It’s a scary and uncertain time for the movie industry, especially anyone invested in the survival of the theatrical experience. 2020 sure as hell brought on a lot of the bad, but a weird, earth-shattering year for movies isn’t necessarily a bad one. In fact, you could argue that the shake-up and implosion of the release calendar — a general absence of blockbuster projects sucking up all the oxygen in the room — has brought on a much larger visibility of films otherwise in danger of being left out of conversations. And plenty of those deserve such dialogue. So here are my top twenty-five films of this discombobulating year.
Honorable Mentions: Boys State, The Climb, The Devil All the Time, Dick Johnson Is Dead, Driveways, Lovers Rock, Never Rarely Sometimes Always, Palm Springs, She Dies Tomorrow, Shirley, A Sun, Tenet, Tesla, Waiting for the Barbarians & The Way Back
25. The Painted Bird
The Painted Bird is probably 2020’s most bleak entry; a ravishing meditation on humanity’s capacity for evil. It’s undeniably a lot: A marathon of murder, mutilation, rape, and pedophilia, where The Holocaust itself is basically a subplot. Yet it comes with purpose, as director Václav Marhoul’s aim seems to be to leave viewers numbed rather than shocked by these obscene violations, rather as everyone onscreen — and eventually, it’s central young boy (Petr Kotlár) — have been desensitized by years of warful agony. Offering a vision of war-ragged society in which all survivors have been reduced to anonymous, animalistic beings, drained of feeling or empathy. All of this agony, though, is captured with incredible skill, pushing the film to an inarguably effective and immersive quality, its hard unyielding gaze backed up by the muscularity of its craft. (Shot on ravishing 35mm black-and-white with expansive anamorphic lenses, Vladimír Smutný’s cinematography is undoubtedly some of the year’s best.) The Painted Bird plumbs the depths, but rest assured that those hardy souls who trudge through the course are rewarded with the smallest glimmer of hope. Which takes the form of a few lines drawn on a dusty bus window. It’s after nearly three hours in hell that a lone crumb of comfort like that can look and feel like a banquet. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Hulu
24. Gunda
Gunda isn’t your typical nature documentary; you won’t be hearing any comforting human voices of the likes of David Attenborough or Morgan Freeman. In fact, humans are completely absent, outside of a late arrival of an ominous truck. It’s just pigs, chickens and cows. With his striking black-and-white portrait of a farm in Norway, director Victor Kossakovsky is interested only in immersion — in offering an intimate tour of this grubby corner of the animal kingdom. Straying onto a sparse collective of animals at the farm, for ninety minutes we lock into the animals’ business through only the sound and images of their world (there isn’t a note of music) — this is a doc that’s rather perfectly aligned for those who love to spend an hour per exhibit at the zoo and-or prefer their docs to be light on facts/figures and heavy on splendor. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: N/A
23. Jungleland
Max Winkler’s Jungleland is a movie that does more than just take its title from a Bruce Springsteen song; it’s a film that embraces melodrama and cliché not unlike a classic song from the Boss, engrossing itself in the rebellious spirit and heartbreaking thoughtfulness that comes from his works. It’s three central characters are out of casting 101 — the emotional boxer (Jack O’Connell), his volatile brother (Charlie Hunnam), and the girl who gets between them (Jessica Barden) — but Winkler and his team lean into some of the familiarity so much that it starts to find some compelling details. It’s a film that races ahead with the sinewy, tenderly feel of a ’70s throwback in the vein of Bob Rafelson or Hal Ashby, with Winkler and cinematographer Damian Garcia finding a perfectly off-balanced milieu of tactile, working-class blues. It’s a film that respectively is about three people fighting against the clichés they seemingly are on the surface, attempting to shed their identities that seem forced upon them. And it’s all the more rewarding of a story for it. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
22. Shithouse
One of the year’s most personally resonant films for me, Shithouse is a film with a high level of discomfort as we watch it’s central young college student characters (Cooper Raiff & Dylan Gelula) fumble and lash out, yet it’s continually engulfed in such honesty that it only strikes a cord more. The real achievement for twenty-three-year-old writer-director-star Raiff’s ability to communicate how hard it is to communicate at that college age. And he does it through a casual and relaxed structure, one with gently shifting power dynamics between his characters, and a reversal of the traditional gender roles that sets up an unexpectedly moving resolution. As a whole, this is a super-promising debut from someone with a clear gift for personalizing shared experiences (and revitalizing the clichés that tend to make us think that we’re tired of ourselves), Shithouse knows that growing up can be a lonely process, but one that most people only feel like they have to go through on their own. It’s refreshingly honest on the profound existential worries of such early adulthood. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
21. Mangrove
Produced as part of Steve McQueen’s ambitious five-film Small Axe anthology about black West-Indie-British Londoners across several decades, Mangrove is a taut and thrilling judicial drama that transcends the genre while working within its barriers. The movie delves into the usual collection of passionate monologues about equal rights and dedication to the cause. But it’s also grounded in a detailed ecosystem so rich with feeling that it makes an old routine feel new, with a gripping Shaun Parkes performance at its center, McQueen again proves he’s one the most visually unconventional filmmakers working today. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Prime Video
20. Da 5 Bloods
Da 5 Bloods is a two-hour-thirty-five-minute massive swing for the fences that is assuredly one of Spike Lee’s most ambitious, as it’s basically six movies in one: a heist movie, war epic, nostalgic ensemble drama, tragic character study, mournful political polemic, and shoot’em up thriller. And the result is often breathtaking to watch, whether it be for Delroy Lindo’s incredible performance to the heaping thematic heft of the material to moments of emotional transcendence. The ambition and scope is often staggering, and it remains remarkable, after forty years of making movies, that Lee can maintain this level of energy and passion. And for this he uncompromisingly wrestles with the specters of the past and present, crafting a stirring, anguished, funny, and violent excursion into the dark, rotting pit that is America’s heart. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Netflix
19. American Utopia
In a year of enclosure and isolation, American Utopia is the concert film that we’re all grateful for. Capturing David Byrne’s Broadway residency, Spike Lee delivers a film that serves almost as a requiem for live experiences, a longing for such a pleasure; a balm of generosity that’s an electrifying and transporting work that finds empathy and compassion in each of its joyous expressions. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: HBO Max
18. The Invisible Man
Gaslighting gets downright monstrous in The Invisible Man, a 21st-century take on Universal’s classic unseen specter. Helmed with playful menace by Leigh Whannell, whose camerawork weaponizes hallways and corners of rooms for mass tension, this slick genre effort finds Elisabeth Moss trying to convince anyone who’ll listen that she’s not crazy, and really is being hunted by her supposedly dead abusive boyfriend. However, since said predator isn’t visible to the human eye, that’s not an easy task. Hot-button issues emerge naturally out of this basic premise, thereby letting Whannell skip out on overt preaching in favor of orchestrating a series of finely tuned set pieces in which lethal danger might materialize at any moment, from any direction. Avoiding unnecessary diversions or italicized politics, the filmmaker streamlines his tale into a ferocious game of cat-and-mouse, with Moss commanding the spotlight as a woman tormented both physically and psychologically, and determined to fight back against her abuser. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: HBO Max
17. Black Bear
Feeding off the competing energies and increasingly antagonistic rapport of its three central characters, Black Bear is a film filled with loaded interactions that gradually reveal fault lines in the relationships and falsehoods between its characters. It’s often scathingly funny — a dark comic millennial spin on the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? template, balanced by three expertly modulated performances from Aubrey Plaza, Christopher Abbott and Sarah Gadon. That is until a radical shift happens. Whether or not Black Bear entirely comes together, I’m still not a 100% sure, but the film’s parallel passages are continually thrilling and bold on their own, that it can’t go overlooked. What’s maybe most recommendable, though, about this twisty film is Plaza’s lead performance, the most volatile and nuanced work of her career. It’s all towards a film that doesn’t just reinvent itself so much as it deconstructs its entire existence, carrying acidic wits and insanely finite performances for a dynamic of enticing manipulation. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
16. True History of the Kelly Gang
In True History of the Kelly Gang, director Justin Kurzel tells the bloody story of his homeland’s most famous outlaw, Ned Kelly, who’s either a folk hero in Australia or a villainous raider, depending on whom you ask. Kelly (played by George MacKay with the intensity of a ferile dog) retells his own story, a harrowing tale of abuse — from the English soldiers who took advantage of his family, to other thieves and robbers, to men sniffing around his mother’s door. Kelly learned to fight back and fight hard. And Kurzel favors stylized images and the occasional anachronistic punk track to provoke such a mood more than faithfully recreate history. And his approach more than works, capturing a dog-eat-dog world that’s bolstered by a strong cast featuring MacKay, Russell Crowe, Nicholas Hoult, Charlie Hunnam, and Essie Davis. With its tactile lyricism and brash punk sensibility the film tackles the lasting impacts of mythologizing through history with a melancholic rebel yell. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
15. Minari
The promise of America has always been linked to its land and to the idea that a small corner of this sprawling, green country can one day by yours to cultivate, nurture and grow. Writer-director Lee Isaac Chung chases that life-affirming notion in his semi-autobiographical drama about a Korean-American family that moves from California to Arkansas to support the agricultural dreams of its patriarch (a fantastic Steven Yeun). Minari cuts from dad’s struggles to find water for his crops to the changing relationship between his young son (Alan Kim) and his eccentric mother-in-law (a remarkable Youn Yuh-jung) — a strucutre that establishes the film’s foundational musings of contrasting ideologies and assimilations. Ultimately, it’s the way Minari both subverts and fulfills the concept and-or myth of America as a place for reinvention that makes it one the more emotionally gripping films of they year. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: The film will have a wider theatrical release on February 12.
14. I Was At Home, But…
I Was at Home, But… is a beautifully elusive and suggestive movie of deeply expressive, wistful silences. Which is to also say that it isn’t an easy movie, one where meanings and motives have no interest in announcing themselves. But neither is it especially difficult, and if you let it, Angela Schanelec’s gentle, supple stream of images and their accompanying associations will carry you aloft like a cloudy dream. The meanings, if not necessarily the motives, shall follow. In most mainstream, plot-centric cinema, the story often pulls you along encouraging you to wonder what happens next. Schanelec offers here next to no such prompts, trusting that you’ll keep watching anyway. In this sad, elliptical movie of occasional tenderness, Schanelec avoids any easy exposition or explanation. She has structured the movie as a kind of emotional and psychological puzzle, in which the usual connective tissue has been carefully extracted, leaving behind only pieces of tension and melancholy. But that’s not to say that she hasn’t left behind clues, scattering them like invisible breadcrumbs in the margins of cinematographer Ivan Markovic’s beautifully lit, immaculately framed images. It was legendary filmmaker Robert Bresson who once said: “Hide the ideas, but so that people find them. The most important will be the most hidden.” And the Bresson association in I Was at Home, But… seems even clearer: between the rigorous precision and duration of the individual shots, the quiet affectlessness of the performances and the particular sensitivity with which Schanelec photographs her actors’ hands. Perhaps the most Bressonian quality of I Was at Home, But… is that it sees its characters, for all their inner suffering, as existing within a state of grace, even when that grace doesn’t seem apparent to them or us. But no matter that semblance of grace being there or not, it’s this sense of challenging cinema that ruminates through the bad and good to an intoxicating extent.
13. The Vast of Night
Andrew Patterson’s The Vast of Night is a marriage of the old and the new, blending effects-aided cinematic showmanship to old-school radio drama. In the director’s sterling feature debut, two 1950s high schoolers stumble upon a strange signal that, they come to suspect, originates from the stars looming above their small-town-USA home. In the vein of Orson Welles’ The War of the Worlds, the film is a tale of potential invasion that plays out entirely over radio waves, and Patterson thus naturally focuses on intently listening faces, and the spoken words that captivate them, as a means of generating anticipation, mystery and suspense. At the same time, his centerpiece sequences are models of formal precision and depth, as protracted shots through sprawling fields, crowded gymnasiums, and in and out of cramped buildings create pulse-pounding mystery and tension while simultaneously conveying the propulsive flow and binding, interconnected nature of narrative storytelling itself. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Prime Video
12. Another Round
Throughout the history of cinema, various displays of alcohol use have their prevalence. But seemingly they all really only fall into about two categories: Brazen celebrations of drunken parties and consequence-free intoxication; and alcoholic despair, seeing a person who’s made a mess of their life (and usually looking at them with a rueful shaking of the head). A middle ground between the two doesn’t seemed to exist, in regards to its portrayals on-screen; nothing in-between the good times and a cinematic intervention. With Another Round, director Thomas Vinterberg comes rather close to finding it: He’s made the rare movie about getting sauced that’s somehow neither a wallow in the gutter nor a fantasy of life without hangovers; where joyousness and melancholy ride hand-in-hand, while friends drink not to lose themselves, but find themselves. It’s a tonal triumph that features a fantastic Mads Mikkelsen; a tragicomedy that balances tipsiness with a rather remarkable lucidity. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
11. The Assistant
The silences last a lifetime in The Assistant, a film written and directed by Kitty Green. Starring Julia Garner as the titular character, the film plays out over one long day at an unnamed independent film studio. Light on dialogue with no real score to speak of, we follow our new assistant as she makes the coffee, cleans the dishes, prints the screenplays, and takes the phone calls for the unseen, unrelenting and abusive man in the office behind her. It’s a film about patterns and the interactions it plays on the communities living in and with them. And Green’s methodical portrait of a young up-and-comer slowly accepting the ignored horrors of the everyday office life. It’s absorbing and equally unnerving. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Hulu
10. Vitalina Varela
The darkness is all-consuming, as is despair over a lost past and future, and a purgatorial present, in Vitalina Varela, Pedro Costa’s aesthetically ravishing true tale of its protagonist, a Cape Verde resident who returns to Portugal mere days after her estranged husband’s death. Vitalina wanders through this dilapidated and gloomy environment, which Costa shoots almost exclusively at night, the better to conjure a sense of ghosts navigating a dreamscape of sorrow, suffering and disconnection. Each of the director’s images is more ravishing than the next, and their beauty — along with an enveloping soundscape of squeaking beds, sheets blowing in the wind, and rain pattering on crumbling roofs — is enchanting. Presenting its story through fractured plotting and dreamy monologues, the Portuguese master’s latest is a series of tableaus of lovelorn grief concerning not only Vitalina but also an aged priest in spiritual crisis and another young man poised to endure his own tragedy. It’s all sumptuously rich and singular, filled with one haunting moment and image after the next, bringing plenty of demanding and breathtaking rewards. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Criterion Channel & VOD
9. A White, White Day
Icelandic director Hlynur Pálmason’s sophomore feature is a magnificently controlled character study, one that follows a middle-aged police chief, Ingimundur (Ingvar Eggert Sigurdsson), struggling to reconcile with his complicated grief, his job, and his love for his granddaughter. But as the title suggests, A White, White Day is just as attentive to the movements of the natural world and the passage of the seasons as it is to Sigurdsson’s fearsome portrayal of a volatile man. Pálmason deploys stark, elemental imagery in counterpoint to Ingimundur’s simmering rage, then pushes things to a point where symbolic or even thematic correspondence becomes an afterthought. This is a film of free-floating unease, where dread suffuses the air like a thick fog. By the end, one is reminded that mourning, like any journey really, is an intensely physical experience. As physical, even, as the weather. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
8. Mank
In a way, Mank is about the formation of Citizen Kane through that of its writer, the titular Herman J. Mankiewicz (a beautifully disheveled and concise Gary Oldman). In a larger actuality, Mank very much is a story about class divides and clashing egos, outsiders and insiders, striving and ambition, creation and authorship, an artist in the throes of a creative and a moral crisis, and the thrill and loneliness of being the smartest guy in the room. It’s rich, fascinating and inevitably painful material overflows with visual and verbal elegance and is weaved together with an intellectual vigor. Frankly, it would make a particularly fascinating Mank-and-Mark double feature with director David Fincher’s The Social Network, which not coincidentally was greeted as the Citizen Kane of tech-whiz biopics. It’s also, arguably, the least accessible of Fincher’s works, one so relentlessly niche within its history and figures. Yet there’s so much to luxuriate in; a film of off-kilter rhythms, which feel both immersive and agitated, as if Fincher were trying to both hypnotize you and jolt you awake from the Old Hollywood he’s re-created. And it’s an interesting feeling: Mank demands your surrender, but also your heightened attention. It’s a pleasurably discombobulating experience, sometimes playing like a biting comedy of manners and sometimes flirting with being an expressionist nightmare. It’s one of Fincher’s most audacious filmmaking experiments that sees a man running against a system of media titans remaking the world in their image and it’s provocative contemplations on the nexus between art, society and legacy are tantalizing. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Netflix
7. First Cow
Kelly Reichardt’s soulful, offbeat portrait of life on the fringe of 19th-century civilization hit theaters the first week of March, mere days before most of them shut down. It was a sadly apropos fate for a film about modest American dreams and everything in their way. Reichardt chronicles the risky culinary venture of two men gentler than the age they were born into: a soft-spoken baker (John Magaro) and an inquisitive businessman (Orion Lee) who begin milking, without permission, the only cow in the Oregon Territory — an old world as grubby and invitingly real as the mining town of Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller. That’s the long and short of it, but like most of this writer-director’s commiserative odes to the outsider, the movie has the hidden depths of an iceberg: Its touching tale of friendship conceals a larger critique, an origin story of our so-called land of opportunity. Reichardt’s ability to find one in the other helps account for how First Cow has lingered in hearts and minds, months after its theatrical run abruptly ended. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Showtime
6. Song Without a Name
Song Without a Name’s broad premise of a mother (Pamela Mendoza Arpi) having her infant child taken and the subsequent investigation of a local journalist (Tommy Párraga) might sound like that of an urgent procedural. Yet Peruvian director Melina León takes her narrative of a single kidnapping and spirals it into a heady, disorienting vortex of institutional corruption and unredeemed humanity. And, frankly, it’s enrapturing; both earthy with social detail and majestically, starkly evocative with a wistful, elegiac tone (with much help from Inti Briones’ immaculate, artfully affecting cinematography). The film takes a historical tragedy and imbeds it into the most beautiful of bad dreams, locked with a deep sense of sorrow and sparse, misted ambient textures.
Where to Watch: VOD
5. Nomadland
Nomadland is the kind of movie that could go very wrong. With Frances McDormand as its star alongside a cast of real-life nomads, in lesser hands it might look like cheap wish fulfillment or showboating. Instead, director Chloé Zhao works magic with McDormand’s face and the real world around it, delivering a profound rumination on the impulse to leave society in the dust. Inspired by Jessica Bruder’s non-fiction book of the same title, the movie follows Fern (McDormand), a soft-spoken widow in her early sixties who hits the road in her van, and just keepings moving. The movie hovers with her, at times enmeshed in her travels that it practically becomes a documentary. Instead, the movie develops an entrancing narrative about American alienation and the appeal of escaping society’s oppressive clutches. Zhao embraces the paradox at the center of a story that both celebrates its character’s liberation and bemoans that sad state of affairs that put her on that track; capturing the zeitgeist and embracing the fantasy of leaving it all behind for life on the road. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: The film will have a wider theatrical release on February 19.
4. Martin Eden
In adapting Jack London’s 1909 novel, Italian director Pietro Marcello transposes its story from Oakland to the coast of Naples. It’s there where our sense of time is scrambled, with Marcello refusing to pin down the film’s era and thus setting us adrift in the sea change of the 20th-century. In the title role, Luca Marinelli gives a magnetic, vital performance that animates the title character’s voyage from proletarian sailor to renowned writer. Marcello, for his part, continually opens up his literary adaptation with gorgeous bursts of 16mm archival footage, swooning Italian pop and thrillingly mobile camerawork. Yet our hero’s luxurious dreams and political aspirations fall under his self-defeating vanity and take him down a dark, solipsistic void of disillusionment. Turning this sweeping film into a sumptuous fable of social tragedy, one where classical filmmaking is at its most invigorating; both robustly beautifully and enthrallingly alive, it’s an utterly remarkable picture. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Kino Marquee
3. The Nest
Early on, judging by its visual grammar, you might think that The Nest is some sort of haunted mansion chiller. Yet that wouldn’t be the case with Sean Durkin’s second feature, which arrives nine long years after his previous, marvelous debut feature, Martha Marcy May Marlene. With The Nest, Durkin and phenomenal cinematographer Mátyás Erdély employ a visual language that’s in the vein of movies like The Shining or The Others, but only to symbolic ends — the big, shadowy, spooky British country house here is devoid of anything ghostly, but instead filled with the myriad frustrations of the family who temporarily inhabits it. While the film is set in the late ’80s, it’s nowhere close to being a superficial nostalgia piece; that was the “greed is good” era, and Jude Law’s status-conscious patriarch can’t abide the thought of not at least appearing affluent, however potentially ruinous the impact of his aspirations are upon his ferociously independent wife (a knockout Carrie Coon), his confused teenage stepdaughter (Oona Roche), and his perpetually nervous younger son (Charlie Shotwell). It was Russian writer Leo Tolstoy who wrote about how “all happy families are all alike.” But Durkin’s magnificent downer ultimately suggests that there might not be such thing as a truly happy family — at least none that are not built on lies. The cuckoo that comes home to roost in The Nest is the idea that maybe there are only unhappy families and ones that haven’t called each other out on their mutually reinforcing BS yet. It’s an unforgettable, unshakable, and potent notion; akin to watching live surgery, as Durkin dissects the anatomy of a family with a chilled, ominous, and immersive razor; a work equally in parts clinically devastating and hauntingly gorgeous. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: VOD
2. Beanpole
Dramas don’t come much bleaker than Beanpole, director Kantemir Balagov’s wrenching story about the damage caused by war, and the exceedingly high cost of survival. In a 1945 Leningrad still recovering from the end of WWII, lanky Iya (Viktoria Miroshnichenko) works as a nurse even though her military service has left her with a condition in which she becomes temporarily frozen. Iya cares for Pashka (Timofey Glazkov), the young son of her frontlines friend Masha (Vasilisa Perelygina), and when Masha returns to reclaim her child — only to learn of an unthinkable tragedy — their relationship buckles under the weight of grief, guilt, regret, resentment and need. In its entirety, Beanpole is a film about healing and recovery in a city’s ravaged milieu. Throughout, Balagov spins his characters’ individual pathologies into a diagnosis of the psychological effects of WWII not just on them, but on Russia in general, conveying the collective horror of a nation forced to do terrible things to survive through the story of two friends asking the impossible of each other. Captured in tremulous, composed long-take handheld close-ups, you’re overwhelmed by the decimated environment and continual push to forge a new future. Yet as difficult as Beanpole can be to watch, it quietly accumulates kindnesses alongside the crueler twists of fate, escaping what would be an unfair label of “misery porn.” All because the questions it’s asking are much more complicated, and more cutting, than what usually comes with such a label. All bringing to mind one of the great Roger Ebert sayings: “All bad movies are depressing, and no good movies are.” Bleak brutality and peeping tenderness come with Beanpole: A film of a slow soul-crushing weight of anguish, repression, and despair that tracks the vast crumbling recovery of war. It’s wholly and utterly breathtaking. (Full Review)
1. I’m Thinking of Ending Things
It’s kind of funny that Charlie Kaufman once lost an Oscar to Inside Out. Don’t most of his movies also plunge audiences into the mind, via magic or sci-fi or just ruminative, ole’ fashioned voice-over? I’m Thinking of Ending Things, the third film he’s directed from one of his own ingenious scripts, has left some viewers feeling rather trapped within its oppressively interior psychodrama; it’s a disorienting nightmare reverie about a young woman who begins to lose her grip on herself during a surreal day trip to meet her boyfriend’s parents. Yet for all the slippery cerebral games Kaufman plays with his source material, the film remains anchored to an emotional reality — the foundation of everyday discomfort offered by a glorious Jessie Buckley, finding a personality even as the details about her character begin to shift like an hourglass. She’s our guide through the dense, enchantingly beautiful and soul-clinching nature of Kaufman’s imagination: a wonderous twilight zone of existential anxieties, dreamy ballet, and Robert Zemeckis jokes. It’s the most magnificent, unshakable, and singular of all the experiences that 2020 offered. (Full Review)
Where to Watch: Netflix
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