Top 10 Episodes of 2019

Just a quick follow-up to my favourite shows of 2019, I wanted to zero in on my favourite episodes of the year that was. 2019 was a great year for individual episodes of TV. This list is specifically focusing on the episodes, ignoring the overall quality of the season (although all of these are good), and just celebrating what makes these hours and half hours so great. I'm also not ranking these, because they're so good, and so different from each other, that I don't really know where I'd start.  Spoiler warning for every show on this list, because I can't get into why these episodes are so great without spilling some serious details. Apart from that, I reckon we're good to go!

The Face of Depression (Bojack Horseman)

It's interesting how Bojack went from a funny show about a talking horse to one of the most important pieces of television that discussed the issue of mental health with heart and honesty, something mirrored in this season's seventh episode. The sixth season's first half was all about forgiveness, and so Bojack's nationwide journey to make amends with the people in his life, most of all himself, was something that resonated deeply. This was Bojack finally finding some comfort in his life, some stability in a new teaching job. He finally began to come to terms with himself, accepting that he's getting older and that his life is a work in progress. It was poignant and satisfying, finding pleasure in small wins and gradually acknowledging that Bojack is getting better. Slowly, but he is getting there. Not to mention Mr. Peanutbutter finally getting his crossover episode, an earnest payoff to a running joke that actually packs so much satisfaction. The Face of Depression is a collection of moments that remind our hero that no matter how far he falls, it's never to late to keep trying to come back

You're Mine (Killing Eve)

Death hangs over every character in Killing Eve, and it finally struck in a big way in the second season finale. From the satisfyingly gory dispatching of Villanelle's handler to Hugo's grim fate bearing a grim reminder of the consequences of espionage, the body count skyrocketed in this episode, but each one served to deepen the show's stylish, macabre obsession with reminding characters of their own mortality. It was capped off in typically brazen style when they did the unthinkable, actually having Villanelle kill Eve. I think. Whether or not this was a fakeout remains to be seen, but one thing's for sure, no show revels in toying with the fragility of its character's fates quite like this one. You're Mine was an electric reminder of what Killing Eve can do at its most wicked, playing with the viewer in such an addictively evil manner, and I wouldn't have it any other way

Pandemonium (The Good Place)

It's odd for a show to have such high stakes when all of the characters are, y'know, dead since the first episode, but Pandemonium plays with this idea, using Chidi's heartbreaking sacrifice as a way of making the consequences resonate. It's not a death, but it is a character we've come to love being completely wiped simply because it's the most practical thing to do. Funny and clever as the show is, this episode proved that The Good Place had some weighty, genuinely resonant emotional stakes, and was able to provide a moment that was so overwhelming in its quiet tragedy. True he wasn't going, but he wasn't going to be Chidi anymore either, and that was the problem, for us and for Eleanor. The third season may have been fairly weak overall, but it went out on a dynamite note, a punch in the gut that unravels the things that need to be put aside for the greater good

Ariadne (Russian Doll)

Russian Doll scrambled through its existentialism in such a hypnotically funny way, but it did this with such verve that it was going to take a serious amount of gonzo universe exploration to end it right. And that's exactly what Ariadne did in its twin-timeline reveal, finally letting the newly changed Nadia and Alan out of the loop and into their realities.... only to reveal that the versions of them we've been following have actually been in two entirely separate universes. It could have gone too far into cosmic mindbendingness, but it remembers the crucial thing that made Russian Doll work, the focus on the cynical yet spirited efforts of two people who are just trying to keep going. Their efforts to save each other gave the show a chance to focus on the progress made through repetition, and the result is typically weird, scathingly funny and utterly immersive, made even better by the quietly moving reminder that we're not as alone in the world as we think we are

Episode 1 (Fleabag)

"This is a love story", our bloodied heroine assures us as she welcomes herself back into our lives, and nearly the entirety of this first episode was spent following her attempts to navigate an impossibly awkward family dinner. It was like cringe-inducing theatre, by turns funny and gut-wrenching, but made increasingly interesting by the introduction of the Hot Priest. The dialogue was well and truly weaponised here, questions and comments used to probe and wound. It was here when the secrets and lies of these people continually threatened to rise to the surface and deepen the chaos, something that the maestro that is Phoebe Waller-Bridge both laughs at and lets resonate. I honestly could have gone with any of the second season's gorgeously realised chapters, but nothing felt as dangerous or electric as this, a near perfect reintroduction to everyone's favourite foul-mouthed fourth wall-breaker. This was the start of something special, with an energy that is as dynamic and cutting as anything you were likely to see on TV in 2019

The Trial (What We Do in the Shadows)

There are so many vampire stories out there, and What We Do in the Shadows' seventh episode was a gleefully meta riff on almost all of them. Tilda Swinton, Danny Trejo, Wesley Snipes, Dave Bautista, Evan Rachael Wood and even Viago, Vladislav and Deacon from the original film made appearances here, in one of the most unexpectedly hilarious moments in the most unexpectedly hilarious show of the year. It was an out of nowhere delight, so deftly written, balancing cleverness and silliness to create something so wonderfully funny. Nobody could have seen this one coming, and yet that's why it works so well, revelling in its cheerfully unusual assembly of pop-culture's favourite bloodsuckers. Joyously irreverent and wickedly witty, The Trial turned the show's worldbuilding into the most deftly meta joke imaginable, climaxing in an escape from a well that's as brazenly ridiculous as this show gets.

The Sauna Test (Stranger Things)

I loved how much Stranger Things' third season leaned into the horror of the show, and nowhere was this more apparent than in the gang's desperate attempt to prove that Billy was possessed by the Mind Flayer. Serious Bodysnatcher vibes were evoked as Hawkins' resident scumbag led a town-wide assimilation by a shadowy force, but the real highlight was the titular sauna test, where Dacre Montgomery took things to the next level. Watching Billy desperately succumb to the Flayer's dark powers was stunning stuff, perfectly personified by Montgomery, undeniably terrifying but all the more compelling because he himself is terrified. The plotting was ace here too, as the town-wide possession marched closer and closer to all encompassing horror. This was the season that gave Billy new, previously unexplored depths, and it was in this episode in particular that a potentially one-note bully character was given so much depth. It was stress-inducing brilliance that was absolutely made by Billy's sensational showcase of his Mind Flayer-influenced darkness

Episode 4 (Years and Years)

Years and Years was sharp, deeply poignant viewing from the beginning, but the fourth episode, following Daniel and Viktor's desperate attempt to get back into the UK was as hauntingly relevant as any episode of TV in 2019. It was breathless, tense and depressingly plausible, climaxing in a heart wrenching drowning and a soul-shattering phone call. This was an episode that explored the dark realities of an impossible to ignore issue, cementing Years and Years as an unmissable piece of present-tense dystopia. This was one of the most important episodes of television in years, pulling no punches in its dark prophecy. It brings to life the most depressingly relevant of post-Brexit issues in hope of starting a conversation that needs to be had. It's among the finest work that Russell T. Davies has ever done, astonishing in its white-hot skewering of the horrors of now

The Curse (Derry Girls)

Picking the best episode of Derry Girls' second season is a fool's errand, so I'll just choose the one that made me laugh the most. Going from a wedding to a wake, the episode followed the gang as they bake, accidently distribute and eventually try (and fail) to destroy a batch of drugged scones. This was one of many, many comic highlights here, in one of the most delightfully quotable episodes of the show ("I've seen Goodfellas like 20 times"), that also included intense sandwich-making, a stoned Granda Joe, and an unfathomably boring anecdote from Uncle Colm. That last one in particular leads to one of the funniest moments of the show, the painfully awkward conversation between Colm and Sister Michael ("Am I in Hell?"). The Curse is full of the delightful, razor sharp and expertly paced comedy of the show. What's really great about this episode is just how much is in it. In 22 minutes, Derry Girls wrings a huge amount of stone-cold hilarity from not one but two incredibly surreal family gatherings, with an ending that is so wonderfully awkward but so absolutely distinctive, done in a way that only this show can

The Happiness of All Mankind (Chernobyl)

Chernobyl's division into five individual chapters, each one focusing on a different aspect of the response to the tragedy was a fantastic structure, letting the show really explore everything its portraying. The best one is also the toughest, showing not just the evacuation of the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone and the mass killing of all of its contaminated animals but also the efforts to clear the roof of the plant. Like the show as a whole, The Happiness of All Mankind was unflinching in its content, but in showing the harrowing reality of how a crisis must be responded to, it became something so utterly astonishing. It urges the audience to not look away, to realise the brutal but absolutely real truth and the centre of the episode and going on to explore why it matters. Barry Keoghan is excellent here as a civilian drafted to exterminate all of the areas animals, bringing to life a sobering portrayal of innocence lost. It was far from an easy watch, and it was the episode of this show that I struggled the most to watch, but it was the kind of singular, absolutely necessary viewing that defines why Chernobyl as a series is so important

My Thoughts on Jojo Rabbit

I've been aware of Jojo Rabbit pretty much since it was announced, and the more I heard about it, the more it really excited me. I mean Taika Waititi? Nazi satire? Taika Waititi as Hitler in a Nazi satire? I'm in! He's one of the funniest voices in cinema, and his comedies always rate highly for me, so needless to say, I was very much anticipating Jojo Rabbit. I have to say though, I'm kind of surprised by the backlash to it. I mean with a filmmaker like this doing an idea like this, it's going to be divisive, but some of the comparisons have been kind of crazy. I mean, calling it this year's Green Book? Not even close. I can see why this film might not work for everyone, because I mean it's Taika Waititi making a film where he plays a 10 year-old boy's imaginary friend who is also Hitler, but I'll admit, I have difficulty understanding anyone who says that it's an objectively bad film. But I digress. I'm not here to argue, or to respond to this movie's critics, because if Jojo Rabbit doesn't work for you, that's cool, I get it. But this story of a Hitler obsessed kid living with his mother in the Second World War finding his worldview totally turned on its head when he finds a Jewish girl hiding in the walls of his house kind of blew me away with all the force of an accidentally detonated grenade. So much so that I just kind of want to list off all the reasons I think its amazing, because I really do. I'll give a warning when I get into spoilers, because the greatest things in this film are best experienced blind, so keep an eye out for warnings when they happen

1) The comedy

I mean it should go without saying, but this film is jam-packed with jokes. They're as spirted and irreverent as you'd expect from Taika, but what I love is that this movie always remembers what it's laughing at, and why comedy is an important tool. It's used to undermine the a regime that teaches people to hate, and to outline how ridiculous some of these ideas are. Waititi's performance as a ten-year old's imagined version of Hitler is perfectly silly, doing the Mel Brooks thing of reducing this man to his most absurd elements, completely transforming him to the most ridiculous version of himself and urging an audience to laugh at him in the hope of this kind of hate never being taken seriously enough to spread like this ever again. And if that sounds heavy, then it's not giving enough credit to how energetic and entertaining this film is with its laughs. Good physical comedy and some of the funniest dialogue of the year, it's spirited and charming and well delivered, sometimes dry, sometimes dark and usually absolutely ridiculous, with pretty much every joke hitting the mark. The amount of jokes-per-scene is crazy, and the mix of big comic setpieces and individual funny lines is excellently done. It's sharp and it's silly, sometimes providing relief from the tension and sometimes just reminding you that it's good to have a laugh. But it also knows when to stop laughing, which brings me to...

2) The tone

This is obviously a comedy, but the really impressive thing here is how Waititi brings the dramatic moments to life. With a subject matter like this, it's all about knowing when to crack jokes and when to just let the moment sit, and that's absolutely what this movie does. The jokes run all throughout the film, but by easing back and examining the real world horror and the effect of hate on an impressionable mind, Waititi is reminding us why stories about hate matter, and by using story beats that are in turns purely comedic and absolutely serious, he's telling this story in a way that feels flexible and nuanced. The heavy moments here are given the right amount of weight, and he resists undercutting that with a joke. The tone was my big issue with Thor: Ragnorok, where any remotely serious moment was subverted with comedy, to the point where it stops being surprising and starts being a complete tonal mess. It's weird, because it's something that Boy excelled at, so I worried that he was losing his touch with this kind of thing. I still don't think he was a good fit for Ragnorok, but any worry that he was becoming tone-deaf is quickly put to rest by how tonally assured Jojo is. It's straight back to the sincerity of Boy, where everything is from the perspective of this incredibly earnest kid, and because of this, the comedy and drama don't feel separate, instead feeling like they have some kind of progression, flowing together and fortifying what the film has to say.  The tone here is confident and strong, starting silly and then stopping to let the darkness resonate, and when the film reaches its homestretch, the sincerity of the whole thing pays off, making it feel genuinely optimistic and resonant

3) The cast

I mean, yeah. Is this the best cast in a Taika Waititi film? I mean probably. The whole ensemble is absolutely killing it here. Scarlett Johansson is rightly being lauded for her performance as a woman who's just trying to save her son, and in many ways is the heart and soul of the film. Sam Rockwell also brings salty, dogged charm to his beleaguered officer, a character who gets a lot of laughs but like everything else here, brings a surprising amount of soul, too. Even the minor roles here are great; for the first time ever I thought that Rebel Wilson was really funny, and Stephen Merchant does so much with his one scene, the perfect blend of humour and horror. And then of course there's Waititi himself as Hitler, or Jojo's imagined version of Hitler, expressing everything in the way a kid would. I'll get into this portrayal again in a bit, because I think there is something very clever at work here, but it's probably the best he's been in one of his own films. But if you ask me, the real highlight here is the two leads, Thomasin McKenzie and Roman Griffin Davis. I already knew McKenzie was great from Leave No Trace, but she's maybe even better here, exuding humour and humanity amid the horror. She perfectly brings to life this character who's essentially had her whole life taken away from her. Like with Leave No Trace, she brings a great amout of sensitivity to the film, and here that's combined with a really sharp, defiant humour; more proof that she's one of the best young actors at the moment. And then there's Roman Griffin Davis, who gives a performance that's so good that it's crazy to believe that he's never acted before. He's the glue that holds the film together, wide-eyed and idealistic, with the film basically taking place in his world. Crazy as this film is, the main thing that makes it work is how believable Griffin Davis is. You believe it because he does, and it's his performance that makes this absolutely wild idea seem real, and ultimately, what makes it so poignant

4. Taika Waititi's Hitler

I kind of touched on it earlier, but I think Waititi's performance deserves some focus on its own, because it really is clever. He's Hitler in the mind of a ten-year old, impulsive, irrational and utterly childish, but what's clever is how he transforms over the course of the film. He stops being a silly, funny character, changing as Jojo's viewpoint starts to change. He becomes more hostile, beginning to adopt some of Hitler's actual speech pattern, and this is another deft tonal touch, and watching him go from this magical, wonderful best-friend figure to... well Hitler, is another stroke of tonally flexible genius in a film full of them. His portryal doesn't stay light for the whole film, addressing the evil and the atrocity of Hitler and letting the role he plays change accordingly. Waititi is completely mocking him the whole way through, but just like everything else, dispenses so much gravity, laughing at Hitler while also acknowledging the poisonous way he targeted impressionable young minds. It may have seemed like The Silly Hitler Film when the trailers dropped, but it becomes clear that Waititi's skilled enough to let every aspect of this film have something that resonates, and it's in the absolutely ridiculous touches that the really important messages lie

5. The soundtrack

I like The Beatles, I like Tom Waits and I absolutely love Bowie, but this film's soundtrack goes beyond just being fun to listen to. Using I Want to Hold Your Hand to illustrate Hitler's wild, Beatles-level popularity in 1940s Germany is an early masterstroke, and the soundtrack stays strong throughout. I especially love the German version of Bowie's Heroes in the film's ending, using how upbeat the song is to elevate an already satisfying finish. And then there's Michael Giacchino's score, which is definitely one of his best, entirely telling the story through music. I especially love Jojo's Theme, with the warring influences of the military (the chanting and brass fanfare) and his mother (a gentle lullaby, full of heartfelt strings) bringing the tug-of-war of the influences at work in Jojo's world to life in musical bliss. It's a great mix of songs and score that perfectly compliment the story and everything it's saying. It does what the perfect musical accompaniment should, complimenting each moment with the occasional needledrop that gives a sharp little jab of pure cleverness. Using the pop-cultural cache of some of these soundtrack choices to emphasise the scene's meaning is one of the best things a curated soundtrack can do, and that's undoubtedly something that Jojo keeps in mind with its sonic storytelling

6. The clone joke

This is one of the funniest throwaway gags in a Taika Waititi film

7. The German Shepherd joke

This is even funnier than the last one

8. The kick (spoilers)

Okay, I swear I'm not just going to break down every single joke in this film, because I already discussed why I think it's so funny, but the moment where Hitler gets kicked out of the window is just so gloriously funny and satisfyingly ridiculous, and something that only Waititi could have carried off. Also probably the best f-bomb in a 12 rated film, and just one of most hilariously blunt jokes I've seen in a film in recent memory

9. The ending (spoilers)

Even outside of the excellent needledrop, this is an amazingly powerful ending. Waititi knows when to cut a moment with comedy but he also knows when to just let it play out, and that's exactly what he does with that final dance sequence. It's an act of joyful defiance, a celebration of choosing love over hate, and after a film that has some gut-wrenching moments and some razor sharp satirical barbs, it's just a really sweet ending. It's Waititi embracing the freedom of his young Heroes and their escape from fear and uncertainity, absolutely revelling in the pure joy of this moment, finally casting the weighty subject matter aside and just letting these kids be themselves at last

10. The optimism

All of Waititi's films are upbeat in one way or another, from Boy's unvarnished glee to What We Do in the Shadows' simple silliness, Hunt For the Wilderpeople's quirky, big-hearted cool and Thor Ragnorok's colourful, pop-infused space opera, and that sheer positivity is all over Jojo. It's a film that argues that we should choose love over hate, and if that seems simple or obvious, then that's something that the film acknowledges too, suggesting that just because something's simple doesn't mean it isn't important. It takes something that's so easy to forget, but so relevant to now, providing a film full of simple optimism that proves that a little hope never goes out of fashion. It brands itself as an anti-hate satire, but it really is, completely rejecting cruelty and prejudice and hate, arguing that the path to salvation is paved with acts of kindness. There are so many small moments of goodness in Jojo that absolutely resonate, and they're the little moments of kindness that last after the credits roll. It laughs a lot at some weighty topics, but the real point of Jojo is to remind us to love before it's too late; to be kind because not doing so would lead to self-destruction. It's a deliriously irreverent plea for people to be better to each other, with an ability to see the good in the world that's as brazenly cheerful as Amélie, and if you've spent more than a minute on my blog, you'll know that's a very good thing indeed

So there you have it, ten reasons that Jojo Rabbit kind of rocked my world. Taika Waititi has kind of outdone himself with this one, and divisive as its been, I can't deny that it's maybe become my favourite of his films. It's funny as hell, razor-sharp, bursting with heart and incredibly clever. It's a really fantastic piece of satire that urges its audience to reject hate and embrace love, bolstered by fantastic performances, genuinely powerful moments, and cardboard robot costumes. Look, I get if it doesn't work for you, but I absolutely loved this movie. Jojo Rabbit is a charming, affecting, absolutely hilarious take on the forces that teach the world to hate and the love that refuses to buckle under them. It's nothing short of wonderful, and feels like exactly what the world needs right now.

My Thoughts on Little Women

I have a confession to make about Lady Bird. Despite its placement on my top 10 films of 2017 (number 9 no less), I've found myself becoming less and less enthusiastic about it as time went by. I've found myself becoming more and more distanced from it, progressively becoming less able to enjoy its insights, and I'm not quite sure why. I definitely enjoyed it, but maybe something didn't quite resonate with it, because that level of love didn't last. So when I heard that Greta Gerwig was making an adaptation of Little Women, I was less than enthusiastic. I mean, I'm not hugely familiar with the story, and I was worried that, after Lady Bird, I wouldn't click with any of Gerwig's films on as personal a level as every one else seemed to. So yeah, safe to say I wasn't excited about this film. Not that I was expecting to hate it, because by all accounts it seemed to be a pretty prestige literary adaptation. I'm really happy about how much I really, really liked this film, and I'd go so far as to say it's what we need right now: warm, positive, PG-rated cinema that anyone can watch, understand and connect with. I think it's easy to get lost in edginess, to celebrate cynicism to the point where if something isn't being done with irony, it's somehow less. But this timeless tale of sisters in the Civil War (which I was still massively unfamiliar with as a story), proves once more that it never goes out of fashion, and a big part of why this works is its willingness to embrace the lightness of its story, to revel in its gentleness and work within that to explore what's really important.

Gerwig is working with a pre-established story, but she does a good job of ensuring that her approach feel new and exciting. It's undeniably a period piece (with some of the best costumes you're going to see all year), but the way she outlines the lives of these women and the society they're living in feels uniquely modern. It's a classic story with timely themes, and Gerwig excels because she remembers that, not trying to reinvent the wheel so much as restore it, and remind us why we need wheels in the first place. From the opening scene, it sets up two distinctly different timelines, bouncing between them to show the immediately likeable cast of characters before and after seven years of growth that feel genuine and real. There's an immediate lived-in likeability here, and within ten minutes it set up a world that I felt completely comfortable being in. I liked these characters, all of them, and I enjoyed spending time with them and following their various adventures.

A big part of that is the cast, and from what I can tell Gerwig has absolutely nailed the casting. Saoirse Ronan is ace as Jo, the headstrong, confident and immediately likeable pair of eyes through which we watch this story unfold. It's her world we're in, and Ronan's performance invites us in and makes our stay feel satisfying and enjoyable. Her brashness hides a vulnerability, and the way that's gradually revealed in a way that feels natural and genuine is maybe the film's strongest emotional nuance. Florence Pugh makes for a great Amy, again loveable right off the bat, with so much energy and charisma that it's impossible not to care about her. She's easily the most compelling character here, the one whose story is the most fun to follow, and even with the absolutely great year Pugh's had, this feels like a standout performance. She's consistently topping herself with each film she's in, and this feels like the perfect way to cap off a year that also contains excellent turns in Midsommar and Fighting With My Family. Timothée Chalamet is also fantastic as Laurie, imbuing his boy-nest-door with a really sincere feeling longing and charm. The sisters are undoubtedly at the centre of the story, but it's impossible not to feel for Laurie, and so much of that comes back to Chalamet, who brings the same kind of lovesick charm that made Call Me By Your Name absolutely sing

If those three are wonderfully strong, then it's a shame that the same kind of focus isn't given to Beth and Meg. Don't get me wrong, Emma Watson and Eliza Scanlon put in great performances, but given the film's primary focus on Jo, Amy and Laurie, they both feel like they're just kind of.... there. Beth's only real role in the film seems to be being generally meek and sick, and although that's utilised to heartbreaking effect in the third act, she also kind of feels like a plot device; making the other characters more interesting and just being defined by her sickness instead of feeling like an interesting character in spite of it. Meg is almost totally sidelined here, getting so little focus that she's kind of a hard character to talk about. Any of her defining character traits seem to be developed offscreen, and that's a real shame. In fairness, this is one of the film's only issues, and considering the characters it does focus on are handled so well, it's not too hard to forgive when another one falls by the wayside. The supporting cast is strong as well, Laura Dern and Chris Cooper in particular bringing real heart to their characters, doing what a good supporting role is supposed to do and fortifying the arcs of the leads. Cooper's magnificently warm turn gives Beth's character a little more nuance, and that kind of compensates for her general lack of development

But still, it's not a fun film to criticise, because at its best, it's got the kind of illuminating warmth that's so seldom seen in the cinema, not just now, but in general. It's so sweet, and good natured, with some timely twists that feel spiky without being a distraction. Jo's struggle to be taken seriously as a writer particularly resonates, as does Amy's discussion of marriage as an economic proposition. Those underpinnings are written into the utterly delightful world of the story in a way that's deft and clever, but it can't be understated just how lovely this is. The sense of warmth and love here is so nourishing and pleasant, and the focus on family, on units of people that share highs and lows and have so much love for each other is so, so wonderful. It really is a story of sisters, of their ups and downs, but more specifically of their bond, and that's so damn sincere, so real feeling and jam-packed with love and warmth, that it's just such a privilege to spend this film with them. I spent so much of this film grinning like an idiot, just basking in how cheerful and lovely it is. Even in its tougher moments, the focus on love and unity and sticking together in hard times is done in such a natural, genuine way, and although it's drawing from a well-known story, it really resonates. I knew nothing about the actual story of Little Women, and so when the film drifts into tearjerker territory, I was genuinely affected by it. I won't spoil it just in case you're a Little Women novice like I once was, but for something that's probably fairly well telegraphed if you know the book, the big thing that happens really does resonate, treated with gravity and sensitivity, without ever sugarcoating it. There's pain in this film, but Gerwig's smartest turn is bringing the film in a direction that never feels defined by it, instead making an argument for togetherness and growth, and that's where it becomes really good.

So yeah, a film that I was very not excited for turns out to be a little slice of joy, a piece of genuine, immediately accessible cinematic wonder that really establishes Gerwig as the real deal for me. It feels a little bit more real than Lady Bird, for me anyway. Even letting this sit, the warmth and the magic doesn't fade in the way that it did with her first film. I still smile when I think of this, because the gentle, sensitive approach the oft-told story is just so.... nice. And sometimes that's okay. It rejects the idea that cynicism makes for better cinema, instead focusing on the love of the world and making a case for why it's important. This is why this story is told so often, because it matters, and reviving it for a new generation is less an exploitation of the source material and more a reminder that love, and family are what truly matter. There's palpable joy in a secret dance on a porch, heartache in a beach-set story for an ailing sister, and glee in the return of the missing piece of a tightly-knit unit. Gerwig renders each moment with refreshing authenticity, putting a new spin on this classic in a way that's truly cinematic. It was such a delight, and it just gets better the more I think about it.

My Thoughts on Marriage Story

I'm a huge Noah Baumbach fan, and Marriage Story has been on my radar for a while now. They way Baumbach can mine a deep reservoir of personal experiences for natural comedy and deeply moving drama is stunning, and it's a relevant thing in Marriage Story, a film that's seemingly heavily informed by his own divorce. It's a film that's drawn comparisons to Woody Allen and Ingmar Bergman, and is being called his best film, and that's a hard thing to disagree with. I actually prefer The Meyerowitz Stories as a film, but at the risk of sounding pretentious, Marriage Story feels like his most emotionally accomplished movie, the one that gets under its character's skin and draws everything out and gets every emotion at its absolutely most potent level. Like Squid and the Whale or Meyerowitz Stories, this is a film of moments, but crucially, it revolves around one: the big argument scene. It's become a popular scene to celebrate or to laugh at, but I think it's the thing at the centre of Marriage Story, what the story is leading up to and what it eventually tries to recover from. I'll get into that later on, but this scene works so well because it fits so well into this film and the way it uses its drama. It's very controlled, quiet and natural and almost observational, entirely spent watching two people trying to navigate a difficult situation, attempting to avoid pain and toxicity, if nothing else than for the sake of their young son.

It's clear from the start that this is relationship is completely frozen over, but I think the opening of this film is so genius because it begins with two people listing the things they love about each other. There aren't any real flashbacks to life before the divorce after this, and I love that, because there's nothing that needs to be said that isn't in the first few minutes. Right off the bat, you know that these two loved each other, and you know why, and watching something that you know was once sweet but has soured is a unique kind of heartbreaking. The film excels at lowkey drama, reluctantly pitting a couple against each other and urging you not to pick a side. Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver don't even feel like they're acting, going through rage, and sadness and longing and everything else that comes with a loss of love. There are no winners or losers here, just a pair of people who want to stay amicable, who want to minimize the pain as much as possible. That this plays out so naturally makes it harder to watch. They're given great support by a vicious Ray Liotta and a hilarious Alan Alda, but the MVP here is Laura Dern, giving the best performance in the film as a divorce lawyer who is alternately warm and ruthless. It's the most actor-driven film he's made, and just watching everyone be so incredible is a treat in itself to witness

The structure is pretty much like most of his other films, episodes, scenes from a (dead) marriage, but each one contains so much sadness (the entire Halloween sequence is quietly gutting) and comedy (Merritt Weaver turns delivering bad news into an artform), that it's definitely one of his more resonant films. He's always been more about content than experimentation, and watching as he empathetically and forensically brings these details to life, imbuing each one with so much pathos and love. There's not even much of a plot, just a careful study of a divorce in moments, connected together by an overarching mosaic of emotion, a constant tone that's ebbing and flowing. Sometimes it rises up and threatens to crash into a wave, but Baumbach's skill at holding back, at keeping everything just under the surface. And that's why the climax works so well. If you look at the film's structure, there aren't scenes as such, just moments in the haze of emotional stress that Baumbach is happening to catch. None of them feel scripted, like they're part of a story or arranged in an especially important order, with the exception of the argument, the point of maximum tension, where the non-specifically chosen moments fall back into a very precisely plotted explosion.

Actually just taking this scene on its own for a minute, I can see why out of context, it'd seem silly or over-the-top, but with the two-ish hours that came before it setting up so much resentment and loathing and pain, seeing it released is a pretty distressing experience. What happens in this scene is not the point of Marriage Story- it's not a film that celebrates the emotional fallout of a divorce or relishes in two people taking potshots at each other- but it is the scene that the film hinges on. Tonally, and emotionally, the swell of emotion was building into this until it's fit to burst. I never felt like the specifics of what was happening in each moment mattered, anything that evoked the same feelings would have done, but the way each one of them adds another layer of sadness, putting so much stress on this relationship and urging it towards its breaking point is what matters. The fallout is similar, with the film trying to recover, trying to cool down, to heal. It's never something that truly leaves this film, or the two leads, when it happens

So Marriage Story is a really brilliantly constructed drama that hinges around one moment. If I had to nitpick it in terms of Baumbach's movies, it's that although I thought it was really excellently put together, an definitely his best film in terms of its direction and script, but it just didn't affect me in the same way The Meyorwitz Stories did. There's an intentional (yet incredibly reluctant) coldness to this film, and though I appreciated his deft telling of a story about two people who don't want their lives to be that cold, I definitely felt myself appreciating it, and felt a lot of the emotion in it, too, but for me, it just doesn't have the lived-in quality of his last one. That's a personal thing, but it doesn't take away from how fantastically Marriage Story breathes life into the often-portrayed-but-rarely-in-this-much-detail subject of divorce, and Baumbach's detailed study of it is absolutely made by how he's studying it. He lets everything orbit around the extreme, the massive argument that is undoubtedly a product of this emotional stress but is absolutely not indicative  of what this relationship is. It's delicate, and poignant and funny, but the real heft of the drama comes from the intensity of that moment. Not that it's the only good thing in the film, because the incredible performances, emotional rawness and the delicate ebbing and flowing of the drama make Marriage Story one of 2019's most precise and powerful dramas, one that I hugely respect and admire more than I actually enjoy. Still, I love that Baumbach is so present as a cinematic voice, and spending two hours in his dramatic observations is more than enough for me to give this a big ol' thumbs up

My Thoughts on Ford v. Ferrari

I'll get this phrase out of the way early, because otherwise it'll plague this whole review: "they don't make movies like this anymore". Ford v. Ferrari (or Le Mans '66 as it's known in Ireland and I absolutely refuse to call it) does have that old-fashioned, very 70s appeal. High star wattage, focused, lean filmmaking, and a sensible, practical approach to storytelling. I won't say that this kind of film isn't getting made at all now, but the bravura filmmaking and honest sensibility of stuff like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and The Deer Hunter is largely missing on that level of quality. There's still mid-budget, relatively lowkey awards-bothering dramas being made, but too few of them are coming out in the mainstream, or putting enough emphasis on that uniquely big screen style of storytelling, or being on the same level of quality as the more experimental fare. That's a real shame too, because although film is absolutely excellent now, it still does feel like that serious, mature, high quality kind of drama is kind of absent when people talk about the best films of a given year. But James Mangold, fresh off of Logan, seemed to be set to remedy that. Did he succeed?

Well, at the risk of spoiling my verdict, yeah, he did. Ford v. Ferrari is a great blend of old-fashioned thrills and new technology, providing race sequences that thrill and electrify without sacrificing the substance. The tone is handled so well here, evoking an honest-to-goodness, old school style without feeling dated or dewy with nostalgia. The film revolves around Ford's attempt to win the 24 hours at Le Mans, particularly focusing on Matt Damon's ex-racer Carroll Shelby and Christian Bale's obsessive, intense driver Ken Miles. This is a film that nails its fundamental aspects and uses them to their fullest. I think there are two crucial components in this movie; the lead performances and the racing sequences, but both work on such a level of quality that they elevate absolutely everything else in the film and make it work. Damon and Bale are reliably fantastic, and their honest, earnest performances are really what drive this film and keep you invested. See, the film is built on one central idea: the feeling of being in that car, of racing and letting go of everything. The film weaves this into the two central arcs, and puts it front and centre of the drama and the action

Matt Damon is ace as a man who seeks to recapture the feeling, getting these great quiet moments where he exudes longing and determination. His combatting of corporate stuffiness is familiar stuff but it stills feels relevant, especially now, and particularly because this is the first Fox film being released by Disney. That kind of makes Shelby's struggles against corporate fiddling hit harder, and even if that feels a little well-worn, it's not impossible to apply the idea of a filmmaker and his creative struggles on top of this story of a man trying to do what he knows the way he knows is right in spite of the committees above him who think they know better. This part of story is done quite well, and Damon sells Shelby's earnestness, which is something that I don't think this story would have worked without. The real joy of his performance though, is those quiet moments of trying to recapture the feeling of being behind the wheel. It would have been easy for this to be a typical against-the-odds sports film, and I guess it is to an extent, but it's the small moments, the little nuances like the ones in Damon's performance that make it stand out

The standout though, is Christian Bale. His Ken Miles is a layered performance, brash Brummie bravado hiding that same yearning for the thrill of the race. He's aggressive, and stubborn, but again it's the small moments, when we see Miles as a husband and as a father, understanding the presence that racing has in his life and more importantly, what he stands to lose. There's a big question here about the responsibility of racing, and the uncontrollable urge to return to the track. There's great control in his performance, and the way he shifts between stubborn rage ("Poxy bastard door!") and quiet, vulnerability ("I can try") is another testament to how reliably impressive Bale is as an actor. I especially love his relationship with his son, who in many ways is the heart of the story, and the genuine warmth in their relationship gives the racing scenes a real feeling of something being risked

Of course, as in most films that centre around two key performances, the rest of the cast aren't quite as impressive. It's not that any of them are, kind of the opposite, they're all great, it's just that this is so undoubtedly Shelby and Miles' story that they feel somewhat underdeveloped. John Bernthal's Lee Iacocca is just so secondary that any time he's the focus, it feels like a different film. Tracy Letts' Henry Ford II also suffers from this, feeling more like an obstacle than an actual character. Caitriona Balfe gives good support as Miles' wife Mollie, but the moments between them are so warm and sweet that it kind of makes you wish she had more screentime. Again, the story isn't about these characters, so it's not even that big of an issue, but it's a small snag that I think catches the film every now and again

But then there's the other element that just makes Ford v. Ferrari sing: the racing sequences. Bolstered by the quietly muscular drama, when they happen, they are spectacular. The final race at Le Mans, roaring engines contrasted by tea drinking and corporate meddling, is as thrilling as big-screen fare gets. All of the races here are stunning, so much energy and verve and aggression. I know absolutely nothing about racing, but it's translated so well into the unique language of film that it kind of doesn't matter. This is a proper cinema experience, and what sets it apart from a lot of action scenes in big Hollywood films is how tactile it is, so focused on the feeling, on the life-or-death thrill of racing, blending that with the drama, not to distract from it, but to emphasise it, to remind you what's at stake. There's no attempting to be too clever here, or distance from what's going on, just face-on-track tension and pure, nearly euphoric aggression.

Ford v. Ferrari's racing sequences are incredible, and the performances of Damon and Bale are so good, that they make the entire film standout, not relying on them as much as identifying what works and amplifying it to its absolute peak. The balance of substance and spectacle is so sound here, so fine-tuned that it's impossible not to feel what Mangold wants you to. Going back to the start, it's nice to have this kind of movie, and it's especially interesting for Disney. I know it was in production before they acquired Fox, but given the whole vibe of it, it'd be cool to see them put out more stuff like this going forward. The film is long but given how well-plotted the drama is, and how exciting the climactic action is, that's hardly an issue, and the climax is made all the more satisfying because of how well-done the character stuff before it is. I thought it was a really fun throwback to this kind of mature, prestigious drama, with the kind of massive, heart-in-mouth action that digital effects can provide. Ford v. Ferrari is the kind of fil that strives to provide that very exciting big-screen experience that still has a lot of meat and substance to it, and I think it's absolutely successful in doing that

Top 25 Films of the Decade: Part 5 (5-1)

5. The Irishman

Martin Scorsese shows no signs of slowing down 25 movies into his ace career, and The Irishman ranks up there with his very best. This is a beast of a film, the culmination of Scorsese's gangster films, reversing the flash and energy of Goodfellas in favour of a slower, more sombre meditation on the big (the forces at work on a political, social and national level) and the small (morality, mortality, and existential dread). There's so much in this film, a massive cross section of 20th century America that slowly unravels everything around it while still in motion, so that by the end, all that remains is one man, at the end of his life, alone, destroyed by sin. Scorsese's analysis of the influences at work under American society is deft and thrilling, showing how Frank's rise runs congruent to the shaping and reshaping of the American political identity. Full of his trademark flourishes and boasting a killer soundtrack, this feels like well-worn territory for Scorsese, until the third act hits, and all of the sin and evil of the plot finally corrodes the film, until all that's left is suffocating emptiness. It's the self-destruction that really resonates here, again not uncommon for Scorsese, but played in such a bone-deep, quietly terrified way that, when it hits, it becomes clear that at the heart of this absolutely massive epic is something very small but incredibly potent; the kind of petrifying existential horror in facing the end, something that comes for all of us, good or evil. That The Irishman shows the consequences of a lifetime of cruelty is not unusual, but that it does it in such a chillingly low-key way is what absolutely resonates. All of this and that cast firing on all cylinders? Yeah, this is special stuff. De Niro's steely stoicism is gradually defrosted over his pathetic unravelling, while Joe Pesci is exuding quietly unnerving authority, but the real highlight is Pacino, in his first collaboration with Scorsese, as the brash, bullish, and ultimately ill-fated Jimmy Hoffa in what has to be one of his best performances. This is the kind of film that probably won't be seen again for some time, with so many undeniable masters of their craft working together to create such incredibly profound work

And no, it is not too long

4. Boy 

There's something really special about Taika Waititi's Boy. There's something so refreshing about how good-natured it is, how pure and unpretentious it is. There's a childlike glee to all of Waititi's films, but Boy has to be the most unashamedly sweet and joyous of them. There's no harshness here, no mean-spiritedness or nastiness, just an empathetic, authentic and warm tale of a boy coming to terms with the reality of his errant father. I love Waititi's style, the very off-kilter and quirky way he frames things that are so incredibly genuine. This is a film full of delightfully weird humour and gleefully strange stylistic touches, but what really resonates is the honesty. Waititi understands the way his young hero sees the world, and uses that to draw out what's really important. There's a natural charm from the start, and what I love is that through the conflict and the heartbreak and the difficulty, there's a really good natured streak. There's no forced conflict, no adherence to coming of age clichés for cheap drama, but a real, natural sense of love and forgiveness that feels so sincere that it's impossible not to feel as a viewer. The scene where Boy's father takes his jacket away from him, leaving him humiliated only to be embraced by the community around him, is indicative of this film's heart-on-sleeve approach and authentic, impossible-to-fake warmth that it absolutely exudes. And that's important to have onscreen, a reflection of love and loyalty that urges the world watching it to be that little bit kinder. There's genuine conflict in a boy realising that his dad is no good, in taking his heartache out on his (possibly magical) brother, but Waititi approaches it with empathy and forgiveness and kindness, acknowledging that there's always shit in the world, but learning how to approach it in the right way is the key to overcoming it and learning from it. That he does this while being so incredibly funny, finding humour in Boy's world and giving us microwaved doorknobs and money hungry goats is the final masterstroke, the ultimate indication that Waititi is fluent in the languages of humour and heart

3. The Lobster

It's been a decade for science fiction, of big-screen spectacle and ever-expanding universes, but if Yorgos Lanthimos' deliciously offbeat film proves anything, it's that the genre can still do great things when it's minimal and lowkey. It's a simple idea imbued with Lanthimos' trademark deadpan sensibilities, not cold so much as measured, reducing everything down to its most essential elements. It's dry but potent, stripping away unnecessary exposition or heavy-handed emotion to examine the most fundamental aspects of the human condition. The result is typically dark and wryly funny, but with so much pathos and insight, and such an effective study of primal emotion that is somehow simultaneously highly stylised and totally raw. Lanthimos is examining what it means to be animal as an argument to preserve what it is to be human, daring and provocative and unafraid to explore, to cut deep and to expose his characters as vulnerable, desperate and absolutely real. His dystopian society is miserable but plausible, full of passionless, obligatory romance, and his careful unravelling of the politics of human relationships is the most exciting it's ever been. It's a pet theme of Lanthimos', but I don't think it's ever been as fully-realised, deeply effecting or eerily relevant as it is here. Everyone wants to love and be loved, and portraying that as the most natural instinct, as something that cannot be regulated by beaurocracy or ignored through cultish defiance is the film's greatest touch. He's a filmmaker who's often accused of being cold and distant, but The Lobster is anything but, combining this really poignant meditation with sci-fi commentary that is daring, and cutting, and loaded with a real concern for the future of the world if it loses its ability to love. He's a had a good decade, delivering two knockout films after this- I've already talked about how much I love The Favourite on this list and I'm a big fan of The Killing of a Scared Deer as well- but for me, this is his best film, deadpan but passionate, carefully cynical but ultimately full of hope, sharp and satirical and gorgeously realised. It's funny and relevant and makes a compelling case that it's the weird stories that matter most, that are able to capture that near unquantifiable quality in the human spirit and fight for why it's still worth saving

2. Roma

Roma feels like a miracle. There's something so special about this film, quiet and empathetic and gentle. I love when film can expand the way I understand the world and how it's reflected onscreen, and that's exactly what Roma is. The crisp monochromatic imagery and slow, almost documentary way the film unfolds meant that it could have been stuffy, pretentious and overly artsy, but it really, really isn't. This is far and away one of the most passionate, emotionally raw films I've ever seen, proving that cinema is a universal language, and that the specific experiences of one woman can pour out of the screen and feel lived in and familiar. I love films that I can inhabit, that I can reach out and touch, that I can feel as much as watch. It's incredible on every level, nearly technically flawless, beautifully shot, masterfully directed and expertly put together. Cuarón is undoubtedly a master, someone who really knows what he's doing and is able to execute it with precision, and he's at the height of his powers here, the absolute top of his game, master of his craft and just about every other superlative you can think of. What I really love about Roma, though, is that depth of feeling, that lived-in atmosphere and totally natural style. You feel everything that Cleo does, every heartbreak and loss, every act of kindness, love and generosity. In the background is a portrait of a rapidly changing Mexico, but front and centre is the story of a woman whose life is in a similarly precarious state. Cuarón frames everything in Roma in the same level of importance, the personal and the political, tracing nation-defining events back to personal tragedies along the line of the ever-present class divide. It is as wide and accomplished as films come, so full of absolutely everything in the human experience, so absolutely massive and soul-piercingly intimate, so equally passionate in both its assessment of a nation's politics and its portrait of a woman who is nearly invisible, who is almost a member of this family but is ultimately alone. Roma champions this character and dares to tell a story that all-too-often goes unnoticed, lovingly painting everything that's happening to her with so much depth and feeling, taking every emotion and zeroing in on it, blowing it up to a massive scale and giving it the platform it deserves. I love this film and its heroine so much, and it's this and films like this that make me really happy about Netflix as a distributor, giving stories like this a global platform, and allowing them to reach as many people as possible

1. The Shape of Water

I've raved about this film since it came out, and although it's been a cracking decade for film, I really couldn't have chosen anything else as my number one. I love this film like it's a member of my family. I've seen it so many times since it came out, and every time I'm just so overwhelmed by the magic of it, by the gorgeous portrayal of outsider love, the scathing rumination on monsters and men, and the palpable, passionate musing on the power of cinema. This is a film that's moved me, delighted me, thrilled me and just made me feel more than anything else from the last decade. This is Guillermo del Toro's warmest film, so full of love and passion and hope for troubled times. It shows us a world of hate and mistrust and sows a seed of compassion deep in the centre, slowly letting it grow and blossom to tell us that love always finds a way. That's something we need now more than ever, an affirmation that if we can love, we'll be okay. It's a pure celebration of cinema's ability to make us feel, of its status as a medium that can touch us and inspire us and make us think. Like The Lobster, it suggests that the stories that seem weird and niche are the ones we need the most. It hones in on a specific subject matter to argue something broad, to make a case for what's special about the world and the movies that reflect it and why that world is worth saving. It's a story that is about love in every sense, about the absolute necessity of it, how crucial it is to our survival. Sally Hawkins' Elisa is an all time great cinematic hero, the perfect outsider looking in, who finds love and joy and fulfilment in her way of life but yearns to be seen, and when she is, it's an infectious feeling. Doug Jones' fish man is also perfect, a blank canvas onto which so much love, hope and passion is projected. The world of the film is immersive and believable, but it's enriched and brought to life and truly made magical by these two spellbinding beings at the centre of it. The final image, of their underwater embrace, is the perfect visual embodiment of what this film is, doing what cinema does best and using the utter magic of a seemingly impossible image to take the world watching it and show it what it can be. It's the kind of story that can only exist on film, so deeply rooted in the history of cinema and utterly invested in its power to shift the world. It's a story of outsiders and why they matter, suggesting that all of us are on the outside to some extent, and that love is the force that unites us, that hating because we're told to hate will destroy us, and that we're never beyond saving as long as we have love. I love Guillermo del Toro, I love his randy fishpeople and I absolutely adore The Shape of Water. It is, without a doubt, my favourite film of the 2010s

Top 25 Films of the Decade: Part 4 (10-6)

10. Submarine 

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