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.