Alex Saveliev

Like all of the renowned filmmakers’ best movies, this faithful adaptation of the Cormac McCarthy novel hasn’t aged a bit, its poetry and beauty growing starker, its themes gaining more relevance. An edge-of-your-seat thriller and an elegiac, gut-wrenching meditation on the passing of time and generational devolution, the now-classic feature showcases the brothers’ skills at their most stripped-down and rawest.

Slight but likable, Changeland deals with moving on and the healing powers of travel and friendship. Forgetting Sarah Marshall’s low-budget cousin, it’ll hopefully finally establish Green as more than just the “Zip It!” guy.

Hit the Road is a gut-punch of a film, strikingly gorgeous, as tender as a mother’s touch, as uncompromising as an aggrieved father. Panahi is acutely, painfully aware of the infinite nuances of family, how humans interact, and how to slow down the pace for things to sink in, or simply take a breather, or even sing a song. It’s the best film I’ve seen this year.

The laughs in Anora come in so fast and frequently that they almost eclipse the underlying tension; things are constantly on the edge of exploding, amusement on the verge of anxiety.

What We Leave Behind is about generations passing on their hard-earned wisdom. It offers an insider’s glimpse into our neighbor’s culture. Some may find its lack of emotional peaks – save for, perhaps, the ending – exasperating, while others may regard it as a well-edited and shot home movie. But look a little deeper. There’s real poetry here.

The Father is about the suffering of old age, the importance of connection, the sick encroaching of an affliction, and ultimately, death. It doesn’t sugarcoat things, despite its sugarcoated exterior. Like its French counterpart, Michael Haneke’s Amour, it’s not an easy watch, but it’s a necessary one, a film that examines the very essence of our humanity.

Cruz effortlessly holds the screen in a tricky performance: phlegmatic and ambivalent, radiating charisma and sophistication, making you feel for her despite some morally dubious acts.

The result, while flawed, is glorious: majestic, atmospheric, visually stunning, led by two charismatic leads. Scott, at 86, shows the young ‘uns how it’s done.

Wolfe's movie functions as an ode to Black culture, Black music, Black art; as a scathing treatise on the obstacles Black people have had to overcome (and are still overcoming) to be seen and heard and respected; as a celebration of jazz; as a showcase for two stellar performances and a majestic farewell to one of our greatest young actors.

Like its central performance, Hope manages to convey and dissect so much with (seemingly) so little: the way real struggle makes us realize how much we love, truly see, and trust each other; the hidden reserves of human perseverance in the face of certain death; the healing power of art; and hope, of course. Hope and despair give life meaning, one unable to exist without the other.

No wonder that cinematic auteurs like Martin Scorsese and Oren Moverman produced Diane. It brings to mind films like Kenneth Lonergan’s You Can Count On Me, produced by Scorsese, or Moverman’s Time Out of Mind (which also dealt with memories, identity and the limits of human compassion). Jones may lack a little of the former’s humor or the latter’s visual artistry, but perhaps it’ll come later. The hard skills are all here.

A languorous and poetic study of faith, grief, love, death and regret, set against the disheveled, but gorgeously framed, backdrop of Lisbon’s ghetto.

In his inevitable next feature, Cronenberg could use more, dare I say, logic and warmth, to counterbalance all the madness and viscera. Otherwise, gorehounds and cineastes: dive right into this viscous pool.

Dispenses with all the flourishes and focuses purely on the story and the characters, the gentle humor and the heartrending moments. It all leads up to a wonderful final scene, a knockout punch that cements MacLachlan as one of cinema’s indie greats.

With unparalleled verisimilitude, Hirori captures both the helplessness and the resolve it takes to see past it, to hold on to a glimmer of hope, faint as it may be. Sabaya will leave you scarred, its images scorched forever into your mind.

I can go on and on about the multiple tiny lightning bolts Hansen-Løve catches in her bottle. Arguably the biggest lightning she caught was hiring Seydoux.

With unprecedented access to overfilled, frenzied hospital rooms, as well as quarantined homes, Heineman makes one cringe at every prolonged beep of the vitals monitor, delves right into the patients’ eyes, their very souls. He imbues the documentary with the same sense of urgency and empathy that were evident in his previous docs Cartel Land and City of Ghosts. A tough watch but a necessary one, The First Wave marks the finest cinematic account of the COVID-19 pandemic yet.

The Universal Theory works in fits and starts but is bound to leave the audience not entirely convinced by its logic.

Hadaway indicts this country’s misguided preoccupation with being first, scrutinizing America’s twisted values via the prism of her uber-competitive protagonist. As a result, The Novice officially claims the title of The Best Film About Rowing Ever Made.

Apart from the two leads, there’s little warmth or humanity to be found here, the film purposefully cold and distancing, much easier to admire than to love. That said, there’s plenty to admire in this sad, contemplative journey into the heart of darkness.

The Truffle Hunters is about sustaining tradition in a world that seems to (d)evolve too fast. It's about mortality, but it's never morbid. It's about fungi, but it's never dull. It takes you away from the hustle and bustle of the contemporary, social-media-driven society and plunges you into the woodsy stillness of Northern Italy. You don't have to love truffles to crave a little bit of that beautiful solitude.

It’s refreshing to see intelligent teens (Molly and Amy nonchalantly switch to conversing in Chinese at one point) in a film that doesn’t resort to easy, scatological humor for laughs. In a world mired by conflict and dark entertainment that mirrors it, Booksmart takes a somewhat radical approach by endorsing a bit of light-hearted anarchy.

Stripped away off all privileges, a shell of a human remains, a carcass, and that glimmer of hope that keeps one going is the driving nucleus of the lyrical and timely To a Land Unknown.

A modern-day Apocalypse Now, a visual and aural trip that’s as abstract and surreal as it is stark and realistic, Sirat urges us to embrace each other, as the world swells and throbs around us.

Forman’s classic has not aged one bit. In fact, it’s become more relevant than ever, considering today’s tumultuous climate.

Look at Therapy Dogs as a cautionary tale, one bound to horrify unaware parents. Eng doesn’t seem to give a f**k whether you respond to it or not. Good for him.

Klondike plunges you into the midst of a nightmarish life, on the brink of utter and complete collapse, leaving you wrung and dry. Not a light weekend watch, then, nor a particularly original or subtle one – but artfully produced, deeply affecting cinema nevertheless.

Sirocco’s world resembles a phantasmagoric dream by Antoni Gaudí.

The exposition-heavy, cluttered finale, wherein the plethora of thematic elements collide and threaten to implode, almost undoes the painstakingly built-up sense of melancholy/paranoia. Yet it’s refreshing to see a wide release aspire to be something more than just another creature feature, slasher, or zombie gore-fest. Antlers has something to say. It should’ve just spoken less, and more eloquently.

An injection of self-aware humor here and there would’ve been welcome. Yet Blood on Her Name is a fine showcase for its star, and a sturdy debut from a director to watch.

Silly and scary, atmospheric and disjointed, I Trapped the Devil showcases Lobo’s affection for the genre. He wisely avoids falling into the “gore” trap, instead relying on characterization and our fear of the unknown to raise the hair on the back of your neck.

An acute reflection of the current refugee crisis, minimalist and poetic in its approach, Transit, unlike its protagonists, seamlessly reaches its destination: a conclusion so heartbreaking, it will resonate for weeks after.

With an authenticity rarely seen in contemporary cinema, it examines the lives of those that struggle to survive in ecosystems that function according to their own decrepit principles.

Here’s a film so quietly visceral it can sear through metal, “quietly” being the keyword. Don’t come in expecting a no-holds-barred assault on the senses. Nor is this a metal music extravaganza. The bulk of the film is silent, deliberate. We are thrust inside Ruben’s mind to hear what he hears, a pulsating, muted nothing, which is then jarringly contrasted with everyday sounds when we’re yanked back out of his head. The sound mixing and editing are nothing short of phenomenal in Sound of Metal.

What keeps you rapt is that permeating, subtle feeling of sadness, of bitterness and regret. Whether it was an intentional choice in a “comeback” documentary remains debatable – but that’s what truly works about it, is its driving momentum.

It’s all very granola and sentimental, a path well-trodden.

Warren’s film may leave you bruised, but don’t let that stop you from seeking it out.

Clearly a deeply personal project for the director, it radiates utmost sincerity, rendering the more baroque parts palatable, if not as affecting as they were clearly intended to be. Within 90 despondent minutes, Dante encapsulates a plethora of themes and ideas, and that by itself merits plaudits.

Lost Illusions is certainly nothing we haven’t seen before, at least narratively. But it’s done very well. Sometimes, you just feel like having a good ol’ soufflé.

The Proposal explores the ethics behind copywriting art, but it also sees its artist go to radical extremes that some may find equally questionable. It will provoke discussions and arguments aplenty. What’s hard to argue is that the documentary itself is nothing short of spectacular: a sublime and unforgettable work of art. Barragán would be proud.

While decent in capable directorial hands – or as a supporting character – based on the evidence on display here, Carano doesn’t seem quite capable of carrying a film yet, let alone pull a dreary feature like Daughter of the Wolf out of the murk.

In a brave move, bound to startle viewers used to conventional structures, Shults shifts gears, subtly layering shades of complexity without ever weighing the film down.

In a parallel dimension, perhaps, most movies are this well-made. Watch Parallel, and then watch it again to untangle all of its little nuances.

On the surface, the plot is simple, but the nuances, keen observations, silences between words, the humanity of it all, and the ease with which the filmmaker effortlessly navigates turbulent currents subtly transform the feature into a complex drama. There are no heroes or villains, no good or bad people, just folks trying to figure themselves and each other out.

Malick’s masterpiece makes a great argument that it’s the little-known heroes, as opposed to the ones we trumpet as such, that truly form the ethical foundation upon which our society still creakily rests. Malick is a true cinematic maestro, conducting the orchestra of life. A Hidden Life is breathtaking in every aspect.

Utilizing never-before-seen archival footage, expertly-rendered animated interludes, and unprecedented access to those involved in the crisis, Kopple strings it all together into a gripping and emotional whole, like a true master craftsman. I will not be surprised if the living legend brings another golden statuette home this year.

Foul-mouthed, unapologetic, visceral, and authentic, Firecrackers also happens to be sharply edited, its narrative complemented by Casey MQ’s gorgeous electronic ambient/drone score.

Does it lose focus from time to time? Sure, and its cumulative effect suffers because of it, but Drljača nails the little moments that matter.

What does come as a surprise, somewhat, is Fincher’s departure from his clinical precision; he adopts a looser approach here, no less precise, but much warmer than, say, the steel-blue, fierce indictment that is The Social Network. “Photographed in Hi-Dynamic Range” to approximate the look and feel of a late-1930’s feature, Mank is incredibly dense, lush, and extravagant.

A call to action, a sobering first-hand look at the grueling ordeals refugees face, a story of love persevering against all odds, and a visceral, real-life thriller, Midnight Traveler is a unique cinematic experience that will hopefully snap us all to reality.

Do has created a tense, heartbreaking ode to a tragic time; a deeply personal story, superbly visualized.

The stark contrast between the way-too-confident-for-his-age Jake and the introverted, insecure Ben underscores how identity at that age calcifies in opposition: one boy armoring himself with swagger, the other shrinking under its weight.

An insightful character study, and an absolute must-watch for Saint-Laurent fans – or anyone with a remote interest in the fashion industry.

The female-centric, lo-fi South Mountain is an excellent example of how little a budget matters when all the other puzzle pieces are in place. We need more cinema like this.

Sometimes we need to bask in each other’s demons, to exorcise them and achieve a semblance of redemption. Ree traces such a relationship; like an evocative painting, The Painter and the Thief will remain engraved in your memory.

As it progresses – and Smith cunningly makes it feel like the film attains a life of its own, guided not by directorial hands but by fate itself – Sr. becomes a touching ode to a formidable individual whose countercultural comedies influenced generations of filmmakers.

Streaks of sadism emphasize the prevailing humanity, as do the borderline-psychedelic brushstrokes: the intentionally murky nightmarish visuals, Ariel Marx’s nervous score, the bleak set design, the impassivity with which cinematographer Chananun Chotrunngroj’s camera observes the two women’s descent into madness.

It’s a thrilling, poignant accomplishment, as uncompromisingly bleak as it is epic in scope.

While the sequences involving Robert attempting to confront his dying wife are certainly heart-rending (perhaps a tad too forcefully), the movie’s most sublime moments happen in the present, when Putnam focuses on the man’s recovery. The bits where Robert encounters the insects he’s after are as magical and ephemeral as said butterflies.

By turns horrific and hilarious, touching and repulsive, it showcases West Africa as an emerging force in contemporary cinema.

Once attuned, you’ll be rewarded with a sharply funny and oddly heartbreaking, albeit clumsily structured, indictment of our government... Armstrong’s razor-sharp trademark one-liners go a long way in saving this Day.

Islands is as effective, familiar, and quiet as a microwave.

The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs contains many such moments of scintillating, mysterious splendor yet doesn’t entirely fulfill its lofty ambitions.

Polley attempts to tackle the issue from multiple angles – how male toxicity is passed down to helpless youth by their elders, for example – but ends up running in circles.

A grueling affair, purposefully so, bringing to mind Steve McQueen’s similarly relentless 12 Years a Slave. There’s not much respite to be found in those bloodied waters, nary a buoy to grasp.

An indictment of a regime but also a look at the strength that perseveres despite the most dire circumstances, this film, and its lead star, deserve all the upcoming love at the award circuit… if there’s any justice left in Hollywood, that is.

Marona’s Fantastic Tale gently and poetically deals with heavy themes like mortality, solitude, and loss, but manages to be suitable viewing for the entire family. It reiterates that the love our dogs have for us is unconditional and that we shouldn’t regard them as accessories or temporary means of respite. It’s also a phantasmagoric feast for the eyes. Seek it out.

The filmmaker performs an astounding feat of maintaining the perfect balance between self-awareness, alienation, warmth, comedy, and pathos. Apples is a singular experience.

Mendes finishes things on a graceful, open-ended note. He adeptly handles unabashed romanticism and raw grief, optimism and hopelessness, significantly aided by Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor’s soft piano score. The music peaks during the film’s most fervent moments, both violent (a protest during the climax) and tender (our heroes climaxing in each other’s embrace).

Supremely entertaining and hilarious, First Love will melt your brains, punch you in the gut and leave your hearts a-flutter.

While maybe not top-tier Jarmusch, the film certainly marks his most mature effort to date.

The fact that it purports to function as a not-so-thinly-veiled parable about the limitlessness of sexuality, gender fluidity, and the marginalized makes it that much more unbearable.

Political intrigues, potential murder plots – oh, and Putin’s rise-to-power and consequent 18-year-reign – Gibney serves it up, warts and all.

Polsky packs a lot into the film’s slim 80-minute running time. It’s dense but never overwhelming, presenting facts and anecdotes in a coherent, intuitive, supremely entertaining fashion.

Although Soderbergh complicates his cinematic dish with too many flavors, No Sudden Move still offers plenty of bites to savor.

Don’t come in expecting high-stakes melodrama, soul-twisting resolutions, or fiery exchanges. This is one of those meditative films about a fragment of life, wherein we find distinct familiarities. It demands that we slow down and appreciate its leisurely pace, its elegiac/humorous tone – and primarily, its lead performance.

The true-to-life repartee between the leads – at times tender, at others snappy, one minute heated, brutally cold the next – is a joy to behold.

Though Farewell Amor is not a “dance movie", it’s primarily about that moment when we dance - when everything else falls away, Amor takes over, and we bid our troubles farewell.

The two actors are bound to be showered with awards, as is the production design, the polished script, etc. But there’s no intrigue, no real substance beneath all the gloss.

Whether you like blues or not, you’ll appreciate the musicianship on display here. Inspired and inspiring, Satan & Adam will make you thank the heavens for this legendary duo.

A reminder of the importance and intimacy of literature, a meta-study of art vs. fabrication, an indictment of cultural appropriation/racial stereotypes, our increasingly digitized world and entitled generation, The Plagiarists is also an ode to how much can be done with very little. Parlow and his crew knock it out of the park.

Ozon knows his camera placements, musical cues, and, of course, actors, and here he barely steps wrong, pulling us into the narrative, even while dialing back on his usual extravagance.

By simply witnessing the grandeur of the sea, by allowing us to glimpse that symbiosis between ocean and universe, the film ends up resonating powerfully, a feast that will stimulate both the eye and the cerebral cortex.

There may be a lot going on here, but none of it sticks; there’s no momentum or a sense of purpose. In other words, Swift fails to achieve lift-off, over and over.

It feels timely and urgent, and its phenomenal young heroine ensures it doesn’t become overly mawkish, preachy, or prosaic.

Like its Russian hero, it aims for the stars and at times reaches exhilarating moments of weightlessness.

He and Côté write an ode to human resilience; they compose a soliloquy about lost identities; they paint a portrait of people seeking meaning, guidance, warmth. The result is a soulful cinematic treatise on the gradual, painful loss of a city’s soul.

The dialogue is biting, crisp, smart, and frequently heartbreaking. It’s disappointing, then, that the narrative drags in places, particularly in the middle stretch. Brevity is key here; it all just becomes too much.

Audiences have grown so accustomed to nonstop thrills that the film does feel like a relic of sorts; they don’t make ’em like this anymore.

An ode to the artist and his city, Jay Myself may just make you stop and recognize beauty in a random light pattern, or in the way dust blankets an old photo.

An elegiac, minimalist fable, Utama is about many things: global warming, survival, our connections to each other, our priorities. It’s the silences that propel the narrative forward, the wide-open spaces that sear themselves into the mind. But hope prevails.

What really buoys the feature is the acting from its two leads, whose chemistry absolutely sparks.

Resembling a gradual immersion into a fever dream, the film slyly pays tribute to surrealist greats like Alejandro Jodorowsky and Dario Argento (“presented by” the latter director, it wears the tag proudly), yet also introduces a unique new talent with a fresh, distinct vision.

Kudos to Max for conjuring genuinely unsettling, Boschian images with a limited budget.

Never Gonna Snow Again says so much with so little: how thinly shielded these people are from the encroaching doom, how said doom is brought about by utter ignorance (an extended shot of a tree being devoured by metallic jaws scars the soul), and how this distance from the realities of the world manifests itself in their distance from each other.

This is one intensely-flavored meal that begs to be swallowed in a single bite. Compliments to the chef.

Like the inferno it depicts, Laxe’s film casts an entrancing spell.

Scenes involving Anne Hathaway in particular land with a painful thud. In an attempt to flesh out the “adoring, supporting wife” role, Haynes shoots himself in the foot, bringing much attention to an underdeveloped character, who, despite all the pseudo-feminist speeches, amounts to, yes, the “adoring, supporting wife.”