Another year has passed us all by, far too quickly for my tastes. In my preamble to my list chronicling the top films of last year, I noted how the year marked a “new reality of everything being bad all the time in every way.” Unfortunately for all of us, not only does this remain true, but everything around us continues to get worse. A shame.
Thankfully, however, we have the power of cinema to hold us over until it all comes crashing down. And, on the bright side, this past year has actually been an exceptional year in the medium, and a marked improvement on the dip in overall quality we saw in 2020 (for obvious reasons). The 110 new releases from 2021 that I had the pleasure of watching this past year were full of highs and lows like any other year, yet the cream of the crop has undoubtedly risen above and beyond, providing me with some truly profound and deeply impactful experiences that I won’t soon forget. My full list of rankings can be found here.
Surprisingly, this year in cinema for me was most keenly defined by the re-watch. For almost all of the films on this list, and many of the ones near the top which didn’t quite make it, repeat viewings provided me with entirely new experiences which were deeply moving beyond what I was able to grasp on the first go. Typically for a year end list, the urge to re-watch a film for me is purely as a refresher – to reacquaint myself with the material before I attempt to describe its impact on me or its level of quality. I have rarely, if ever, so often had profoundly different experiences upon experiencing a film for the second (or third) time as I did this year. It is an experience I will cherish and bring forward into my future endeavors in film watching, without question.
Being that this year ended being such a cinematic treasure trove, a number of fantastic films inevitably ended up missing the cut, their only fault being some films were ever so slightly better. The honorable mentions that I most want to shout out here, then, are: Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy dir. Ryusuke Hamaguchi, Memoria dir. Apichatpong Weerasethakul, The Tragedy of Macbeth dir. Joel Coen, Parallel Mothers dir. Pedro Almodóvar, The Power of the Dog dir. Jane Campion, Spencer dir. Pablo Larraín, Official Competition dir. Gastón Duprat and Mariano Cohn, Red Rocket dir. Sean Baker, The Souvenir Part II dir. Joanna Hogg, and JFK Revisited: Through the Looking Glass dir. Oliver Stone.
10. A Hero dir. Asgar Farhadi
Asgar Farhadi’s newest film, A Hero, is a neorealist film at its heart. Reminiscent of the masterpieces of Vittorio De Sica such as Bicycle Thieves and Umberto D, the titular “hero” of the film is one seemingly pulled straight out of one of these films. This man is Rahim, a prisoner in a debtor’s jail for a large debt he owes to his brother-in-law, who is released on a two day leave in order to settle his debt. The ensuing narrative is one in which Rahim desperately does what he can to simply get out of his hopeless situation, hoping to get out of prison, pay his debt, and marry his love in order to start a new life together. His love, who he hopes to marry upon resolving his situation, finds a lost handbag full of gold coins, and the couple hope to use the funds toward the payment of Rahim’s debt in order to get him out of prison. Eventually, Rahim decides against it, instead choosing to find the original owner of the bag and return it to them. The story of a bedraggled, destitute prisoner choosing to return a lost bag full of valuables is soon picked up by the media, and Rahim is transformed into a minor celebrity, emblematic of the good morality of a faithful and pious man even in the worst of circumstances. As the film goes on, the small little lies which constitute the cracks in a grander truth begin to tear away at his story, and at his chances for salvation. As the story goes on, the layers of truth are peeled away, and the audience is left to question the nature of the morality of each actor caught up in the situation, to which the director himself passes no judgment. We are left to ruminate on the consequences of a man’s actions, and the film provides no clear cut answers. The resulting moral dilemma creates a heartbreaking scenario in which we are left to watch a man in utter desperation, restlessly moving in and out of hope and hopelessness with only a glimmer of a better life on the other side of his enormous obstacles. Amir Jadidi, the star of the film who plays Rahim, carries this stress and desperation on his shoulders agonizingly, evoking an innocence and brokenness which deepens the emotional quandaries of the film immensely. In the end, it is a deeply stressful and heartrending film, but one that is ultimately life-enriching in every sense.
9. Ema dir. Pablo Larraín
The term “hypnotic” at this point is a fairly oft-used superlative applied by mesmerized critics to a collection of films across the genre spectrum which garner a sense of intrigue or immersive-ness that supersedes that of the typical moviegoing experience. The descriptor does capture a certain feeling that is otherwise difficult to describe, yet its application is rarely true to the reality of the definition of the word. Chilean director Pablo Larrain’s Ema, however, is one of those rare exceptions, and one of the best examples. The film follows a young dancer (the titular Ema, played by Mariana Di Girolamo) and her partner and choreographer Gastón (the always brilliant Gael García Bernal), as they struggle with the aftermath of their inability to raise their adopted son, and their subsequent decision to give him back. Being that dance is central to the acts of the film, the film lives and dies on its score. In this regard, composer Nicolas Jaar’s score hypnotizes you instantly, nestling its way deep in your brain so as to draw the viewer further into the unraveling events of the story. Even months after I left the theater after watching it for the first time, the film’s music played on a loop in my head, goading me to return to revisit the film once again. As for the images and the story the film presents, it is ultimately the tale of a force of nature. One who has eschewed all notions of morality in order to right previous wrongs, and to mend her own broken heart shattered by regrets and the denial of motherhood. The titular Ema uses manipulation, sex, and fiery violence (both literally and metaphorically) with the goal of reuniting with her son. Interwoven in this story of dark unbridled determination are the enthralling images of Ema and her dance troupe, moving in unison through the streets of Valparaíso or a dance studio as if in a trance. Uniquely enough, all of these elements are formulated with a deeply melancholic tone in their roots, carried by the cinematography and performances from the actors. This results in a grander picture which is deeply subconsciously felt and understood beyond the restricted realm of language, into something more than words could describe. So you might as well just feel the music instead.
8. Licorice Pizza dir. Paul Thomas Anderson
Paul Thomas Anderson is one of the foremost masters of this generation of cinema, and with Licorice Pizza he continues to deliver. A nostalgia piece crafted in the image of the director’s childhood in the San Fernando Valley of the 1970s, the intrinsic pull of the film comes from its lively and lovingly recreated textures and sounds, and its inherent understanding of the culture of the time. The film feels incredibly light on its feet, very loose in the way that it flows from little drama to drama yet still meticulously constructed, everything having a clear purpose. In accessing the memories and textures of his adolescence, PTA captures the awkward line between childhood and adulthood, a line which cuts in both directions. This narrative is played out through the film’s two main characters: Gary, a fifteen year old child actor forced to put a foot in adulthood, and Alana, a lost twenty-something with little direction in life, a foot still in childhood. Gary is a hustler, constantly operating and pitching and making connections, attempting to work himself above his station as just a kid. Alana angrily pursues the next stage in life that she knows is expected of her, retreating to the freewheeling antics of Gary and his friends in an effort to escape the adult world, itself messy and juvenile in much darker ways, unsure of which world to inhabit. Their ensuing relationship is a complicated one, a push and pull of attraction that is less traditional and more of a result of a serendipitous conjunction of energies as either attempts to sort their life out. There is deep honesty and sincerity with which PTA treats this narrative and all of the characters of the film which allows an awkward and mismatched collection of characters and stories to coalesce into a grander whole. Ever the master of side characters, the bit-part roles that populate the whole runtime of the film end up stealing every scene they are in, especially Bradley Cooper, Skyler Gisondo, Sean Penn, Tom Waits, and Harriet Sansom Harris. All of these actors create these characters which only cross the paths of our two main characters briefly in glimpses, yet add a sense of life and variety to the film that allows it to craft its unique and engaging tonal blend. It is at times hilarious, energetic, relaxed, romantic, and somber, yet throughout these emotional shifts there is an underlying warmth originating from PTA’s love for the time and place that keeps the film from losing pace.
7. Dune dir. Denis Villeneuve
Dune is an absolutely enormous movie. The weight of its scale is palpable – the sheer temporal distance, the size of its megastructures, the giant spaceships seeming to crawl through lightyears of endless space, the endless desert full of deific colossal sandworms which lurk below its surface – the physicality of the film evokes the proper level of awe that a film of its scope and budget should (a feeling almost universally lost in modern blockbusters). Its score – another sumptuous Hans Zimmer joint – booms over these staggering images, rattling the creakiest corners of the theater and buzzing the very seat I found myself glued to. Its scale is further translated to its cast list, which is filled to the brim with giant Hollywood and foreign stars, brilliant character actors, legends of the past, and more, all of whom bring performances which are in utter tonal harmony for what the film needs at any given moment. Director Denis Villeneuve – a sort of journeyman-auteur who, in my estimation, has yet to miss – brings all of these aspects together into a product which relies very little on narrative exposition. Instead, he and DP Greig Fraser craft simultaneously intricate and grandiose images throughout, which translate the necessary tonal information the audience needs in a way that avoids compromising the pacing and structure of the film. The resulting combination of these aspects – an undoubtedly gargantuan task to pull off – is one that properly renders the significance of the ideas and narrative explorations of the story on the same scale of its sci-fi world, which is truly a marvel. It honestly feels like a revelation that this film exists at all. And, even still, this film is still only the first part of an ever-more expansive story. Something to give us hope for the future of a blockbuster cinema world which seems to be bogged down in endless comic book multiverse pablum.
(You can read Joe Lollo’s review of Dune here.)
6. The Green Knight dir. David Lowery
The Green Knight is a film, above all else, defined by its complete aesthetic perfection. An adaptation of a 14th-century Middle English chivalric poem, it is admittedly catered perhaps uniquely to my specific tastes, as someone who is endlessly intrigued by the aesthetics, politics, and architecture of the middle ages. Director David Lowery – a personal favorite of mine – shows he has an incredibly deep understanding of the peculiar brand of magic and spirituality which populates middle ages storytelling – a strange mixture of old christianity and paganism which lends fruit to the stunning images he is able to craft. The magic of the film feels quite real and matter-of-fact in the way that these characters would have thought it at the time, yet it still carries the intrigue and mystique which makes its mysteries so enthralling. The witches, wooden knights, giants, and spirits feel as alive and as a part of nature as anything else in the world of the film. In addition, Lowery stays true to the bizarre style of storytelling of these early tales, whilst imbuing them with images that feel as powerful and ethereal as stepping into another world. The cinematography engages in the contradictions of the contemporary aesthetics, defined both by barrenness and flourishing beauty in a manner which is difficult to describe yet is effortlessly captured without fail throughout the entirety of this film’s runtime. In order to retain this mystique, the film chooses to explain none of its mysteries (in keeping true to its source material) and restrict its dialogue to let the images speak for themselves, a decision which undoubtedly limits its audience but is ultimately perfect for the film. An amazing score from composer Daniel Hart and deep cast list leave no foot wrong throughout and serve the tone of the film perfectly as well. For me, it is something that inspires unabashed admiration and wonder, and I think back to its images constantly.
5. Azor dir. Andreas Fontana
Azor is a film that lives in the images that are not shown. It is both sumptuous and austere, revolving around characters with great power who speak in coded language, which simultaneously conceals and makes clear their intentions. The film is defined by its series of seemingly small and muted dramas which themselves shroud layers upon layers of power brokering, manipulation, threats, and violence, and continuously build upon one another in a dark spiral. This disquieting yet deeply intriguing journey is taken by Yvan de Wiel, a Swiss private banker on a business trip to Argentina with the intention of replacing his partner, who has gone missing in a flurry of hushed, mysterious rumors of his behavior. Deep in the throes of a genocidal far-right military junta backed by the US, the violence of the country is ever-present, yet it remains under the surface. In the elite circles in which Yvan travels, the mass disappearances perpetrated by the regime are not visible amongst those attending the horse races or the various high end parties gathered around swimming pools at luxurious estates. Nothing is ever stated so bluntly, even if it is known to all. Yvan’s purpose here is to stabilize his bank’s operations in the country following his partner’s disappearance – which is slowly revealed to potentially be a result of his own dissent against the forces in control – and to potentially seek out new opportunities. As a Swiss private banker, his trade is essentially in capital flight, in the looting of secondary country’s wealth at the behest of said country’s elite for fees and a small percentage. This takes him on a busy schedule meeting the country’s elite: priests, military men, business professionals, wealthy landowners, etc. The very backbone of the regime itself. The darkness of the political current, as a result, lies buried underneath throughout the film, only emerging in concealed references, shifting looks and body language, or groups of men crowded together in rooms discussing the machinations of a country utterly at their fingertips. An air of quiet violence hangs over the film throughout, the disquieting miasma building as Yvan delves deeper and deeper and gradually grows in his amorality. Despite how restrained the film is, its sense of intrigue and the profound evil has a level of growing intensity which surpasses even the wildest political thriller. The mystery of the film’s title is revealed in a one-off scene, by Yvan’s wife at a high society gala to a friend wondering about the couple’s peculiar little code language that they use with each other. She comes to the last word on the list. “Azor” she says, a frightening seriousness suddenly sweeping across her face as she moves on to the definition. “Be quiet. Careful what you say.”
4. Sardar Udham dir. Shoojit Sircar
Directed by Shoojit Sircar, this film follows the life of Udham Singh, a real historical figure who was an Indian socialist revolutionary in the first half of the 20th century. After witnessing the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, an event in which British colonial soldiers fired upon a large anticolonial protest in Amritsar, Punjab, killing hundreds or even thousands indiscriminately (the estimates vary), Udham travels to England after being released from prison. After biding his time for 21 long years, he finally achieves his ultimate goal and assassinates Michael O’Dwyer, the British governor of Punjab at the time who approved the massacre until the day he died. Due to the unusual narrative structure of this film, the description of the titular figure’s life story is not actually spoiler in context. In fact, the assassination actually happens relatively early on in the film. Sircar structures the film such that it jumps back and forth from the present to the past frequently, with a pacing that is somewhat rapid. This pacing is extremely effective in allowing the film’s 163 minute runtime to go by smoothly, and allows for greater emotional resonance in the moments in which this pace slows down.
Sardar Udham is one of the most emotionally intense films I have ever experienced. It radiates with anticolonial rage, refusing to shy away from the brutal violence of empire. In one excruciating sequence toward the end of the film, we are finally shown the full sequence of the massacre which has driven the events of the whole film. This almost hour-long sequence shows the whole massacre in extremely gory detail, as well as the aftermath in which Udham himself scrambles to drag the wounded to the closest hospital. In this sequence, the film endlessly drives the brutality and rage of the events in question home to the audience until there is no question of its nature. The film has no consideration of whether or not Udham’s actions are justified (the answer is obvious, in reality), having the courage to eschew the exploration of a theoretical gray-area which in reality does not exist. Instead, the film penetrates this vengeance with moments of startling yet bittersweet beauty, be it of the anti-imperialist and socialist revolutionary cause, or Udham’s past life and love, or moments of solidarity between different anticolonial movements. As a whole, the film acts as a treatise on the legitimate significance of historical events in real people’s lives, something which can be easily forgotten amongst the members of the first world who tend to lead lives in which history happens elsewhere. It is unflinching in the beauty it imbues upon Udham’s act of revolutionary and vengeful violence, and excruciating in its efforts to make its audience understand the horrors of the violence of imperialism upon those under its thumb. All of this is stunningly encapsulated in a moment towards the end of the film, as Udham is in prison awaiting his execution:
“This incident would have gone unnoticed by you.” Udham slowly whispers to a British policeman, bloody and battered from beatings and torture, his detached thousand-yard stare burning holes into the camera. “It is just a footnote in your history. Written in fine print in some book.” There is a quiet peace to his face. He knows he will meet his god soon.
3. The Worst Person in the World dir. Joachim Trier
The Worst Person in the World, on first glance, is simply a high-end romantic comedy in the arthouse vein – a festival darling and nothing more. In many ways, this is true. It’s a story about a young twenty-something woman named Julie in Oslo trying to find her way in life, hopelessly lost as she reluctantly trudges on towards her thirties. Her relationships along the way are the primary focus even as she flip-flops careers and passions, and there are conflicts, multiple suitors, great joys, and great losses as she moves along. All par for the course so far, undoubtedly a tried and true member of the age-old genre. Yet, the film possesses a certain freedom to it, one that elevates it beyond any typical notion of genre convention. The director, Joachim Trier, feels free to break the common tenets of the genre throughout, and feels no burden to stay confined within a consistent style of filmmaking. He is prone to artistic flourish, be it the literal stopping of time, or a sudden shift in the cinematography of a scene. This imbues the film with a unique energy, one that feels specifically identifiable with the director in question. To stick the film in this rigid category not only does a disservice to its style and cinematic ambience, but to its grander conceptual depth and emotionality as well. We are along for the ride as Julie pursues her passions, fails to follow through, and moves to something new, hoping to discover exactly what she is doing on this earth. She experiences loss, and grieves, and she is unable to move past it. She hurts those she loves, and is hurt by them. All the while constantly in a state of existential fear that life will never click, that she will never have the grand realization of what this is all for, or that she’s finally doing it right. Even beyond Julie’s story, the film ruminates on even more specific existential terrors, about the fear of getting to the end of one’s life and only seeing regrets. It examines the fear of becoming a person defined by what they have consumed – books, movies, music, etc. – and coming to a point where you have no future, and your past is defined by this collection of spurious things which have now lost all meaning, these things now failing to evoke the powerful emotions they once did. The film’s questions about regret, about the pain of missed opportunities and decisions in the past, are never answered outright. Instead, they dig deep into your soul, dredging up your own personal existential anxieties in rushes of emotion that are impossible to quell. And yet, the film does not leave you with a bad taste in the mouth. It would be a difficult and perhaps useless task to attempt to describe the strange cacophonous mixture of emotions which the film conjures as the credits roll, yet I do know that it finds a way, somehow, to be fulfilling, and enhancing force to the soul rather than a crushing one. On the whole, the film at its best represents a true snapshot of a life, in all of the myriad complexities, beauties, and fears that the word calls to mind.
2. Drive My Car dir. Ryusuke Hamaguchi
— “What can we do? We must live our lives.”
The words of Anton Chekhov’s seminal play Uncle Vanya echo throughout Japanese writer and director Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s newest work, Drive My Car, both literally and metaphorically. Our main character, Yusuke, a theater director who specializes in productions in which all of the actors recite their lines in different languages, is also a Chekhov specialist. His production of the play in his signature style ends up acting as the primary narrative arc of the film. This subdued three hour epic moves in and out of rehearsals and reading sessions, and as the film progressives we are invited to reassess the nature and intent of the prose. Each interaction and new revelation brings new context and deeper meaning to this work which lays at the foundation of the film itself, a reality that is reflected in Yusuke himself within the film. Yusuke’s method of having each character speak in a different language translates the nature of humanity’s hopelessly futile attempts to truly connect with another: an series of individuals monologuing at one another, unable to break through the barrier of language, an endless dialogue at one another rather than with one another. The result leaves us trapped in our own heads, replaying our own regrets and past traumas, unable to come up with the answer of how to proceed, of exactly how to continue living life. The soaring beauty of this film comes from its presentation of the piercing of this wall between us all, the few moments in which we are able to truly break through and find the value in life. Hamaguchi presents this to us most movingly in the relationships which break this bound. This is exemplified by the central relationship of the film, being that between Yusuke and his assigned driver, Misaki, a quiet 23 year old loner who happens to be the same age as Yusuke’s late daughter would have been. Their relationship remains restrained throughout – there are no grand flourishes of emotion – yet they gradually come to fill the great emptiness which seems to plague each character, helping each other make sense of their past, and find reasons to continue on. It’s a narrative arc which enriches the soul in an overwhelming fashion, breaking through the film’s cold exterior to relate some of the most stunningly beautiful moments in this year in cinema. The film also explores how art can break through this barrier as well, showing us things about ourselves that we are perhaps not ready to face.
Coming out of this film the second time, I felt reminded why I spend all this time watching movies. The profound sincerity of this film is so deeply moving – a reaffirmation of the value of cinema as a medium and the power it has to provide life-changing experiences. Drive My Car is a film that falls into the unique and highly exclusive collection of films which are able to evoke a set of emotions which you neither have the capacity nor desire to describe – films in which you are swept up in their very essence. These films are, in and of themselves, life affirming, regardless of their particular blend of emotionality, and Drive My Car is perhaps the best artistic manifestation of this reality.
“We’ll live through the long, long days, and through the long nights. We’ll patiently endure the trials that fate sends our way. Even if we can’t rest, we’ll continue to work for others both now and when we have grown old. And when our last hour comes, we’ll go quietly. And in the great beyond we’ll say to Him that we suffered, that we cried, that life was hard. And God will have pity on us. Then you and I … we’ll see that bright, wonderful, dreamlike life before our eyes. We shall rejoice, and with tender smiles on our faces, we’ll look back on our current sorrow. And then at last, we shall rest.”
1. The Card Counter dir. Paul Schrader
The Card Counter, legendary writer and director Paul Schrader’s latest attempt to recreate his own version of Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket (a Sisyphean task to which Mr. Schrader has arguably devoted his entire career), is first and foremost one of the most tonally perfect films ever made. Schrader’s signature blend of asceticism and self-isolation, intermittently interwoven with moments of surreal yet beautiful romanticism is deeply unique and deeply apt to the horrors of its subject matter. In this case, the subject matter in question are the crimes and brutality of the American empire, through the all-encompassing, historic crime of Abu Ghraib. The titular ‘card counter’ in this film is William Tell (played by Oscar Isaac), a former guard and torturer at Abu Ghraib, who ended up serving almost 10 years in prison for his crimes against humanity. His subsequent life has been one of rigid asceticism (very much alluding to the ancient religious sense, in line with Schrader’s particular intellectual fascinations), punishing himself for the ungodly horrors of his actions. His abstemious routine is thrown up in the air, however, when he meets La Linda (Tiffany Haddish), a backer who notices his skills and hopes to stake him in larger tournaments, and Cirk (Tye Sheridan), a young man whose father also went to prison for his actions in Abu Ghraib, who has subsequently dedicated his young life to making the higher-ups in the American national security state – who have escaped all punishment or oversight – meet violent ends. The ensuing story delves deeply into Tell’s past and his desire to right his wrongs by saving Cirk from the violence initiated all those years ago by the murderous American regime. We see flashbacks to Tell’s past in the prison, which utilize a disorienting ultra-wide fisheye lens and drown the audience with blaring metal music – used to create a sensory barrage on the victims of the torture and break down their defenses. These sequences are some of the most horrific simulated sequences I have ever seen on film. As the camera moves through the prison, we see naked men covered in feces sexually emasculated, attacked by rabid dogs, and beaten within inches of their lives. The sheer abomination of these images, which feel as if we are stepping into a literal circle of hell in the depths below, can only be eclipsed by the reality of the crimes themselves, all deliberately enshrined at the highest levels of power in the most powerful country on earth. These images are the manifestation of decades of post-war atrocities that the American state has waged on the rest of the world, killing millions and destroying the lives of millions upon millions more in a variety of conflicts and clandestine operations around the globe. All for the purpose of maintaining a system of American capitalist dominance over the entire earth. The film’s strange tonal concoction, which I described above, distills the vitriolic, shaking rage that the understanding of this reality evokes. Oscar Isaac’s brilliant performance, undoubtedly the best of the year by a considerable margin, carries a level of intensity and unseen history which propels the film into stratospheric territory. The darkness and violence that lies beneath the film lies almost entirely on his shoulders. Through him, Schrader’s own desire to save the younger generations from these older horrors is realized. Yet, even with all this pain and horror, there is a surreal yet extraordinarily beautiful love story that intermittently reveals itself in powerful flourishes of emotion, culminating in a grander whole which is deeply complex and wholly unique. With this, and Schrader’s previous effort First Reformed, Schrader seems to be putting together a canon of masterpieces ruminating on the horrors of America and capitalism in a grander existential sense, and I can only hope he continues. As William says to Cirk in a moment of sudden heightened intensity: