The 2010s were a great decade for twee, quirky comedies that took pride in being off-kilter, which range from just about charming to gratingly cloying, but Richard Ayoade's beautiful, delicate coming-of-ager is so, so much more, delving deep under the surface to find great things. That was a joke about submersible vehicles. This is a film about what it's like to grow up in the shadow of a wealth of coming of age cinema, about accepting that sometimes life just isn't like the movies, and that's okay. Ayoade is a master storyteller, empathetic to his protagonist's struggles but unafraid to call him out on his dickish behaviour, and perfectly balancing indie-kid humour with genuine poignancy. Again, it's a tricky tightrope to walk without being superficial or pretentious, but Submarine does it so well, acknowledging that, despite all the growing he's doing, Oliver is still a kid, stupid, and headstrong and 100% driven by his feelings, There's no cynical detachment here, instead just a well told story about a kid realising just how unrealistic (and unhelpful) those big screen cool guys are. There's an awkwardness to Submarine that undercuts its polished cool. It doesn't waste its twee flourishes, instead tying them to the fundamental elements of its coming of age story, and the result is a film with great depth, with confidence and wisdom and insight. Submarine is a unique kind of wonderful, one that rings with an intensely powerful truth and cements Ayoade as a filmmaker who really gets the mechanics of cinematic storytelling and has a particular understanding of the legacy of the coming of age film
9. Inside Llewyn Davis
The Coen Brothers have put out some really great work this decade, but for me, nothing tops their cyclical tale of a folk singer just trying to make his way in the world. It's a bit slower than some of their other films, but I think that's to Inside Llewyn Davis' advantage. The trademark black humour is undeniably there, this time paired with melancholy, hopelessness and desperation. If that sounds bleak, then it's also not giving the film credit for its watchability. Oscar Isaac's titular musician is a dogged hero, someone who you really want to see succeed even though you know he won't, and that's the real heartbreak, because he is talented, but frustratingly unable to make it on his own. Realising that the film's structure is a perfect circle is part of its gloriously sobering genius. Without giving too much away, the ending, in which Llewyn Davis spots a more successful jester is a masterful sampling of history, one that embodies the existential horror of his stasis in a way that's really hard not to empathise with. And although it isn't a horror film, that bone deep uncertainty and insecurity of being an artist is the kind of existential dread that's impossible not to feel. It's a slow moving tunnel into the heart of a man, poignant and contemplative and connected to something really powerful. There's something so powerful and so heartbreaking in the film's exploration of failing at something that you're good at and passionate about, and the rawness and melancholy may not be fun to watch, but it is deeply, deeply moving
8. The Grand Budapest Hotel
It's quite possible that The Grand Budapest Hotel is the most Wes Anderson film that Wes Anderson ever Wes Andersoned. There's something that's very him in the story of a concierge desperately trying to keep his singular vision intact, with the carelessness of others doing the same thing highlighting both his skill and his imminent extinction. As a story that fits into the larger landscape of cinema, there's an awful lot of weight to it, as a passionate argument for delicacy, care and specificity. It rejects the laziness of modern blockbuster fare, instead championing cinema as a medium for uniquely personal storytelling. And a what a story it is. A dryly funny, heartfelt tale of a friendship complicated by a crime that's a story in a story in a story in a story, rendered irresistible by Anderson's trademark flourishes. But, like with all of his films, nothing here feels superficial, every quirk driven by that indelible passion for film, for aesthetic specificity and layered, rhythmic dialogue and a uniquely cinematic kind of storytelling. It is, in many ways, the ultimate Wes Anderson film, and however you feel about him will probably be reflected in this movie. It is, moreso than anything else this decade, the film that advocates most passionately for detailed, unique filmmaking, on that proves the old adage that if you nail the specific, the universal will follow
7. Leave No Trace
Leave No Trace was without a doubt one of the standout films of last year, and one that was guaranteed a spot near the top when listing the decade's best. It's kind of the anti-Grand Budapest Hotel, a film that tells a simple story in a bare-bones way, but that's what Debra Granik does best, and seeing her do so much with so little in Leave No Trace is just so cool. There's a huge reservoir of emotion under the story, but the film is never obvious in how it conveys that. There's so much power in what remains unsaid, about trauma and love and finding a sense of belonging, and all of that is communicated through gestures and looks and dialogue that feels natural. Ben Foster and Thomasin McKenzie are note perfect here, with a father-daughter dynamic that feels genuine and believable. The end of the film (which won't be spoiled here) is such an utterly emotional moment, one that absolutely resonates because it feels 100% grounded in truth, like something that, in spite of the weight and difficulty attached to it, has to happen, and would happen. And that's the film's masterstroke. Granik has created a film that is natural and real feeling; totally stripped back aesthetically and emotionally, hiding nothing behind showy flourishes or stylistic fussiness, instead making her presence as a storyteller feel minimal and quiet, with an almost documentarian approach. The result is something truly beautiful, a story about the lesser seen side of contemporary America that feels fresh and real, finding meaning in the patterns of a life lived in flux, and turning it into something really powerful
6. The Florida Project
Sean Baker is one of the most exciting filmmakers working today, because all of his films feel like something that's never been seen. Tangerine is great (and a great Christmas film), but The Florida Project is an absolute standout. Vibrant, colourful, swelling with heart and pretty much emotional dynamite, this has got to be one of the most potently affecting films of the decade. Baker has created the rare film about kids that perfectly emulates the feeling of childhood; of creating joy and fun out of nothing, of not being restricted by worries or responsibilities, of being totally carefree, and he turns that feeling into something truly infectious. All of the drama is largely peripheral, deliberately sidelined to emphasise the perspective we're seeing this story told from. And that perspective is definitely Florida Project's greatest strength, because everything we see is filtered through the eyes of this kid; we see it how she sees it, and so when Baker suddenly puts the drama front and centre in the third act, it becomes one of the most emotional endings this decade. If you watch it and don't feel something, then there's a good chance you may not be human. It's just such an electric film, vibrant, and pulsing with empathy and humour and fun and sadness and love. It's a film that is deeply rooted in emotion, one that rejects detachment and irony, instead putting you, the viewer right there in the centre and daring you not to get involved. It's a shot of pure emotion, exciting and devastating and so absolutely human
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