing it here to garner some attention for Frank Langella’s raw, vulnerable performance as an ill and aging writer who becomes enamored of the graduate student (Lauren Ambrose) interviewing him for her thesis. Ambrose’s performance is canny and slippery; you’re never quite sure if her character is intentionally playing on Langella’s interest to get interviews or if she’s truly oblivious to his attraction to her. Langella is memorably heartbreaking, never more so than in a scene where he suddenly grabs Ambrose, pulling her to himself for a kiss with such urgent longing that it haunted me for days after. There’s more than just romantic desire expressed in that moment; rather it’s a last, desperate grasp for life itself, 

State and Main (director: David Mamet; 2000)

A Hollywood movie crew invades a sleepy New England town to make a historical drama; comedic chaos ensues.  An all-star cast (including Alec Baldwin, William H. Macy, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Julia Stiles and Patti LuPone) makes David Mamet’s razor-sharp wit soar and sing. And Sarah Jessica Parker’s portrayal of an impenetrably dim actress is so funny, you’ll almost forgive her current, embarrassing resurrection of Carrie Bradshaw in HBO’s And Just Like That.

Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby (director: Adam McKay; 2006)

Every “best of” list, no matter how exalted to claims to be, needs at least one entry is that is just pure, dumb fun. And no one does dumb fun like Will Ferrell, here as a NASCAR driver with daddy issues and a memorably dopey best friend/racing partner (John C. Reilly). It’s accurate to say that, in this film, Ferrell’s  Ricky Bobby experiences a nervous breakdown, the end of a marriage and a confrontation with childhood trauma. But… come on! It’s a Will Ferrell movie! Every time it begins to approach something serious, it rapidly devolves into the silliest possible take on the chaos and dysfunction on hand. Sometimes you just need that, and Ferrell and Reilly are the kings of fully committed silliness. 

 Tar (director Todd Field; 2022)

Blanchett's portrayal of a brilliant, difficult artist (the fictional orchestra conductor Lydia Tar) brought low by a potent combination of cancel culture and her own obstinate hubris, is not so much dazzling as it is flawlessly committed. It's a masterful performance that doesn't draw attention to itself; you're never aware that you're watching Cate Blanchett act. Instead you're captivated by the character herself - by her intellect and her passion, but also by her self-destructive blindness to the cultural and emotional  tectonic shifts taking place just under her feet. It's a stunningly executed tale of a fall from grace. 

Lydia Tar, in the end, is the sort of complicated, fiercely talented -- and just as fiercely arrogant - artist that men were allowed to be (even indulged in being) for centuries. But director Todd Field doesn't take an obvious stand on whether Tar's persecution is excessive due to her gender. Instead he depicts her decline with a cool, detached lack of escalating intensity, an emotional temperature which suits and complement's Tar's own chilly, cerebral personality.

The Taste of Things (director Tran Ahn Hung; 2023)

Delicate, sensual and gorgeously photographed, The Taste of Things is a celebration of food, cooking, beauty and romance all at once.  Juliette Binoche plays a cook working for a celebrated French gourmand (Benoit Magimel) who is also her lover.  The opening scene alone is a wonder - thirty-plus minutes in which the camera glides around a busy kitchen as the main characters prepare a huge, elaborate meal. Vegetables are cleaned and chopped, meat is seared, butter sizzles in a pan, various dishes are ecstatically sampled - and every delightful minute of it commands our rapt attention. There's a swoony sensuality to the proceedings which permeates the entire film, particularly as the romance between Binoche and Magimel grows more serious. It's a love story between two people who court one another with exquisite tastes and flavors, and a celebration of the goodness in a simple meal prepared with patience and care.

The Brutalist (director Brady Corbet; 2024)

An epic film about love, trauma, anti-Semitism, the immigrant experience and the power of great architecture. Adrien Brody plays Lazlo Toth, a brilliant Jewish architect who survives the concentration camps, heads to America, and lives in a relative’s spare room while eking out a meager living. After he supervises the building of  home library room for a wealthy industrialist (Guy Pearce), his identity is revealed and he’s put to work designing a community center. 

There are no happy endings here, no moments of genuine triumph. Lazlo, a man with passionate artistic sensibilities and a traumatic history of loss and suffering, keeps bumping up against the prejudice and materialistic values of those who hold his fate in their hands. But, in a stunning epilogue, Corbet allows him to have the last word.

The End (director Joshua Oppenheimer; 2024)

Eccentric but weirdly engrossing, this post-apocalyptic musical (yes, really!) gets under your skin. Twenty years after a global environmental disaster, a wealthy couple (Michael Shannon and Tilda Swinton) are keeping comfortable and content in a luxurious underground bunker shared with their son (George McKay) and a handful of servants. They’re so happy, in fact, they frequently feel moved to sing about it. When a young woman finds her way into the bunker from above - and the son falls in love with her - they’re almost forced to look harder at their lives and their own roles in a bringing about a disaster that ultimately killed billions. But as Oppenheimer demonstrated in his documentary examinations of Indonesian political genocide (The Look of Silence, The Act of Killing), we should never underestimate the power of pop culture cliches to put distance between ourselves and our misdeeds.

The Friend (directors Scott McGehee & David Siegel; 2025) 

Unfairly overlooked in a year of otherwise over-hyped cinema, this is a quiet, lovely and deeply moving film, featuring what might be the greatest performance ever given by a canine performer.  Naomi Watts plays a lonely academic who inherits a particularly charismatic Great Dane from her late friend/colleague/former lover (Bill Murray). Her slow, stumbling road to accepting - and ultimately loving - this unexpected companion is depicted with great humor and sensitivity.

The Friend also contains a stunning fantasy sequence in which Watts confronts her deceased friend about the pain his suicide caused everyone who loved him. It’s not a rant - it’s sensitive and nuanced - but the anger and anguish she expresses are heartbreaking in their authenticity. And it just about wiped me out. Having myself lost someone I loved to suicide,  I can attest to how perfectly this scene captures the emotions of those who are left behind.

Under the Skin (director Jonathan Glazer; 2013)

It has little in the way of a conventional narrative or even intelligible dialogue, but it's seductively creepy and will more than reward your patience if you stick with it.  Scarlett Johansson plays an alien who takes on the form of a low-rent femme fatale, prowling the streets of Glasgow in her big, black SUV, picking up men and leading them to ruin.  There's a rote, detached quality to her seductions and it gradually becomes clear that she herself doesn't really understand the mating dance she's performing according to pre-programmed script. Eventually, she abandons the manhunt and attempts to puzzle out what it is to be human and why men are so drawn to her. Have I intrigued you yet, or have I put you completely off this one?  It's available on Amazon Prime right now, so give it a shot. And know that Scarlett Johansson's performance is inexcusably absent from this year's award nomination slates: she is brilliant.

Vera Drake (director Mike Leigh; 2004)

Imelda Staunton's impeccably played Vera Drake is so full of good cheer, she even smiles while she's dusting furniture, as if it's her favorite thing to do.  Amidst the gloom of working class post-war London, she is a beacon of kindness and warmth to her family and neighbors - always looking to help, coyly playing matchmaker between her shy daughter and the lonely mechanic who lives in the flat upstairs. Among her good deeds is "helping girls out," her delicate euphemism for "helping pregnant girls to not be pregnant anymore." She perform abortions in a calm and efficient manner; we witness several such procedures being administered within the first half-hour of the film. Significantly, though, Vera, never receives so much as a shilling for her services (although the conniving friend who refers her to girls in trouble does take a fee, offering Vera only some questionable deals on rationed supplies like sugar and tea in return.)

The miracle of Vera Drake is that Leigh takes a highly charged, potentially political subject and presents it as intensely personal, character-driven drama. And it's all the more powerful for that choice.  We aren't explicitly shown which characters are good or bad; there are no broad, caricatured performances to be found here (save, perhaps Vera's status-seeking sister-in-law, a minor character). We don't even find out for sure why Vera agrees to perform abortions in the first place. What we're finally left with is a deep sense of how many lives have been shattered by the time Vera is found out by the authorities and sent to prison.  The closing shot of Vera's family, sitting silently and forlornly around her kitchen table, resonates long after the closing credits have rolled away.

Vita and Virginia (director Chanya Burton; 2018)

The friendship/sometime love affair between Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West is the basis for this film, but it covers a lot more territory.  I've seen few, if any, other films that so successfully convey an author's love of/obsession with language.  In one scene, Woolf watches her sister and brother-in-law dancing together while struggling to come up with the exact words to describe the dance and the emotion behind it - a struggle that will resonate with anyone who writes.  Elizabeth Debicki's portrayal of Virginia Woolf (which includes recreating one of Woolf's debilitating breakdowns) is harrowingly precise.

Wall-E (director Andrew Stanton; 2008)

Sci-fi meets rom-com in a particularly memorable Pixar animation. In a goofily dystopian world of the future, a mechanized trash collector named Wall-E (short for Waste Allocation Load Lifter: Earth-class) falls in love with a robot named Eve (Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator) who scans the earth for signs of life. Plenty of adventures - and misadventures - follow their initial meeting, and the Earth eventually gets saved. Yet the detail I remember most fondly is Wall-E’s obsession with one particular scavenged item: a videocassette of the film Hello Dolly.

The Worst Person in the World (director Joachim Trier; 2021)

This Norwegian comedy-drama about a thirty-something woman's inability to settle on a career path or a partner is a pleasant, if not spectacular, way to spend a couple of hours.  It's been compared by at least one critic to Frances Ha  - an apt comparison, although this film is more distinctly European in its ambiguity. Its scenes wander in and around the characters emotions, without clearly defined comic beats or other cues to elicit desired audience reactions. It benefits from the fine lead performance of Renate Reinsve, a sweet-faced and subtle actress who comes off as likable and sympathetic even as her character makes selfish, ill-advised life choices. Her drift from job to job is played for laughs, while the scenes of her romantic break-ups are played with a realistic ambivalence and genuine pain.

The Zone of Interest (director Jonathan Glazer; 2023)

Glazer's very loose adaptation of a Martin Amis novel is considerably better and more powerful than its source material. It trains a cool, detached eye on the daily life of Auschwitz commandant Rudolph Hess and his family, living in domestic bliss just outside the notorious concentration camp. Muted screams, gunshots and other signals of distress and horror are just barely perceptible in the background while the Hess family continues to fuss over their garden and their vacation plans. Frau Hess and her friends casually pick through fur coats and jewelry seized from the camp residents and gush over their  appropriated treasures. Only once in the film is the Hess family bothered (or more accurately, inconvenienced) by the genocide taking place almost literally in their backyard; while swimming with his children in the nearby river, Hess is annoyed to find ashes from the crematorium polluting the water. 

To borrow a phrase from Hannah Arendt, this is a film about the banality of evil. It manages to be properly horrifying without ever depicting the atrocities taking place just out of camera range.  Glazer has come to be one of my favorite directors. He’s made just four films in 24 years, all very different from each other, but each one original in concept and astonishingly good. (And all four of which made this list!)

The Best (maybe?) 100 Films of the 21st Century - Part 2

 

Continuing with my personal list of the best 100 films of the 21st century, this time with twice as many films and half as much commentary. 

I've decided to get through this list in three posts rather than five. This means I have less to say about my choices, but at least I’ll finish these posts before winter sets in.

Just a reminder: these are not ranked in preferential order. Instead they are listed in alphabetical order.

The next 40 films are:

Dogville (director: Lars Von Trier; 2003)

Nicole Kidman is the stranger in town, arriving in Dogville to find herself victimized and brutalized by the locals with ever-increasing menace. And yet, given that extremely simplistic plot summary, it's not at all what you'd expect. Von Trier, an unrepentant bad boy of cinema, shoots on a set that looks more like a blueprint of a small town than an actual one, making some pointed commentary about the drudgery and cruelty he sees in American small town life (or imagines, anyway, as a particularly snotty and cynical Dane might.) This is another film to which you either respond enthusiastically or hate bitterly; there are no lukewarm reactions. I admired its audacity, even if I didn't entirely buy into its nihilistic premise.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (director: Julian Schnabel; 2007)

Julian Schnabel's adaptation of the Jean-Dominique Bauby's memoir is powerful and moving. Bauby, the former editor of French Elle magazine, suffered a stroke at the age of 42, rendering him paralyzed and completely unable to communicate except by blinking his left eye. His speech therapist devised a way for him to "speak" - and even narrate a memoir - she pointed to letters of the alphabet on a card, and he blinked in response to the letters he needed to build words and then sentences. The story is compelling, but not one that seems inherently cinematic. Fortunately, Schnabel (who directs from a script by Ronald Harwood), finds ways to open the story up and set it free. 

Drive My Car (director: Ryusuke Hamaguchi;2021)

A somber, quiet meditation on sorrow, grief and art. A Japanese theater director works through his complicated feelings towards his late, unfaithful wife while directing a production of Chekov's Uncle Vanya. A scene in which a deaf actress signs her lines in the final scene of the play is one of the most moving and beautiful things I have witnessed in recent film.

An Education (director: Lone Scherfig; 2009)

A 17-year-old British girl (Carey Mulligan) dates a man who looks to be in his mid-thirties, even travelling to Paris with him at one point. But the impropriety of that situation is barely acknowledged by anyone on screen; even her reasonable-seeming parents are charmed by her suitor. His criminal tendencies are revealed in quiet layers without any telegraphing of where the story is headed. You can't watch it without a growing sick feeling for the consequences to Mulligan's character, but it isn't in any way a conventional cautionary tale. Mulligan's captures her character's desire to avoid a typically dutiful, unspectacular life to perfection, avoiding both the innocence and angst you'd normally find in a film's teenager. Her character is preternaturally intelligent (if not wise), and her measured performance is laced with bracing, entirely unexpected line readings. 

Enough Said (director: Nicole Holofcener; 2013)

Anyone who's been on a date in middle-age will recognize themselves in the characters portrayed by Julia Louis-Dreyfus and the late, great James Gandolfini. Director/writer Nicole Holofcener and her actors recreate the nervous mating dance of battle-scarred-but-hopeful, forty-something singles with exhilarating accuracy, right down to the skittish, defensive comic riffs that pass for flirtation.  The characters felt like people I knew and both their wisecracks and their screw-ups hitt very close to home. 

Evil Does Not Exist (director Ryusuke Hamaguchi: 2024)

Ryusuke Hamaguchi's films have a quiet, graceful quality to which it is virtually impossible to do full justice in a review composed of mere words.  There is a patience in his approach to a story, a willingness to take time for quiet observation without rushing to make a point or form a judgment.

A corporate developer approaches an isolated, rural community with a proposal to build a "glamping" site. The company’s representatives who present their plan to the locals are shockingly unprepared to respond to their (very politely expressed) concerns about how the project will impact their land, safety, and water supply. Rather than take these concerns seriously, however, their bosses send them back to get the support of one local man.  Takumi, the man chosen for them to engage, is the father of a young girl and a steady, taciturn presence in the community. He does not scold them or argue with these corporate emissaries, but quietly and patiently takes them along with him on a typical day - with ultimately tragic results.

Far from Heaven (director: Todd Haynes: 2002)

Todd Haynes reimagines the classic Douglas Sirk melodrama All That Heaven Allows, with his favorite actress, Julianne Moore in the Jane Wyman role. This time, however, she's not a widow but the wife of a closeted gay man, and the gardener with whom she falls in love (to the horror of her proper friends and neighbors) is black. Haynes' film is a true homage to Sirk with its meticulously saturated color palette and the heartbreak that lurks beneath the characters' restraint, yet finds new nuances in the altered story. The acting, by all, is exceptional.

First Reformed (director: Paul Schrader; 2018)

First Reformed won a fair amount of critical acclaim in 2018, but mostly from people who'd seen and studied the two European films on which it's directly based (Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest and Ingmar Bergman's Winter Light). It's austere and formal, deliberate in its pacing and sometimes downright bizarre.  But if you're inclined to give it a chance - and willing to embrace its slow rhythms and intellectual challenges - you may find yourself richly rewarded.  Ethan Hawke plays the pastor of a small, sparsely attended church. He struggles with his own faith and health  - as well as interference from a larger, more financially sound congregation - while attempting to counsel a depressed congregant and his pregnant wife. Writer/director Paul Schrader (who himself grew up in a Calvinist sect that prohibited going to movies) seriously confronts questions about our responsibilities to God and one another; his film is brutal and phantasmagorical by turns. 

Flow (director: Gints Zilbalodis; 2024)

Five animals - a cat, a dog, a capybara, a lemur and a bird - band together to find dry land during a devastating flood. The animation is exquisite (I don't know much about how capybaras and lemurs move, but I guarantee the animators must have studied the movements of cats, dogs and birds in great detail before working on this film. The realism of their work is stunning.) Flow was the first ever Latvian film to win an Academy Award, and it was very well deserved.

Four Weeks, Three Months, Two Days (director: Cristian Mungui; 2007)

On its face, it's both an abortion drama and a story of friendship tested, but it plays like a thriller and leaves your breathless. It proves yet again that a good story, told honestly and straightforwardly, is the most compelling film experience of all. Anamaria Marinca's performance is emotionally devastating.

Frances Ha (director: Noah Baumbauch; 2013)

A joyous and charming fable of deferred adulthood shot in the manner of a French New Wave film, right down to the black-and-white photography and the Georges Delerue score.  Gerwig - gawky, goofy and good-hearted - is jolted into growing up when her beloved roommate moves out and her performance gig with a small dance company falls through. She gropes her way towards stability through a series of odd jobs and bruising mishaps, including a literal pratfall in the street.  But through it all, Gerwig projects a charming, Mary Tyler Moore-esque comic determination: you just know that she's gonna make it after all. 

Frida (director: Julia Taymor; 2002)

Salma Hayek's performance in her dream project - a biopic about the Mexican artist, Frida Kahlo - is impressive, as are the performances of a stellar supporting cast (Alfred Molina, Geoffrey Rush, Edward Norton and others). But what impressed me most is how director Julie Taymor, working on a very tight production budget, found innovative ways to capture events like Kahlo's trip to New York without location shoots. Her collage-like montages of images and snippets are art are dazzling and of a piece with her subject's creativity.

Good Night and Good Luck (director: George Clooney: 2005)

A taut and expertly acted drama pits David Strathairn's Edward R. Murrow against the real Joe McCarthy (shown in actual new clips) and his unhinged crusade to find and persecute Communists. Under Clooney's direction - and soothed along by performances by jazz singer Diane Reeves - the film delivers a nostalgic vibe while rightly making heroes of Murrow and his co-workers. Yet it ends on a bittersweet note as Murrow's triumph is rewarded by CBS moving his Tuesday night program to Sunday afternoons where it will, henceforth, be rendered harmless. The penultimate scene is particularly painful: a clip of a Dwight Eisenhower speech where he assures us that in the US, no one need fear punishment for speaking truth to power. "We have the habeus corpus act," he says, "and we do not reject it." Good Night and Good Luck speaks powerfully to our current political climate, as Clooney must have realized when he recently staged it as a Broadway play, himself taking the role of Murrow.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (director: Wes Anderson; 2014)

There's an undeniable heart and a sadness beneath its deceptively frothy surface. Set in a fictional middle European country on the brink of war, its hijinks are almost reminiscent of early Lubitsch comedies, but with elegiac undercurrents to remind us that this sort of civilized elegance will soon give way to brutality and never be seen again. Ralph Fiennes is perfection as M. Gustave, the fussy, elegant concierge (who, I'm not the first to note, functions as a sort of stand-in for director Wes Anderson himself), but repeat viewings have only enhanced the luminosity of Soirse Ronan's charming supporting performance and brought to light the perfection of F. Murray Abraham's narration.

The Great Beauty (director: Paolo Sorrentino; 2014)

Paolo Sorrentino's rambling meditation on modern-day Italy as seen through the eyes of an urbane, insouciant writer named Jep Gambardella.  I could follow Toni Servillo's Jep around forever; he never runs out of interesting friends, gorgeous places to visit or profound reminisces.  And it opens with what is possibly the greatest party scene in film history, a wildly exhilarating rooftop extravaganza for Jep's 65th birthday. You'll wish you could be there.

Hail Caesar! (directors: Joel and Ethan Coen; 2016)

The Coen's love letter to early '50s studio filmmaking takes scattershot aim at a whole lot of targets (Communists, musicals, Biblical epics, studio meddling in the morals and private lives of its contracted actors) and culminates in a heartfelt, if barbed, appreciation of the magic that comes from it all.  Alden Ehrenreich steals the film as the young cowboy actor being uneasily shoehorned into a sophisticated comedy. An extended sequence of him on a date with an up-and-coming actress is a particularly sweet digression from the hi-jinks.

The Hand of God (director: Paolo Sorrentino, 2021)

Sorrentino mostly puts aside his tendencies towards meticulously art-directed profanity to tell the story of his own early life in Naples.  Young actor Filipo Scotti plays Fabietto, a stand-in for Sorrentino as a teen-ager in the 1980s. Sorrentino opens with raucous remembrances of his large, loud, exuberantly vulgar extended family, including a sexy but problematic aunt (Luisa Ranieri) who will bewitch and haunt Fabietto throughout his life. His parents are played by Teresa Saponangelo and Toni Servillo (the latter, a familiar fixture in Sorrentino's work) and they are superbly funny and mercurial.  Tragedy eventually comes to the family, but Fabietto gradually finds his way towards a love of film and filmmaking.

The Handmaiden (director: Park Chan-Wook; 2016)

A gorgeous and erotic adaptation of Sarah Waters' novel Fingersmith, transported to early 20th century Japan. The imagery is unforgettable and the story is expertly told.

Happy Go Lucky (director: Mike Leigh, 2008)

The perpetually cheerful Poppy Cross - played brilliantly by Sally Hawkins - is more than a beautifully realized, infinitely complex character (although she certainly is that). She also proves to be a sort of Rorschach test for the viewer. What you see in her, how you react to her, is likely reveal to your deepest feelings about how good or bad the world is, and how much any of us can do to change it. It's not just that watching Poppy in action forces you to identify whether you're a glass-half-full or a glass-half -empty person; it goes deeper than that. She forces you to think through your entire worldview. Eddie Marsan is equally brilliant as the brooding, anguished driving instructor who punctures Poppy's upbeat, glass-always-half-full view of life.

A Hidden Life (director: Terrence Malick, 2019)

An impressionistic art film about the terrible, lonely cost - and the ultimately transcendent value - of true Christian discipleship. It's based on the true story of a simple Austrian farmer who refused to serve in Hitler's army and the steep price both he and his family paid for that act of defiance. Yet it's not tortuous to watch; it is, in fact, a stunningly beautiful film made up mostly of quietly observed moments and details.  Malick weds his penchant for fluid tracking shots and jittery, fleeting images to an uncharacteristically (for him) linear narrative and succeeds brilliantly.

The Holdovers (director: Alexander Payne, 2023)

A beautiful, sensitive, compassionate film about the unlikely alliances formed between wildly different people thrown together under uncomfortable circumstances. Paul Giamatti plays the cranky Latin instructor assigned to tend the handful of private academy students who are forced to remain at school over Christmas break. His charges eventually dwindle to just one, an insufferably snotty boy (Dominic Sessa ) whose apparent arrogance is a mask for deeper troubles. There is also the school cook, whose son was recently killed in Vietnam (Da'Vine Joy Randolph in an Oscar-winning role.), grieving privately while brushing off too easily offered condolences.

Put all that in writing and it sounds hokey. But be assured, The Holdovers is no such thing. Nothing in the developing relationships between these characters ever feels forced or precious. Every one of them is recognizably, stubbornly human and real, and no conflict between them is ever resolved in a pat or predictable manner. This is a film I know I will come back to, time and time again, in the coming years just to bask in its humanity and intelligence. 

The House of Mirth (director: Terrence Davies, 2000)

Beautiful, heartbreaking, gloriously well acted, and one of the finest literary adaptations on film. Gillian Anderson is a revelation as the doomed heroine, Lily Bart.

Inglorious Basterds (director: Quentin Tarantino; 2009)d

It is possible to change your mind about a movie over time. When I first saw Inglorious Basterds - even while in a huge, crowded multiplex auditorium with a wildly enthusiastic and receptive audience - I had misgivings about its alternate history of the Third Reich, insider jokes about German cinema and spaghetti western references. But over the years, I've been forced to admit just how wildly entertaining and expertly directed this film really is. I keep coming back to those long, dialogue heavy scenes - often in German with English subtitles - that held a very large audience in thrall with no evidence of boredom or frustration. Those scenes alone gave me greater respect for Inglorious Basterds, but the entire film is worthy of lavish praise.

Lady Bird (director: Greta Gerwig; 2017)

You could call Lady Bird a coming-of-age story or you call it a mother/daughter drama; either or both is true, but confining it to a neat category would reduce and misrepresent what it achieves.  It's really a story about being human - about being young, unformed, hopeful and figuring life out - while at the same time, it's about the disappointments of adulthood and the anxieties and hopes that parents have for their children.

Let the Sun Shine In (director: Claire Denis; 2018)

Much the same as Juliette Binoche's character here, I did a lot of dating in 2018, and ultimately none of it turned out very well. It was oddly comforting to watch a chic, gorgeous Frenchwoman having all the same disappointments and frustrations in her dating life that I've experienced in mine.  For me, it will always be the French film version of my year on Match.com.

Licorice Pizza (director: Paul Thomas Anderson; 2021)

Sometimes the best recommendation for a film is that its characters are just fun to hang out with. That's definitely the appeal of Licorice Pizza. Its cast is headed up by two fine young actors; both are charming and instantly likable, but neither is intimidatingly beautiful. They look and act like people you might actually know. Cooper Hoffman (son of the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman) and Alana Haim stumble through a year or so of adventures and misadventures around the fringes of the early 70s Hollywood scene.  There's not much plot to speak of, just an amiable rambling from experience to experience. There are fun cameos from Sean Penn and Christine Ebersole as barely fictionalized versions of William Holden and Lucille Ball respectively, plus a screamingly funny one from Bradley Cooper as hairdresser-turned-producer Jon Peters.

Lincoln (director Steven Spielberg; 2012)

A highly literate, and meticulously atmospheric portrait of a complex man and the rancorous political climate in which the final months of his presidency played out. More specifically, it's a terrific political thriller about Lincoln's quest to get the 13th amendment through Congress, thereby abolishing slavery in America forever before the Civil War ended and the returning Confederate states were able to overturn the Emancipation Proclamation.

Ultimately, of course, it's all about the man, Abraham Lincoln. That Daniel Day-Lewis is magnificent in the title role is not surprising in and of itself, yet  I was unprepared for just how completely he rescues Lincoln from the folksy, railsplitting plaster sainthood of American legend. His Lincoln is equal parts prairie sage and shrewd political manipulator, impressively presidential and wearily melancholy in almost the same moment, exuding both integrity and vulnerability. 

Little Women (director Greta Gerwig; 2019)

I've seen all four big-screen versions of the Louisa May Alcott classic that I grew up loving; this is my favorite. (Even so, for my money, the best Jo March was Winona Ryder's unapologetically tomboyish take in Gillian  Armstrong's 1994 version). Gerwig's take on the material is fresh and original, deviating slightly from the novel but it ways that enhance and illuminate the story for contemporary viewers. 

The Lives of Others (director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck; 2006)

A drama centered on an East German surveillance operative whose life is changed by the people he listens in on. It may sound a bit like The Conversation; it's every bit as good, but ultimately, this one is a story of personal awakening and redemption. The late Ulrich Muhe gives a performance of quiet power.

The Lobster (director: Yorgos Lanthimos; 2016)

In this oddball dystopian tale, single people are rounded up and taken to a remote hotel where they have 45 days to find a mate or else be turned into a animal of their choosing. If you (like me) are a single person, you'll especially appreciate how Lanthimos finds the absurdities in society's disapproving take on the unattached and cranks them to a lunatic nth degree.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring & The Return of the King (director Peter Jackson; 2001 and 2003).

If you're wondering why only two-thirds of the Lord of the Rings trilogy made the list, it's mainly because these are the only parts I saw.  I never got around to The Two Towers, and didn't make the effort because a friend told me I didn't need to see it before I saw Return of the King ("It's just a lot of battles and stuff she assured me; as a result, I spent the first 45 minutes of Return... asking her in frustration "Who are these guys?! When did Gandalf come back to life?")

I'm not sure what I can add to everything that's already been said about this justly revered adaptation of Tolkein's classic except to share what I told my friend as Return... moved into its final scenes: "There is NO WAY we've already been here for 3 1/2 hours!" When a films is so moving and thrilling that you lose all track of time... I mean, what better recommendation can there be?

Lost in Translation (director: Sofia Coppola; 2003)

My favorite thing about this film is not necessarily the platonic but tight friendship that develops between Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson, but rather the way Coppola captures the vibe of being disoriented and adrift in an unfamiliar city. There's a otherworldly sense of loneliness that pervades the film and adds urgency to the connection made by the lead characters. Per a recent interview with Johansson, Murray was unpleasant and difficult with her during the filming, but there's no hint of that in their on-screen chemistry. 

Margaret (director: Kenneth Lonnergan; 2011)

Director Kenneth Lonnergan and his star, Anna Pacquin, brilliantly capture the heightened, desperate emotions of a young person's first experience of tragedy (a tragedy she may have, unwittingly, helped to bring about) against a richly detailed landscape of post-9/11 Manhattan. It's a long and meandering film, but it's ambitious in scope and rarely dull. And may I just add how wonderful it was to see Jeannie Berlin an all-too-rare screen appearance, bringing a welcome no-bullshit briskness to a pivotal supporting role.

Marie Antoinette (director: Sofia Coppola; 2006)

One of Coppola's gifts as a filmmaker is capturing the loneliness in privileged lives (particularly those of young women) with impressive clarity.  She brings a sort of rock and roll sensibility to this telling of the young Austrian princess who becomes Queen of France and faces pressures and frustrations she is no way equipped to handle. The film ends discreetly, well before the title character's trip to the guillotine, but the final image of a ransacked room at Versailles is still potent.

The Master (director Paul Thomas Anderson; 2012)

An enigmatic work of flawed genius, P. T. Anderson's epic was a thing of beauty, graced with exceptional acting by Joaquin Phoenix and Phillips Seymour Hoffman. Anderson's mentor and friend, Robert Altman, once said he wanted to make a film that people would come away from without being able to talk about or analyze it all. His acolyte, Anderson, came pretty damn close to making that movie here. 

Melancholia (director Lars Von Trier; 2012)

In the simplest terms, it's the story of a two sisters, a wedding, and the end of the world. At its deepest level, it presents the destruction of the earth as a metaphor for clinical depression that renders all human ritual and activity essentially meaningless and futile.  

But that makes it sound deeper and far less accessible than it actually plays.

Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsburg play sisters who have wildly different reactions to the news that a distant planet (not insignificantly named Melancholia) is an course to collide with (and destroy) the Earth. Dunst, whose character is clinically depressed and miserable sees the approaching apocalypse as the end to her suffering, while Gainsbourg - a housewife and mother who loves her domestic life - is understandably terrified. 

This is actually Von Trier's most accessible film, although not without a few flourishes of his trademark weirdness. And it's lush and visually gorgeous with a haunting score largely borrowed from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde.

Midsommar (director Ari Aster: 2019)

Possibly the scariest movie you'll ever see that take place entirely in bright sunlight, this folk horror tale is appropriately gruesome, but virtually demands a repeat viewing to sort out the symbolism that is referenced throughout.  Florence Pugh accompanies her estranged boyfriend and his buddies to a summer solstice celebration in Sweden where the celebrants turn out to be members of a violent cult. Pugh's terror and disorientation build to a particularly harrowing finale. It's more than a little nuts, but effectively engrossing.

A Mighty Wind (director: Christopher Guest; 2003)

My favorite of the Christopher Guest ensemble improv comedies, primarily for the surprisingly nuanced and deep work by two of his regular players, Catherine O'Hara and Eugene Levy. Their performances as a former husband-and-wife folk singing duo - long since estranged, with Levy's  character obviously suffering some long-term effects of drug abuse -  are funny enough, but also tinged with heartbreak and melancholy.  In fact, there is more gravitas among most of the other players, as well, but with just enough flourishes of silliness to keep the laughs coming. And it's informed by a sincere appreciation of early 60s folk music.

The Best (Maybe?) 100 Films of the 21st Century - Part 1

 

Last week, the New York Times published its list of the 100 Best Films of the 21st Century (so far). 

Now, I'm going to take a crack at it. Be warned, my list is not their list. Oh sure, there is a significant amount of overlap (even though I've never gotten around to seeing 16 of their 100 choices). 

But...

As I I've noted here many times, I'm a serious film fan, but not necessarily an academic or intellectual one. I'm not above putting a few lowbrow selections on this list if I truly love them.

Also, I didn't name this blog PART-TIME Cinephile for nothing. I love films, but I love other stuff, too. I worked long hours at an often stressful IT job for years, frequently unable to fire up my brain cells for a complex or epic-length film in my spare time. Even in my retirement, I've made as much time for volunteer work, travel, and reading as I have for going to the movies. My experience of world cinema is spotty; I'm well versed in North American film and European films, but less knowledgeable about the cinema of the remaining continents.

So.. take this list with a huge grain of salt, if you must. I make no claims that these are the best films of this century, only that they are my favorites. My choices are personal and sometimes eccentric. The number one criteria for inclusion in my top 100 is that, if given the chance, I'd sit down right now and watch it again.

One more thing - I did not even attempt to give these films a numerical ranking. The very thought of doing so makes me want to lie down and take a long nap. I did manage to pick a Top Ten for the reader's ballot I sent to the Times, but within 24 hours I wished I could revise it.  Instead, the films presented here are listed in alphabetic, rather than preferential, order.

(Also, this list contains a few films released in the year 2000, which technically isn't the 21st century. But since the Times ignored that technicality in compiling their list, I did too.)

Here are the first 20 films on my list - watch for four subsequent posts in which I'll present the remaining honors:

35 Shots of Rum (director Claire Denis; 2008)

A beautifully and quietly observed story of the close relationship between a father and his adult daughter and how it evolves as the daughter moves into a serious romantic relationship. Denis has a nice feel not only for the main characters, but also for the community in which they live and the relationships between members of that community. This is a deceptively lightweight but profoundly felt 'slice of life' story with lasting emotional impact.

All the Beauty and the Bloodshed (director Laura Poitras; 2022)

A profound and moving documentary that touches on so many themes: art, activism, the opioid crisis (and the Purdue Pharma/Sackler family culpability for it), mental illness, dysfunctional families, and the functional, nurturing families we create for ourselves with people we aren't related to. A stunning portrait of Nan Goldin who, through her twin passions for provocative art and unyielding activism, transformed immense personal pain into a mission to remove the Sackler name from art galleries around the world. Her passion and sense of purpose are unforgettably captured here.

Almost Famous (director Cameron Crowe;2002)

Cameron Crowe actually did write for Rolling Stone as a teenager, as the lead character (Patrick Fugit) does here, and it's reasonable to assume this film is based on his own experiences.  Fifteen-year-old William goes on the road with a band called Stillwater, while his anxious mother (Frances McDormand, great as always) phones in regularly to remind him "Don't do drugs!" Crowe gets everything right here - from the sometimes contentious relationships between band members (Billy Crudup, Jason Lee) to the details of William's bittersweet loss of innocence to the infectious joy of great rock music.  Kate Hudson delivers a star-making debut as the "band aid" (NOT groupie, as she'd be the first to tell you) Penny Lane.

Annette (director Leos Carax; 2021)

The slightly (ok, totally!) bonkers rock opera in which a foul-mouthed stand-up comic (Adam Driver) and an opera singer (Marion Cotillard) fall in love. Their baby girl, Annette, is an animated puppet with a lovely singing voice. Things only get weirder from there. Leos Carax is a famously avant garde director, and this film was waaay outside most people's comfort zones, but I found it fascinating. The music, composed by Ron and Russell Mael of Sparks, is memorable and infectious.  It has a little bit to say about toxic relationships and a little more to say about the ways in which children can be exploited for their parents' glory. But mostly it's just nuts. You'll either love it or hate it.

Another Year (director Mike Leigh; 2010)

I can think of no finer example of ensemble acting in this century, and that includes other films by Mike Leigh, who is very much an actor's director. Here we spend a year with a long and happily married couple, their family, and two of their sad single friends. The performances feel so lived-in, the relationships between the characters are so nuanced that we can glimpse the whole history of a relationship in a furtively exchanged glance or a shared joke.  The standout performance comes from the brilliant Lesley Manville, as a fiftyish single woman who is slowly unravelling into despair. Manville's final closeup shot as she sits forlornly among a lively group at a dinner table maybe the most heartbreaking image of Leigh's entire career.

At Eternity's Gate (director Julian Schnabel; 2018)

During the pandemic, I gave myself a little assignment. I would watch every film and television portrayal of Vincent Van Gogh I could find, and rank them from best to worst.  I watched a staggering number of Van Gogh portrayals (including the character's appearance on an episode of Dr. Who and a wordless cameo by Martin Scorsese in Akira Kurosawa's Dreams.) But I never got around to posting a ranking. If I had, this film - and Willem Dafoe's portrayal of Van Gogh in it  - would easily have topped the list.

Schnabel, himself a painter, has a different feel for the material than others who have attempted it; you can tell that a painter was behind the camera in the way colors are captured or landscapes are framed. It's like we're seeing Van Gogh's subjects through the artist's own eyes. This version of the artist's life story doesn't pull punches about his depressive nature, but neither does it lean in to the sensationalistic aspects of that illness. (As opposed to, say, Robert Altman's Vincent and Theo which dives right into the ugliest and most off-putting aspects of Van Gogh's madness. Or Kirk Douglas' unrelenting intensity in Lust for Life.) 

Atonement (director Joe Wright; 2007)

A masterful adaptation of Ian McEwan's novel about family secrets and their legacy.  It's most impressive achievement is a single, seven-minute tracking shot of the Dunkirk evacuation in World War II. It also introduced us to Soirse Ronan, making an impressive debut as the young girl whose misinterpretation of a romantic encounter between her sister and their housekeeper's son has lasting consequences.

The Aviator (director Martin Scorsese; 2004)

I've never gotten over the injustice of its losing the Best Picture Oscar to Million Dollar Baby, and so I'll take any opportunity to lavish praise on it. To my mind, it's easily one of the best biopics of the century, featuring what may, arguably, be Leonardo Di Caprio's greatest performance as an ambitious, phobia-ridden and ultimately tragic Howard Hughes.  And I love the film's palette; those touches of sepia-golden-brown and vibrant aqua blue that suggest the tinted photographs I used to see in my grandmother's albums. 

The Banshees of Inisherin (director Martin McDonagh; 2022)

The setting is an island off the coast of Ireland, and the time is 1923. The low roar of gunfire can be heard from the mainland where a civil war is raging. But on the isle of Inisherin, the squabbles are far less consequential if, in their own way, nearly as brutal.

After years of sharing daily chats and pints in the pub, Colm (Brendan Gleeson) decides he can no longer be friends with Padraic (Colin Farrell) because he finds Padraic dull company. Colm dreams of writing music and making something meaningful of his remaining days, while Padraic, confused and hurt, keeps chipping away at Colm for rapprochement. Colm becomes so indignant that he threatens to cut off his own fingers, one by one, if Padraic doesn't leave him alone.

If you've seen any other of Martin McDonagh's films, you can probably guess where this is going. 

His dark, deadpan humor works brilliantly here, particularly as acted by Farrell and Gleeson, as brilliant a double act as we've seen onscreen in many years. The film is suffused with an underlying sadness and sense of loneliness, even in its most ridiculous moments. It's a tale of small things - petty grievances, idle gossip, fleeting moments of contentment - but it accords to those small things a deep emotional resonance.

Beau Travail (director Claire Denis; 2000)

This one's a bit of a cheat since it is generally considered a 1999 film. However, per IMDB, it was not in general release anywhere (meaning outside of film festival screenings) till 2000. It's worth cheating a little to recommend this odd but compelling drama. Denis Lavant plays a disgraced military officer who looks back on his career in Djibouti from his solitary home in Marseilles. His recollections of his obsession with a young, handsome soldier are scattered and impressionistic, but presented here as visually stunning. Levant's character is shown to keep tight control over his emotions and actions, but the final scene - in which he pulls out all the emotional stops on a secluded corner of a nightclub dance floor - is an exhilarating moment of catharsis.

Birth (director Jonathan Glazer; 2004)

One of the weirdest movies I've ever seen, but unaccountably mesmerizing. Nicole Kidman plays a  widow who's about to remarry. A young boy who lives in her building shows up out of nowhere at a party in her home, claiming to be the reincarnation of her late husband.  There's a terrific extended scene of Kidman attending the opera with her fiancé which consists entirely of her face in a tight close-up as she struggles to get her mind around the idea that the boy may actually be her husband. You have to see to believe it, but Kidman pulls it off beautifully. It may be the single greatest piece of acting she's ever committed to film.  There's a trancelike vibe to this film that pulls you in from the very first scene and seduces you into accepting its bizarre premise. It's like walking into someone else's dream.

Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (director Michael Morris; 2025)

Yes, there is a Bridget Jones movie on this list - deal with it! 

The Bridget Jones franchise has had its up and downs over the last 24 years, but the most recent installment is, far and away, the best of the lot. It opens five years after the sudden death of Mark Darcy, with Bridget slowly emerging from her grief, looking after her two small children, and tentatively re-entering the dating market.  Loosely based on author/Bridget creator Helen Fielding's own experience as a suddenly widowed mother, the new film keeps Bridget's buoyant, gaffe-prone spirit intact while handling her sadness with tender sensitivity. It's every bit as funny as the preceding films when it needs to be, but also heartbreaking and even profound at just the right moments. Renee Zellweger slips easily back into Bridget's skin.  And Hugh Grant is also back for a few brief scenes that deliver a kick of naughty humor at just the moments when it's needed, while humanizing his rascally Daniel Cleaver character. 

Can You Ever Forgive Me? (director Marielle Heller; 2018)

Melissa McCarthy plays real-life writer Lee Israel who forged and sold letters from the likes of Dorothy Parker and Noel Coward to make ends meet when her career as a celebrity biographer petered out. Director Marielle Heller infuses her story with a palpable sense of melancholy in everything from the low-lit bars that Lee and her drinking buddy (Richard E. Grant) frequent to the perfectly curated, jazz-inflected musical soundtrack. It's a character study with the rhythms of a true crime drama. But it's also a sad valentine to the end of an era in New York - a time when books and writers truly mattered and it was possible to live in shabby-genteel poverty on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Grant and McCarthy are wonderful together, their characters sharing both a closeted, queer identity and outrageously caustic personalities designed to mask their vulnerability and loneliness.

Capote (director Bennett Miller; 2005)

Phillip Seymour Hoffman's portrayal of Truman Capote is unforgettable, as is Catherine Keener's portrayal of his friend and fellow author, Harper Lee. But what I remember most is the haunting, melancholy vibe that thrums throughout this film from start to finish.  We follow Capote through his research for and writing of In Cold Blood, his great "non-fiction novel" about the brutal murders of a Kansas family. The process takes a steep emotional toll on him. Capote established a close relationship with one of the convicted killers (in fact, it's strongly suggested the two fell in love). Yet he needed the the killers' executions to take place in order to tie up and publish his story. His inner conflict nearly destroys him. 

Carol (director Todd Haynes; 2015)

I was unprepared for how beautifully screenwriter Phyllis Nagy adapted and even improved on Patricia Highsmith's odd, difficult stream-of-consciousness novella about the forbidden love between a young woman behind a shop counter and the older, affluent woman who meets her while Christmas shopping. Haynes and Nagy have created a classic love story in which both women's yearnings and heartache are distilled into the simplest, most subtle expressions and gestures, as the times they lived in would require. Ultimately it is a story about passion that is transmuted into genuine, mature love as both characters grow and sacrifice to be true to themselves while protecting the ones they love. And I'd be unforgivably remiss if I didn't mention how remarkable both Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara are as the lovers. 

Certified Copy (director Abbas Kiarostami; 2010)

Abbas Kiarostami's enigmatic, shape-shifting film is a fascinating fugue on the nature of authenticity in art and relationships.  And if that sounds intimidating, be assured the film is not.  An engrossing brain teaser with a lovely, emotionally supple performance by Juliette Binoche.

Clouds of Sils Maria (director Oliver Assayas; 2014)

I've recommended this film to a few friends; their reactions have been evenly split between "WTF was that?" and "That was AWESOME!" I can't predict which of those camps you'll fall into, but maybe, like me, you'll wind up watching it four times in the space of a couple weeks. How to sum up the virtually un-summarizable plot? Well, Juliette Binoche is an aging actress, Kristen Stewart is her assistant and Chloe Grace Moretz is the Lindsay Lohan-esque youger actress cast opposite Binoche in an upcoming play. Binoche and Stewart take a house in the Swiss Alps where they run lines, often while hiking in the Alps; they are electric together and fascinating to watch, sparks fly off their interactions. My friend Bill (who loved it) is much more eloquent: "It was disarmingly complex. It seemed simple and straightforward, but on a closer look, it was far more textured in its analysis of human nature, relationships and personal growth." If any of that sounds intriguing to you, watch it and lose yourself in it. 

The Congress (director Ari Folman; 2013)

The Congress imagines a deceptively candy-colored but ultimately chilling and soulless future world whose harrowing consequences will only be meaningful to adults. Along the way, there's some moderately trenchant commentary on the way Hollywood disposes of actresses over 40 as well as the potential dangers of the ever-burgeoning pharmaceutical industry, There is also a testament to the enduring power of maternal love.  And about a third of the way in, the film morphs from live action to animation, employing a dazzling, sometimes nightmarish style that recalls the work of both Ralph Bakshi and Max Fleischer. Audacious, ambitious and haunting.

A Dangerous Method (director David Cronenberg; 2011)

A film that dares to be "talky" and to trust its audience to be intelligent and sophisticated,  A Dangerous Method delineates the ideas that (in the memorable words of a friend) led to "the birth to the twentieth century." David Cronenberg's drama of the interconnecting relationships between Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and Jung's patient, Sabina Spielrein (brilliant in her own right and an underappreciated influence on both men's work) was a film of ideas, driven by superlative performances.  It's thrilling even when it's doing no more than reconstructing actual correspondence between the doctors; Cronenberg finds a visual rhythm that keeps these frequent epistolary passages from stopping the film dead. And yes, there are spanking scenes, but please - Cronenberg's film is anything but dirty-minded.

The Death of Stalin (director Armando Iannucci; 2017)

You've heard of cringe comedy?  Well, Armando Iannucci is the master of 'gasp comedy' - rapid-fire comic patter so fast and so mean that you can barely process it or even croak out a proper laugh in the wake of its farcical nastiness. But even if you've watched one of Iannucci's television political satires (Veep, The Thick of It.), you won't be prepared for the undercurrent of true horror in this very black political comedy.  This time, the history is true (mostly) and the stakes are real; you can hear people pleading for their lives and/or being shot just off camera even while breathlessly funny bureaucratic squabbles play out before your eyes.  It takes a particularly masterful director to get that balance right - Iannucci is up to the task. With Stalin on his deathbed, the politburo goes mad, each man jockeying for position and power in the new government to come. Kruschev (Steve Buscemi), Beria (Simon Russell Beale) and Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor) rush to build alliances and kiss up to Stalin's daughter (a superb Andrea Riseborough). What follows is both antic and terrifying, and the actors (particularly Beale and Buscemi) are just about perfect.