Top 100 Films of the 21st Century (Four Year Anniversary Special)- Part 1 (100-91)

 We're just about one fifth of the way through the 21st Century, and I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood to take stock of things. The last 20 years in cinema have been huge, with trends coming and going like nobody's business. I mean, take the term "cinematic universe" for instance. Where once shared canonical ground was just something that existed in a director's body of work or some sort of dodgy crossover, now universe-sized franchises are celebrated. Expected, even. But I won't bemoan franchise dominance and brand recognition too much It has its place, and blockbuster cinema has definitely been  impacted, and not entirely for the worse 

And while I won't rhyme off every trend in the last two decades and discuss its effect on cinema, it's impossible not to take notice of them when you step back for a second and look at everything that's happened in that space of time. Apart from the MCU and its shared-universe ilk, there's the rise of CGI with its use in everything from blockbuster epics (Avatar) to somber dramas (The Irishman). There's also the impact of the internet; as the world becomes smaller, access to international and independent cinema becomes much easier. That's changed the game in its own way, with most of the best, most successful cinema right now coming from outside of Hollywood. Just look at the impeccable selection of titles that have come out of South Korea in the last few years

And what about the word itself? "Cinema". What is it? It's a question that's found itself up for discussion recently, as old masters criticised the current crop of superhero outings, but even before that, Cannes' refusal to show Netflix films in competition was an indication that regardless of how the old guard responded to it, the medium was moving on

And it continues to do so. Cinema will keep changing as this century progresses, undoubtedly as a result of the shifts that have already taken place since 2000, so consider this something of a time capsule. For my fourth anniversary, I want to look back, to celebrate the best that two decades of film have to offer. A tough task for sure, but one that I've found immense pleasure in undertaking. I should say right now that it wasn't easy. There was a lot of deliberating, watching, rewatching and obsessively fussing over the order. Some great films missed the cut, to say nothing of the ones I haven't seen. As for ranking them, that brought its own challenges. You might disagree with my choices, or their order, and if you want to let me know your own favourite films from the 21st century, feel free to do so. Film is a community thing, now more than ever, so let's get a discussion started

So save your "they don't make them like they used to", because if the last 20 years have taught us anything, it's that cinema is in great shape. As good as its ever been, if you ask me. And although it remains to be seen whether the following hundred films have the longevity to match their quality, it's undeniable that this is one hell of a bunch of films. So dive in and enjoy this, my top 100 films of the 21st century 

One quick warning: this list may contain spoilers in The High Point section, so maybe skip that if you haven't seen the film

100. Southland Tales (2006- Richard Kelly)

Richard Kelly's follow-up to Donnie Darko opened to a ghastly reaction at Cannes and currently finds itself sitting at a less-than glowing 39% percent on Rotten Tomatoes. It's a mess, a hodge-podge of characters and themes clashing with utterly ridiculous imagery (flying ice-cream van?), and yet when all of its imperfect parts combine, it becomes one of the most bizarrely compelling films of the last two decades. Kelly's ambition is huge, and his take on mid-2000s America- a post-9/11 nation left obsessed with celebrity and questioning its very identity- is irresistible, pure creativity that's preserved this film well enough that it's starting to receive a long-overdue reappraisal. It's about time.

The High Point:  Justin Timberlake woozily lip-syncing his way through The Killers' `All These Things That I've Done

99. The Artist (2011- Michel Hazanavicius)

The Artist arrived to us from another era, not so much a tribute to the dream machine of silent Hollywood as a piece of modern magic haunted by ghosts of old. It's a passionate film to be sure, but the unique alchemy of The Artist goes beyond simple nostalgia, undercutting its dewy-eyed reverence with a playful mischief that subverts its Oscar-bait image. The result of this is romance without romanticisation, a film that delivers both crowd-pleasing delights alongside its musings on the blurry line between life and art. The toast of the 84th Academy Awards, it's proof positive that actions speak louder than words

The High Point: "Cut!"- the silence is finally broken

98. Inherent Vice (2014- Paul Thomas Anderson)

After The Master's careful study of the human soul, PTA loosened the coils for his shambolic stoner epic, a woozy study of the end of an era. It's a film that forces the viewer to get lost, urging you to look away from the plot for a bit and just enjoy the scenery. Inherent Vice is a grand maze of a film, a richly layered mystery tale that gains a little more with each year that passes. It revealed a side of the San Fernando auteur that lay previously unseen, woolier, weirder and more wigged-out than anything he had shown us before

The High Point:  Doc's frenzied escape from his captors

97. It Follows (2014- David Robert Mitchell)

Sex and horror have long been inseparable bedfellows, and David Robert Mitchell's dread-soaked shocker celebrates their relationship with unnerving intensity. It's sparse and confrontational, a constant escalation of tension that cuts open the horrors of sexual intimacy and studies the murky, disturbing truths that slither out. Mitchell famously denied any one interpretation of the film, which is apt, because like `It`, the true meaning of the piece generates feverish terror no matter what shape it takes

The High Point: The inexplicable naked man on the roof

96. The Lives of Others (2006- Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck)

Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's debut(!) is an interrogation of a country's past, a moral tale and a devastatingly human story about compassion found in the strangest of places all in one. A weighty piece of cinema with a lot on its mind, The Lives of Others is a political thriller through and through, thrillingly punctuated with jolts of love. So fiendishly plotted and meticulously composed that it really is hard to overstate how impressive it is that it's his first film, or how unbelievable it is that the same man would churn out The Tourist just four years later

The High Point: Weisler urges his mark's girlfriend not to go through with her affair, risking his cover in the process

95. Moonrise Kingdom (2012- Wes Anderson)

For his seventh film, Wes Anderson recreated the huge emotions of childhood romance, crafting a storybook world for his runaway heroes to inhabit and explore. Moonrise Kingdom feels instantly familiar, lovingly sculpted out of pure nostalgia so that watching it feels like opening the pages of a book you haven’t read in years. It’s here where the wisdom of an adult Wes mingles with the passionate idealism of his inner boy-scout, resulting in a, wistful, warm living memory

The high point: Sam and Suzie’s confrontation with the scouts sent to track him down

94. Lars and the Real Girl (2007- Craig Gillespie)

“Ryan Gosling falls for a sex doll” is not the most bankable premise for a film, but Craig Gillespie’s soulful indie makes a case for the contrary. Less a Gos-led grotfest and more a story of a community banding together to take care of one of its most vulnerable members, Lars and the Real Girl wrings warmth from the most unlikely of places. It’s an affirming reminder that it’s the most unexpected of situations that tend to bring out the best in us

The high point: Bianca’s funeral, where a twee premise suddenly gains huge emotional weight

93. A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence (2014- Roy Andersson)

Capping off his Living trilogy in style, Roy Andersson was on typically idiosyncratic form with this hare-brained comic anthology, a strange, slowly unfolding saga of the human soul. If that sounds dreary and well, not very funny, then it really can’t be overstated how sharply chaotic Andersson’s sense of humour is and how well it punctuates the static camera, long-take, grey n’ brown insanity. Who knew the mundane could be so much fun?

The high point: The rousing sing-song in Limping Lotta’s bar in Gothenburg. Goes on for ages but keeps the fun going for every minute

92. Mother (2009- Bong Joon-ho)

Before he took the world by storm with Parasite, Bong Joon-ho wove a similarly intricate tale of the ties that bind and the sins we commit in the name of family. Kim Hye-ja was spellbinding as a woman desperately trying to clear her son’s name in a thriller that was at once expansive and taut. In typical Bong fashion, it was the sly humour and meticulous detail that lingered after the credits rolled. Mother is a slow-burn towards an inevitable truth, and the result is devastating

The High Point: Mother dances hypnotically through a field of wheat

91. The Raid (2011- Gareth Evans)

At a time when Hollywood was churning out legions of Bourne-lite actioners, Gareth Evans went to Indonesia for his thumping film following a police raid on a gangster’s high-rise fortress. Mean, lean and uncompromisingly violent, it marked a watershed moment in modern action cinema, expertly carried by leading man Iko Uwais. Even with the sequel and the similarly ace The Night Comes For Us, The Raid still feels utterly singular almost a decade later

The High Point: The two-on-one brawl, where a pair of brothers take on Mad Dog

My Thoughts on Tenet

 

The first major theatrical blockbuster in a post-Covid world, it's only natural that all eyes are on Tenet. A new Nolan release is guaranteed to attract serious heat anyway, but the director's staunch refusal to delay the film's release date has turned it into the cinematic talking point of the year. And while its temporal musings have proven divisive, it's quite possible that this could be Nolan's most ambitious project yet, conceptually but especially release-wise. So the question is this: is Tenet the film to get big-screen releases back on track?

Essentially following The Protagonist (an on-point John David Washington), a CIA agent sent on a mission to prevent WW3, Tenet is broadly a spy film, albeit one intricately infused with Nolan's knack for time-centric cinema. The film is firmly rooted in its action, which is undoubtedly its greatest strength. The setpieces benefit from the combination of forward flowing and inverted time, and it's a joy to see previously introduced ideas take on new meaning as the plot progresses. One central car chase that's nail-biting gold on first pass gains a greater level of resonance upon repetition, a spoiler-free example of a narrative device that becomes more and more impactful every time it's used. And while the reversed time aspect may sound confusing when explained in the first act's seemingly endless exposition, it's surprisingly elegant in practice, proof that the real strength of Tenet's storytelling is in its visuals

See, the plot of Tenet isn't actually all that complicated, and unlike other Nolan fare such as Interstellar or Memento, it lacks an emotional core for the high concept to hinge itself on. Thankfully, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, with the film playing out as a breakneck ballet moving in two different directions at once and excelling as a piece of action storytelling rather than any sort of interrogation of the human experience. That said, the juxtaposition of the relatively basic story and the complex concept does mean that Tenet comes up a little light in terms of substance, an issue not helped by the constant stream of exposition, made worse by the film's sound design, where a good chunk of the dialogue ends up being just about unintelligible. The sound brings another issue with it too: This film is LOUD. I won't go so far as to label the sound mixing unfinished, but it is uneven, and the experience of the film loses a fair bit because of it

But as a piece of blockbuster cinema, Tenet is as good as anything we've gotten in the past year, expertly marrying a high-concept with Nolan's reliably strong ability to craft IMAX-worthy spectacle. Basic as the plot may be, its individual components end up being more than the sum of their parts. Kenneth Branagh's menacing Russian baddie, for instance, seems like a caricature on paper but ends up giving the film's conflict real weight and immediacy- not just something for the heroes to fight, but something to fight against: a human manifestation of a bigger idea that makes unlikely victory seem possible because it's suddenly become human. The same is true of Elizabeth Debicki and her gangster's moll, who undeniably suffers from Nolan's chronic inability to write a convincing female character but ends up softening the film's cold, objective edge, ultimately allowing the conclusion to resonate, adding satisfaction and weight to what might otherwise have been purely emotionless and functional

Ultimately, Tenet just about meets its lofty ambitions, a heady, large-scale blockbuster that warrants rewatches backwards and forwards. It's clear Nolan has a lot on his mind, with this film feeling like an extension of a man who's been vocal about his concern for the future. What it lacks in its narrative and loses with its chaotic sound design it easily makes back with intricate, well-crafted action and a satisfying eternal logic. And while it doesn't reach the heady heights of Dunkirk or the Dark Knight trilogy, it does mark a triumphant return for both cinema's most fastidious intellectual and the screens he yearns to pour his dreams onto. And you really can't ask for more than that

★ ★ ★ ★

Top 10 Films of 2020 So Far

I feel kind of weird doing this list, because of everything that's been postponed, and also everything that I've missed, but all the same, 2020 has had some good new releases, and even if there's not a huge amount of them, I do think they're worth celebrating. Again, there's an awful lot I haven't seen, like King of Staten Island and Birds of Prey and Onward and First Cow and Never Rarely Sometimes Always and The Vast of Night and... y'know, maybe it's quicker to list what I have seen. And that's what this is, because at the time of writing this, I've only seen 10 films from 2020. And fortunately, I like them all quite a bit. Don't be fooled by the lack of new releases I've seen: everything on this list is a 6 or higher, and I'd genuinely recommend checking them all out. So yeah, let's celebrate some (all) of the movies I've loved this year. 

10. VFW

VFW is not a big, clever film, nor an especially complex one. What it is though, is pure, unadulterated, grindhouse fun. The film is a nasty, gore-heavy splatfest that makes full use of its single location, the kind of delightful midnight vibe cut from the same cloth as Mandy. There's genuine thrills, slightly stiff but generally endearing comedy and a charismatically gruff turn from Stephen Lang. It's straightforward but really, really fun, like Green Room without the subtext. It just about coasts by on its pure bloodthirsty charm, a passionately made film that doesn't do much to challenge the viewer. And if that's what you're looking for, you could do much worse than this

9. Ema

Pablo Larráin's 8th film is a wonderfully conducted dance of destruction; chaotic and passionate and bursting with energy. It's a film that operates at full thrust for its entire runtime, and although this go for broke approach hits a few snags, you have to admire the sheer consistency of the energy here. I mean, it's a drama about an imploding relationship that plays out like an hour and forty minute music video. The emotions here are big, loud and in full colour, arranged in a way that plays like a heady fusion of MTV and Almodóvar. The performances are also ace, especially that fearless leading turn by Mariana Di Girolamo. It's a real thrill, blowing up carefully studied emotions to huge proportions, and the result is absolutely fascinating

8. The Invisible Man

 

Leigh Whannell's reinvention of the 1933 classic was a deft change in direction for the Dark Universe, swapping the world-building mess of The Mummy for an intelligent and tense discussion of gaslighting and emotional abuse through the masterfully crafted tension. The thrills were slick and the shocks were plentiful, but what really resonates here is the sheer sense of danger that the film manages to keep up. The sustained level of emotional distress in this film is utterly insane, and it never once veers into melodrama or tries to imply the central relationship was anything but toxic. The result is one of the most effective horrors in recent memory

It's also the last film I saw in a cinema. God I miss going to the cinema

7. Weathering With You

Makoto Shinkai's beautiful eco-romance isn't quite as great as Your Name (honestly what is?) but it's still an utterly beautiful ode to the act of supporting the people we love. The gentle tone and easy, slice-of-life structure make for irresistibly charming viewing, a film so packed with detail and fueled by huge reservoirs of not just emotion, but feeling. Like Your Name, Weathering With You is a film that plays out like a life being lived right in front of your eyes. It's another slam dunk from the most consistently magical voice in anime right now

It's also got the score of the year

6. About Endlessness

2020 has proven to be an absurdist nightmare, so a new Roy Andersson couldn't have come at a better time. About Endlessness is 75 minutes of his signature prankish surrealism, which is as hilarious, heartbreaking and horrifying as ever. It's a series of screams at a world that seems to make less and less sense, and the fact that he does this while interrogating the existence of a higher power and delivering some of the silliest laughs of the year is no mean feat. He may not be an especially prolific filmmaker, but in a year where each day is increasingly becoming the same, he might just be one of the most necessary

5. The Half of It

Far from being just another Netflix teen rom-com, The Half of It stands out as being one of the smartest, most sensitive coming of agers I've seen in some time. No cliches, no easy punchlines, just an empathetic, clear-eyed take on a timeless tale. It's a film that takes its audience seriously, exploring the ideas of self-love and identity with deftly handled nuance and refreshing bittersweetness. It's a real treat, a heartfelt and poignant and deeply moving take on race and sexuality. More like this please

4. Da 5 Bloods

Spike Lee strikes again with his latest joint, a full-blooded, sweeping take on the conflicts that linger long after the war is fought. It's another beautifully angry and passionately delivered interrogation of America's past, with one of the finest ensembles of the year (Clarke Peters! Jonathon Majors! Chadwick Boseman!), the standout of which is an absolute belter of a performance from Delroy Lindo. It's a fine follow-up to Blackkklansman, swapping out that film's zeitgeisty sting for a kind of urgent hypnotism, lulling the audience into a heady tale of a nation and its never-ending war

3. First Love

Over one hundred films deep into his frankly insane career, Takashi Miike delivers a typically wild ride, surreal and frantic and violent and utterly hysterical. What's especially great about this one is its huge beating heart. It's his romantic comedy, and for all the beatdowns, exploding (toy) dogs and scantily clad ghosts, it does tell a really tender love story. By the time the chaos slows down, you realise just how much you care about the two leads. It leaves you craving more Miike craziness, and considering the size of the man's back catalogue, that's definitely not a problem

2. True History of the Kelly Gang

George McKay's golden run continues with his ace turn in Justin Kurzel's wonderfully revisionist retelling of the Ned Kelly story. It's a wonderfully liberal take on history, a reminder that it's not so much the story itself that matters, but the way we tell it. It's an incendiary piece of storytelling, a masterful combination of elemental cinema and delirious punk, brought to life by an incredible cast and a mastery of genre from Kurzel. It's deliciously radical poetry, forged in fire and packing a kind of venom that is both timely and timeless

1. Bacurau

An utterly singular fusion of moods and genres, Bacurau is unlike anything else. Sure, it wears its influences on its sleeve (Carpenter, Jodorowsky, Peckinpah), but the composition of its ideas and story beats is just absolutely seamless, a uniquely cinematic take on the sociopolitical issues of modern Brazil and Western entitlement and the uneasy feeling of being an outsider in your own community. That these ideas exist so comfortably together is a wonder; that they do so while the film they're in is also constructing such a compelling, masterfully rendered world while also providing sharp, violent thrills is a near miracle. It's a true wonder, an excellent piece of genre filmmaking that's so good that picking a standout scene is incredibly difficult, though special mention goes to that shift in perspective. It's the third film from Kleber Mendonça Filho, who's quickly establishing himself as one of the most exciting voices in cult cinema

Top 10 Shows of 2020 (So Far)

So we're about halfway through this awful, awful year, and for as much of a shitstorm that 2020 has been so far, TV has continued to shine as an invaluable escape. With a lot of films being postponed and delayed, it fell to the small screen to keep the content flow.... flowing, and it's safe to say it did. TV's role as a cultural forum has never felt more relevant than it does right now, and the combination of escapism and discussion it provides has proved to be the perfect balm. Hell, if the runaway success of Tiger King proved anything, it's that TV is an unrivaled tool when it comes to uniting people through discussion. So far we've seen great shows end, as well as some seriously exciting debuts. I think it's too early to judge the year as a whole, but the last six months have given us some truly great stuff, and I'd be remiss if I didn't run down my favourites in some way. I do still have some catching up to do here (I haven't watched all of Dead to Me or The Midnight Gospel just yet, and I still need to see Kingdom and The Plot Against America), but I think I'm in fairly good shape to rhyme off 10 shows I think have killed it in the first six months of the year. As always, keep an eye out for spoilers if you haven't seen a show

Quick honourable mentions before we begin to I Am Not Okay With This, Run and Inside No. 9, which have all been awesome but just about missed the cut. Anyway, shall we?

10. Never Have I Ever

In a world where teen comedies are a dime a dozen, Never Have I Ever feels like a real breath of fresh air. This is something that goes beyond the incredibly handled representation, although that undoubtedly makes the show one of the year's most significant right out of the gate. Never Have I Ever feels like a celebration of specificity, from its John McEnroe narration to its heroine's tragically particular backstory, but it excels at imbuing its quirks with so much heart, making every little story beat feel so true, so that nothing ever feels overly twee or out of place. It's also got an incredible lead performance from Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, who perfectly nails the balance between angst and heart. Even the show's message of appreciating yourself and the people around you feels fresh, re-energized by a voice that's so strong and so distinct and so wonderfully realised. This show is awesome, and that second season can't come soon enough

9. Sex Education

I really, really liked Sex Education's first season; it was fun, it was fresh, and it had an honesty and frankness in terms of its subject matter that made it immediately stand out. So it's safe to say I was pretty excited for its sophomore run, and oh man did it deliver. I mean talk about a glow-up. Sex Education bounds into its second season with so much more confidence. Everything just feels so much slicker this time around, like the show knows exactly what it needs to be and wastes no time going about becoming it. There's a much stronger sense of who these characters are now, and I especially love how everyone has something going on. A lot is happening in this season but no one feels short-changed, every character gets a moment to shine, and the show excels at balancing all of their plots. The way it handles its themes as well feels so important and so sensitive and so timely; it's hard thing think of a show on this list that feels more now. Sex Education went from good to great coming into its second season, and the result is one of the finest coming of agers in recent memory

8. Devs

Alex Garland is one of the most exciting storytellers right now, and his first foray into television is as blindingly brilliant as you'd expect. Devs is a labyrinthine exploration of humanity's relationship with the universe, as well as how we come to terms with our future and the responsibility we take in understanding the past. In true Garland fashion, he's not actually that interested in answering these massive questions, instead pondering on the nature of the questions themselves. It's a show that takes a lot of patience to unravel, and yet if you surrender yourself to it's utterly insane genius, the destination it arrives at is hugely rewarding. I'll admit I had some trouble with it at first, but the closer it gets to its conclusion, the more its musings start to resonate. So yeah, Devs isn't the most accessible show on this list, but trust me, if you like your sci-fi with a side of existentialism, and don't mind a lack of action in the lead up to a larger payoff, then I can't recommend it enough

7. Three Busy Debras

Three Busy Debras is the best show of the year about three women named Debra, and it had some stiff competition. Okay, this is by far the hardest show on the list to recommend, because it's so aggressively surreal and specific in its sense of humour, but if you're in the mood for something a little different, you'll definitely find it here. It's very much an Adult Swim show, with its easy to binge 11 minute episodes, immediately memeable humour, and delighfully experimental style, but I can't think of any other show in their catalogue that's hit the sweet spot for me as much as this one has, with the exception of the last season of Samurai Jack. It's a delight, singular and absurd and a ton of fun to watch (the ATM episode is one of the funniest installments of TV I've seen this year). I love it, a lot, and I think that Alyssa Stonoha, Sandy Honig and Mitra Jouhari are three of TV's strongest comic voices in ages. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to join the Cartwheel Club

6. Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist

Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist arrived like a mixtape of the best parts of other shows; a little Kimmy Schmidt here, some Crazy Ex-Girlfriend there, but it didn't take long for it to establish itself as something that is sorely needed in 2020: pure, unabashed optimism. This is a show with a huge beating heart and an undeniable sense of charm, made all the better for the surprisingly elegant weight and gravity it deploys in it's heavier moments. The truth is that no show this year has hit with the same level of positivity, and if that soundtrack isn't enough to bring a smile to your face, the incredible lead turn from Jane Levy might just do the trick. I love a show that knows how to use its high concept, and what makes ZEP such an exciting show is how it refuses to ever play its premise as a gimmick; it's always finding new ways to use its central conceit. Most thrilling of all has to be that stunning eighth episode that reverses the premise entirely and is all the better for it. Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist is just such a burst of colour, with every emotional beat played to its absolute maximum. It's one of the most enjoyable pieces of TV this year, and that's worth celebrating

5. What We Do in the Shadows

The funniest show of the year, on the other hand, has got to be What We Do in the Shadows. The first season was one of the biggest surprises of last year, and the second one is such a massive step forward, solidifying it as must-watch comedy. If the first season was mostly spent figuring out how to transport the unique charms of the original film to a new setting and format, then the sophomore run takes it from there, streamlining every element of the show until it's smoother than Jackie Daytona. That ace disguise gag is just one in a season of many, and picking a highlight from this buffet of semen-stealing witches and regular human music and resurrections gone wrong is just too difficult, although I am incredibly fond of Colin Robinson's single episode rise to power. Every character just feels perfect this season. They're all interesting, they're all funny, and especially in the case of Harvey Guillén's Guillermo, they feel like they're actually growing and developing through the antics. It's just such intelligent silliness, and it's ability to deliver hit after hit after hit across its ten-episode run is just a testament to how flawlessly Jemaine Clement has mastered the show's wonderfully unique formula

4. The Good Place

I was a little nervous about The Good Place ending, because after almost four seasons of pure existentialist perfection, it had set itself up for an insanely tricky landing to nail. But I suppose if the show up to this point had taught us anything, it's that Team Cockroach are at their strongest when the odds seem impossible. This four episode run essentially sees our unlikely heroes answer the meaning of life, save the Earth from a total reset, find the good in their greatest foe, and finally, finally get into the Good Place. For real this time. It's just impossible to imagine a better way for this show to have ended, really. That last episode in particular is the kind of poignant positivity that the show is built upon, tackling the inevitability of the end of existence with a reassuring smile. And that's a funny thing, because after four years of chasing the afterlife, of contemplating what paradise might look like, the show reaches the conclusion that maybe it's the end of the journey that made it special in the first place

3. Bojack Horseman

The Good Place wasn't the only show to nail it's ending this year, though. The first half of Bojack's swansong was hopeful, following Bojack on his steady yet uncertain recovery. Sure enough, the second half saw the pendulum swing downward once again. Hard. Bojack's ending is an interesting beast. This is television at its most uncomfortable and essential, unflinching in its analysis of hard truths and unsure in how Bojack might reach some kind of redemption, and ultimately if he's even deserving of it at all. This is best displayed in the penultimate episode, a beautiful, soul-shattering gaze into the abyss through an image that's been right in front of us the whole time. As for the final episode, it's exactly what you'd want from Bojack, delivering the perfect mix of gravitas and uncertain hope (which is still hope, after all). And that's a real feat; after all, a purely tragic ending would feel just as cheap as a totally happy one. Bojack Horseman goes out in the only way it could have. It's painful and it's beautiful, and honestly I wouldn't have had it any other way

2. Normal People

Where do I even begin with Normal People? I suppose I could dust off the ol' reliable for when a show gets this level of heat and say "Normal People isn't a show. It's an event", but I honestly don't think that would do it justice, because it's such a perfect demonstration of what makes TV such a unique medium, to the point where it really wouldn't have worked if adapted into a feature film. It's thoughts and feelings perfectly distilled into a series of exquisitely captured moments. Kind of like a relationship, actually. This show is kind of the perfect love story, not just delicate or passionate but intimate too, getting as close to these characters as they get to each other, and through that, we feel everything right there alongside them. On top of that is everything it tackles along the way, with special mention going to the tenth episode's incredible discussion of male mental health. It's such a pure piece of storytelling, so potent in the level of feeling that permeates every glorious moment. And while much has been made of the wonderful universality of the show's themes (and rightfully so), I'd like to celebrate how specifically Irish it is, how it nails every little detail of its setting and crafts a piece of media that reflects the richness of modern Irish storytelling

1. Better Call Saul

The further Vince Gilligan ventured into the past of everyone's favourite morally flexible lawyer, the more people began to ask the same question: When? When will this absolute behemoth of a spin-off finally surpass its mighty predecessor? Unless you're like me and actually think that Better Call Saul overtook Breaking Bad in its fourth season, but then the question was how Gilligan could top that and.... well, you get the idea. Better Call Saul is, simply put, the best thing on TV right now, and as Jimmy slipped to ever deeper depths, it was honestly just a privilege to tag along for the ride. Season 5 swapped the intense slow-burn of the four outings that came before it for a masterclass in plot density and economic storytelling. So much happened this season, which in turn gives us a much better look at Jimmy's degeneration in real time. It was such a thrill to watch the world repeatedly take chunks out of Jimmy McGill, only for the empty space to be filled by Saul

What makes the fifth season especially great, however, is the same thing that puts it above Breaking Bad, and that's Kim Wexler. Rhea Seehorn is consistently giving the best performance on TV here, and watching the role she has in the story gradually shift has been a crucial element in defining Saul as a masterpiece. As always, she shows us the parts of Jimmy that he keeps hidden, but this time around their dynamic is complicated by the way they tackle the concept of having a future together. I especially love the way it tees up its ending by teasing Kim's dark side. Hell, if the show keeps delivering in the way it has been, it's even possible that she could rival Jimmy at his most devious. But enough of the theories, because this season is honestly as close to perfection as Gilligan has gotten, and that's not even talking about Tony Dalton's terrifying Lalo Salamanca, or Jimmy and Mike's odyssey through the desert, or Hank's return, or Fring's Spice Curls. It's a perfect season of television, and I can't wait to see how the sixth season brings this incredible tale to a close

Scoundrel of the Small Screen: Community (Season 2)

And we're back. Community's second season picks up more or less where the first left off, immediately addressing the hanging plot threads of its first run. Like the best sophomore outings, Community's second season isn't keen to keep the show in the same place too long, and in this season, progression is absolutely the name of the game. The story still follows the exploits of a slightly improved Jeff Winger and his study group, who have now taken up anthropology. Psychotic Spanish teacher Chang is now an equally unstable student, and the board is set for yet another year of shenanigans. When I talked about the show's first season, I mentioned that the really great stuff was yet to come, and the significant jump in quality between that season and this one is what I was talking about. Actually maybe jump in quality is the wrong way to put it. Don't get me wrong, Community's second season is better than its (already fantastic) first, but what's apparent even from the first few episodes is that the show is so much more confident this time around. The best thing about this show is the characters, and the best thing about this season is how much the show develops them. Now that we know them, the show is able to broaden them out and delve into territory that the first one couldn't quite reach. Again, it shouldn't matter hugely in a sitcom, but fair warning: you're sailing into spoiler infested waters. Proceed at your own peril

The second season puts less focus on Jeff's moral development, steers Troy away from football and gives Shirley more to do. It lets us get to know the Dean and gives Chang some serious emotional payoff, all the while letting Pierce stoop to ever lower depths and using Abed's meta powers to have fun with the conventions of TV. The focus on progression is clear from the start, with an episode that takes a step back and looks at the group's dynamic. Jeff's speech about respect kind of sums up what this whole season is going to address: the idea of a group of people functioning and working together as a community (I am so sorry). It's something that every episode this season addresses. We know them and they know each other, but this is where their bonds really strengthen, where the characters really start to grow as a unit. The first season kept Jeff as the focus, and was effective because it saw him slowly start to become a better person. Here, the focus is the study group as a collective, and this season finds them in situations that examine their dynamic. Even the episodes that put individual characters in the spotlight do so to analyse their place in the group

Not that Jeff's development is completely put aside, as seen in the second episode where he's tempted by a chance to return to his old life. The fact that he doesn't isn't surprising, but the episode works because it confirms that the first season worked its magic, and with that out of the way, the fun can really begin, and the show can get properly experimental. That said, there's still the occasional check-in with him to see how far he's come, like the utterly wonderful My Dinner With Andre parody (which I'll talk about more in-depth in a bit), which makes up for the general lack of Jeff/Abed content this season with a really satisfying dive into their relationship. I also really like the third episode, which really delves into Jeff's insecurities about his mortality and ties that into his relationship with Pierce. It's unexpectedly sweet, and allows his character to develop in a way that isn't just the first season's formula of "Jeff mocks a member of the group, helps them for his own gain, realises he was a dick and starts to become a better person". This season moves away from the idea of Jeff as the main character surrounded by zany misfits, and starts to develop into a show that is firmly about an ensemble, of which he is another part of. That said, his development still feels real, and is deeply satisfying, because it does feel like he's moving forward in a meaningful way

Speaking of moving forward, I love what the second season does with Troy. It completely drops the idea of the meatheaded football star and starts to bring him in a different, much more interesting direction. The second season sees Troy becoming his own person, growing up while also embracing his immaturity. He gets so many satisfying character moments this season, from his moment of nerdy heroism in Epidemiology to his explanation of the pen-stealing-ghost in Cooperative Calligraphy, and it really feels like the writers found the right direction to bring his character in. He's growing up and facing adulthood, and gradually discovering that everyone's as clueless as he is. Mixology Certification is an episode that gets heavy praise and rightfully so, because it tackles Troy's realisation of what the "real world" is, ultimately showing his refusal to compromise who he is, and seeing him grow on his own terms instead of trying to emulate Jeff and Britta. It's an arc that's wonderfully played by Donald Glover, who absolutely aces it, nailing both the quiet characters moments as well as the big moments of comedy.

It's also the season where Troy and Abed's friendship really comes to the fore. If you're reading this, chances are you know how many great jokes the show gets out of this duo, but what's even better is how genuinely sweet their bond is. I love this friendship so much, and it's the perfect example of two characters who are great individually but even better together. They both feel like much stronger characters this season, and their relationship becomes such an integral part of making the show what it is. Spliced into this is their respective arcs, and if Troy becomes stronger through a change in direction, then Abed is further developed by doubling down on what makes him who he is. 

The show gets so much more meta this season, especially when Abed's the focus. Check out the bottle episode that knows it's a bottle episode, or the stop-motion animated joy that is Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas (and my post going in-depth on it). It would have been easy for this kind of self-awareness to become annoying, but Abed is absolutely the heart and soul of the group, and the amount of sincerity that these episodes are done with make them genuinely charming as well as incredibly clever. They're driven by something integral to his character, and I think that's best exemplified by Critical Film Studies, an episode that openly discusses Abed's relatively slow and somewhat unconventional  character development. It goes to prove that the best Abed episodes, while not always the best episodes of the show overall, demonstrate that the best things about him are the best things about Community: a sincerity and cleverness that comes from a slightly unusual place, hiding its most poignant moments in a masterfully executed homage. He may not grow and change this season as much as say, Annie or Troy, but by reinforcing what was already great about his character, Community found a way to make Abed's already incredibly strong character so much stronger

The character work is so strong this season that it'd be so easy to just devote a paragraph like that to each of them. Of course, for your sake and mine, I'll try not to do that, but it just goes to show how much of a handle on its characterisation the show has at this point in its run. I love how we get more of an insight into Annie this season, and her eternal attempts to be taken seriously, especially in spite of characters like Jeff and Pierce. Her character feels much stronger this time around, and with the exception of Troy, she's the one who gets the most progression and growth. I also love how we see more of the Dean this time around, with the show finding some more concrete running gags to paint him with. He is consistently one of the funniest characters in the show, and his expansion just goes to demonstrate the show's focus on broadening out its unique comedic language. It finds its groove, humour-wise, experimenting with recurring background characters (pop pop!) and specifically deployed pop-culture references. This is where Community really develops its trademark sense of humour, and it hits the perfect balance of zaniness and groundedness that later seasons were never really able to replicate

And because there are too many to count, I really do just have to rattle off some of the highlights here, episode-wise. The bottle episode is an absolutely perfect piece of writing, and the Dungeons and Dragons episode is too, both proving that a good idea and a strong cast of characters is really all you need for an ace episode of television, as well as both being fantastic markers for the progress of this group. It's also a much more experimental run, not only with Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas, but also in the surprising genius of the documentary episode, proof that switching up the format allows for the ability to access sides of these characters that the basic premise of the show couldn't really reach on its own. The two-part paintball finale is also worthy of mention here, especially when it's (whisper it quietly) the best installment of paintball the show has seen. Season two also features my favourite episode of Community, the mighty Paradigms of Human Memory, a genius piece of self-awareness that functions as an exercise in nailing character interactions. There are so many more perfect episodes this time around, with no duds and no filler. Hell, even the weakest episode (Asian Population Studies) is rock solid, and features one of the funniest Winger speeches in the show

The second season also has two of the most solid overarching plots I've ever seen in a sitcom. The first is about Shirley potentially pregnant with Chang's baby. I really, really love this story. Community is so good at being wacky and meta that it's easy to forget how much it nails its human moments, but this plot is full of them. The not-really-final-episode-but-kind-of-the-conclusion-to-most-of-the-season's-recurring-plots-before-paintball-gives-the-season-a-proper-ending is an awesome, entirely classroom set chapter that slows down the action and lets the show breathe. This story is a particularly interesting study of Shirley as a character, and I love how much of her we get to see this season. Even before this storyline begins, there's a great episode about her and Abed's relationship that is also a delightful satire about pretentious art films, but when her plot kicks off proper, it is done to absolute perfection, and is a fantastic reminder of how much you've genuinely come to care about these characters. It also sees Community show a little more compassion towards Chang, who although he pretty much becomes a full on cartoon character this season (in a good way though), is still given some really poignant moments, especially when the baby's born. It's a very kind plot overall, and it gives the show so much weight under all of the pop culture references. It's genuinely lovely stuff

This season takes also sees Pierce become the villain of the show, becoming gradually more awful as it progresses. I guess in some ways it was an unexpected direction for his character to go in but man does it work, always feeling like an organic path for the show to take. From Celebrity Pharmacology onward, he's utterly despicable, but having that natural source of antagonism is great for both comedy and character. The Dungeons and Dragons episode is utter, utter perfection, showing the cruelty that Pierce is capable of, but also indicative of why the show chose to do this with him; everyone is negotiating their place in the group this season, and Pierce is no different. It becomes clear that he's terrified of the group leaving him behind, and lashes out because of that. It's funny to watch him slowly devolve into a truly awful person, but every one of these plots comes from a part of his character that is fascinatingly explored within the comedy. This comes full circle in the very last moments of the season, where it turns out that the arc you thought you were watching was something completely different. Pierce's speech to the group comes out of nowhere.... until you realise it doesn't. It has been telegraphed through the whole season, where reality ensues and it turns out that, crazy as he is, all Pierce ever wanted was to belong somewhere

The endings these arcs get show how much stronger Community's second season is at wrapping up its overarching plots. If season one's love triangle was a little on the weak side, season two's one-two-punch of childbirth and paintball makes for a trio of concluding episodes that are beautifully written and utterly explosive. The actual ending of this season is darker and more ambiguous, a note of uncertainty that really does nail the feel of a dramatic middle chapter, which is incredibly fitting for the Star Wars spoof. I couldn't think of a better way to end this season than an event that brings the group closer together immediately followed by a reminder that maybe their bond isn't as strong as they think it is, or as healthy. Community doesn't just stick the landing: it puts a perfect cap on its golden run and establishes itself as the benchmark for modern comedy. Community's second season is a masterpiece and an essential text in the pop-culture pantheon. But would it be able to keep up its run of gems in its third outing? Tune in next time and find out....

I give Community's second season a 10/10

Top 20 Films of 2016 (3 Year Anniversary Special)

This might be a strange one. This blog was started in 2016, and I never did my favourite movies of that year because.... well to be honest I just hadn't seen enough. And last year, my blog turned three, and I didn't celebrate it at the time because I just couldn't think of anything to do. But these are strange times we're living in, with coronavirus causing the cinemas to be shut and the reviews to slow down for the time being. So instead of letting the rants and ravings dry up completely, what if I went backwards? I'm going to kill two birds with one stone, celebrating the best movies of 2016 while also celebrating my blog's third year. In the last four years, I've seen lots of movies from the year my blog was born that are undoubtedly excellent, and in the interest of having a proper celebration, I've decided to take my top ten and double it, to present, for your self-isolation reading pleasure, my top 20 films of 2016. Obvious rules apply, it's my opinion, I haven't seen everything, I'm a squid disguised as a human, I've got a load of honourable mentions, the usual stuff. My big blind spots here are American Honey, Eye in the Sky, Silence and The Neon Demon. As for the stuff I love that just about missed the cut, there's Hunt For the Wilderpeople, Under the Shadow, The Edge of Seventeen, Zootopia, Ethel and Ernest and High Rise. So with that out of the way, let's rewind with my top 20 movies from the year I became The Scoundrel of the Screen!

20. Nocturama

As premises go, Nocturama's is inherently troubling. A group of radical teenagers commit a series of terror attacks in Paris and hide out in a department store, yet director Bertrand Bonello refuses to oversimplify. It's a film that is small but expansive, transforming a specific, contained space into a world that contains multitudes. It combines sharp thrills with some really powerful commentary, and the result is utterly hypnotic. Deliberately paced and meticulously plotted, it takes a little patience to really get on it's wavelength, but if you surrender yourself to the specificity of Bonello's vision, it's a singular experience that's tough to shake. Nocturama doesn't concern itself with explanation, almost like the cinematic equivalent of a dare that urges you to follow it to a conclusion that it might not even reach. It's stylistically dense and surprisingly fun, even as the world within in it threatens to teeter into total destruction

19. Weiner 

Weiner is a masterclass of cringe-inducing observation. Essentially it follows disgraced mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner, whose attempts to get re-elected are derailed by the exact same circumstances that caught him out first time around. It's as natural as documentaries get, and the real joy of watching this film is realising just how batshit crazy this absolutely true story is. Weiner himself is a fascinating character, someone who is absolutely their own worst enemy but is impossible not to understand through observation. It's a fantastic political doc, and just a great study of an utterly unfortunate self-destruction. In a way it feels like Kreigman and Steinberg are testing the limits of the fly-on-the-wall style, leaning further and further into candour until it seems irresponsible. There's a lot that's revealed through this approach, and in many ways the sheer chaos that is observed in this film feels like grim foreshadowing to the current political climate

18. 20th Century Women

Mike Mills is such a gentle, non-judgmental observer of people, and this passionate tribute to the women who made him is pure everyday magic. The cast is utterly stunning here, with a triad of incredible female leads played to perfection by Annette Benning, Greta Gerwig and Elle Fanning, along with a remarkably confident turn by Lucas Jade Zuumann. It's a wonderfully sensitive film that celebrates the specific and the small, zeroing in on the tiny moments of insight that all too often go unnoticed. It's reflective without ever buckling under nostalgia or swelling with sentimentality, and the clear-eyed approach that Mills takes leads to another poignant step on his journey to the centre of his soul that he's been embarking on with each film. It is so authentic that even using that word to describe it feels wrong. It is a film crafted in memories, made of the details that remain even when everything seems different; maybe it's a song, maybe a moment, maybe just a miscellaneous piece of information. 20th Century Women is a film that never feels like it's telling a story so much as remembering a time and a place, shimmering with the kind of warmth and honesty and empathy that reminds us why we need Mike Mills in the first place

17. La La Land

It's weird to talk about La La Land on a list like this, because it's become a film that everyone knows and loves in the four years since its release. Hell, it's weird to think that it's four years old to begin with. Damien Chazelle's bittersweet ode to the musicals of old is obviously brilliant, and if I can't say too much about it that everyone else hasn't already, well then I can still sing its praises. The music is wonderful and performed with real brio by the two on-point leads, but what really makes La La Land special is how much the musicality is baked into the film itself. Like everything Chazelle does, there's a real rhythm propelling every minute of this film, and the way Chazelle can command every moment of romance, humour and emotion with such elegance will always be hugely impressive. Its enduring appeal is hardly surprising, because under its elegant, slick exterior is a real beating heart that is unafraid to dispense hard truths. It's an intricate beast, almost clockwork in its construction, but it appears so smooth and seamless, and this is its uniquely powerful spell

16. Sing Street

John Carney has become rightfully celebrated for his ability to craft these wonderfully heartfelt stories that are fuelled by the uniquely heartfelt power of song. Sing Street is such a joyful film, so sincere in how it perfectly captures its hero's quest for musical and romantic greatness. It's sprirted and warm and funny (cartwheeling priest!), perfectly balancing the bitter and the sweet without ever comprising its natural likability. I've watched this film a lot, and each time I watch it I become more and more drawn to Jack Reynor's character, the perfect mentor figure who sets the screen ablaze with his natural charisma. One advantage of doing a list in retrospect is that the impact that these movies had is a lot clearer, and since this came out he's made good on the massive potential he showed here, a showcase of his wonderous abilities and a pure example of a supporting role who just absolutely defined what the whole film was about

15. Nocturnal Animals

Tom Ford doesn't make many films, but when he does, he imbues them with a dark, complex magic that borders on the irresponsible. Nocturnal Animals is a beguiling blur of tones and moods that float around a dense, labyrinthine plot that is rife with symbolism. It's raw and wrought with pain, yet so visually stunning that it's impossible to rip your eyes from. It's tough to watch and but impossible to resist, effortlessly brought to life by a masterfully cast ensemble. It's a film about pain and how we express it, the forms it manifests itself in and the decisions we make when we act on it. Ford finds beauty in discomfort, teasing the murky truths of one narrative from the serene, almost artificial facades of the other. It's disturbing and dense and packed with meaning, and while unraveling it may be a deeply disturbing task, impossible in one viewing, it also reveals a piece of cinema that is unique, haunting and utterly singular

14. Green Room

With every film he makes, Jeremy Saulnier is cementing himself as one of the modern godfathers of genre cinema. In many ways, Green Room is his best work to date, fast and aggressive and mercilessly tense. What's interesting though, is the sheer amount of depth Green Room hides under its deceptively simple grindhouse surface. Where lesser thrillers would stop at the punks vs. neo-Nazis premise, Green Room keeps going. This is a film about recognising the enemy and overcoming them, about escaping from pure, suffocating evil, and as such, Saulnier displays a massive amount of intelligence with every beat he deploys, and every time he cuts, the examination deepens. It's a film that feels hardcore while actually demonstrating masterful restraint; Saulnier frequently rejects a focus on the gore in favour of a relentless mounting tension, and the result is blistering, thumping, and utterly vicious poetry

13. Hail, Caesar!

The somewhat polarizing response received by the Coen Brothers' seventeenth film will never not perplex me. True, Hail, Caesar! doesn't hit the lofty heights of Fargo or Miller's Crossing, but I don't think it was trying to. This is a film that isn't aiming upward as much as it is moving inward, turning its attention back on the film industry and telling a tale of one of its most revelatory eras. It's wonderful stuff, offset by period-accurate analogues and a charmingly meandering plot fueled by the golden gruffness of an on-point Josh Brolin. It's made from Coen fundamentals, and if that proves anything it's that the brothers have these elements down to an absolute science, able to remix them with playfulness and reliable instinct. It's a clear indicator of just how versatile the Coens have become at communicating through the utterly singular style they've been cultivating since Blood Simple. Hail Caesar! sees them play with this formula to luminous effect, and their vision of old Hollywood is an utterly fascinating place to visit

12. Kubo and the Two Strings

In many ways, Kubo and the Two Strings is trademark Laika: a lovingly woven tale of a child on a fantasy adventure that features a somewhat unorthodox family unit. If you thought that that was what it was going in, well Reader, you aren't wrong. But I think what Kubo proves (and what Missing Link slightly disproved), was that every film they make seems to bring Laika closer to perfecting their uniquely magical formula. It's a film with an immediately grand feel and an impressive grasp on its mythology, but what makes it special, particularly in an age where mainstream animation is perhaps dominated by CGI, is that every frame of Kubo is crafted with so much love. There's an obvious care put into this film, to the point where it might be the Oregon studio's best looking film, and that level of compassion extends to the story, too. Kubo finds love in an unusual place and celebrates its utterly transcendent power, and does it in a way that feels refreshing and rare. To remember is to love, to love is to defend, and to watch Kubo and the Two Strings is to recognise the genius of Laika

11. Moonlight

Following his debut, Medicine for Melancholy, Barry Jenkins went on an eight year hiatus. His comeback was Moonlight, a film that could nearly be described as poetry. The difference is that Jenkins isn't interested in putting feelings into words in Moonlight, instead he keeps them pure, treating them with the delicacy and care to ensure that they reach the screen with maximum potency. It's a film that tells the story of a life in the way that a life is lived, every scene a memory that is tied to how that experience felt. It is powerful, powerful cinema that smashes through the whole idea of showing vs. telling, because really it's doing neither. Instead, Moonlight is relating, presenting the events of the story with so much empathy that it's impossible not to identify with it on some level. In doing this, Jenkins is giving the world art that seeks to bring us together, to make us realise that these feelings unite us, an act of rebellion against a world that's constantly trying to define us by our differences. And if that's not special, I don't know what is 

10. Manchester by the Sea

Manchester by the Sea is about grief. More specifically, it's about a certain kind of grief, the kind that comes from a loss that will never fully heal. Kenneth Lonergan isn't interested in exploiting this feeling too much, instead playing it absolutely straight with patience and honesty that's seldom seen in this kind of awards heavy-hitter. This is a film that avoids misery-porn at every turn, always opting for realism over worthiness. It avoids diluting its subject matter and it's all the better for it; the simplicity of Manchester by the Sea is precisely what allows Casey Affleck to deliver such a marvelously nuanced performance that was absolutely deserving of the Oscar. It's a film that is supercharged by that reservoir of pure emotion at the centre of it, and although to watch it is to observe unfiltered, bone-deep heartbreak, Manchester by the Sea ensures that, by its end, it's found some sort of solution in the face of grief: to just keep living

9. Your Name

2016's best animated film was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a Makoto Shinkai production. Your Name is Shinkai at his absolute best, telling a story of love and bodyswapping with boundless, breathless energy. Don't be fooled by the steady pace and the focus on day-to-day life: this is a piece of pure emotion. Your Name sees Shinkai soar to some spectacular heights, before performing expertly calculated dives into some of the most gut-wrenching emotional lows that anime has to offer. Your Name is a masterful deconstruction of its concept, constantly unfolding into something more beautiful with every heart-stopping reveal, but what makes it work, what makes it such a special piece of cinema, is how deeply felt everything in this film is. Your Name plays like a constant flow of emotion, a heavy stream of feeling that Shinkai has shaped into a piece of art that somehow becomes more beautiful with each passing moment: a shimmering beam of pure love that celebrates the act of connection

8. The Love Witch

With The Love Witch, Anna Biller proudly blasts the horror genre back about 50 years or so, delivering a sublime romp that resonates so much more than its candy coloured surface might initially suggest. Yes, this is absolutely a kaleidoscopic journey through a dreamscape that blends the trippy horror of Mario Bava with the stunning melodrama of Douglas Sirk, but a closer inspection reveals something much more powerful. The Love Witch confronts ideas of love and sexuality through a refreshingly feminist lens, and Biller's evaluation of womanhood and feminine sexual identity is every bit as timely as the film is stylish. In a world where mainstream horror threatens to blur into an endless sea of grey and brown franchise fare, The Love Witch stands out, especially in the year of The Boy, Blair Witch and The Purge: Election Year. It's so refreshing, not because it feels new, but because it doesn't: bringing horror back to a time of camp sensationalism as a way of making the past address the present, and the result is intelligent, hypnotic bliss

7. The Wailing

There is no clearly established formula to making great horror, and no sweeping statement that can accurately define the whole genre. That said, the majority of horror films tend to be on the short side. This makes sense; shocks can only be sustained for so long before the fear runs dry. At a hefty 156 minutes, The Wailing is a definite subversion of the rule, but this does nothing to dilute its utterly stunning exploration of evil. It's a veritable epic executed with incredible scope, unfurling slowly but deliberately, trading in the steady drip of evil and the gradual build of dread. It's a hugely disturbing meditation on religion, mortality, parenthood and justice, before finally looking directly into unimaginable evil in its brazen climax. How it is able to cover so much ground is a valid question, and how its dark magic seems to extend outside of the celluloid itself is a downright mystery. The Wailing is pure terror in a crime procedural disguise, and by the time it sheds its skin and reveals its true form, there can be no doubt about it: it's a modern genre classic

6. Hell or High Water

Hell or High Water seems to present itself in two different forms that work together in absolute harmony. The first, and most obvious, is that it's very much a Taylor Sheridan thriller: gritty, lean, and deeply concerned with contemporary issues lurking under the surface of modern America. The second comes from the fact that this is far and away one of the best Westerns in recent memory. Steeped in blood, sweat and dust, Hell or High Water is Sheridan and director David McKenzie's rumination on the lives of outlaws, but just like The Wild Bunch and Unforgiven before it, it suggests that these are figures living in a world that is rapidly ticking towards destruction. It is a story of necessity, of responding to circumstance and doing what needs to be done, always keeping the humanity of Chris Pine and Ben Foster's fraternal thieves firmly at the centre. That it's done in this way is uniquely fitting, using the cinematic language of the most American genre to comment upon the country's repeated forsaking of its own people 

5. Don't Think Twice

The world is awash with films and shows where comedians present fictionalised versions of their world and experiences, but few capture the unique vulnerability of performance like Mike Birbiglia's masterful second feature. Given the talent on display, the fact that it's so consistently hilarious is no surprise, but what really makes Don't Think Twice feel so special is how incredibly assured Birbiglia is as a filmmaker. This is the film, the one that establishes him as a storyteller with a grasp on articulating neuroses and insecurities that rivals Woody Allen at the height of his powers. It's a pure love letter to the feeling of being a struggling comedian, of performing improv in the hopes that someone notices, and by splitting it up into six, Birbiglia is acknowledging that, when it comes to comedians, no two stories are the same. There's real vulnerability here that undercuts the quips, almost like an empathetic sigh that understands that this kind of self-presentation is a double-edged sword. But that's all a part of the experience that this film creates, acknowledging that there's highs and lows, laughs and heartbreaks, and by embracing them and celebrating them and painting them with this kind of depth and fluency, Birbiglia is building a monument to struggling performers everywhere

4. The Handmaiden

There's a sudden shift about 50 minutes into Park Chan-wook's ninth film that changes everything; just when the plot looks established, the roles set and the film well into its runtime, the story totally inverts itself, and everything you've seen up to that point suddenly proves to have been an elaborate move in a wicked game. This is indicative of what The Handmaiden is: a slinky, kinky, sadistically intelligent labyrinth of identities and gambits and cons that revels in its ability to reinvent itself. Park is a filmmaker notable for his brutality, his ability to dive headlong into the extreme without apprehension, and while The Handmaiden is certainly uncompromising, it's also his most deeply human film since 2006's I'm A Cyborg But That's Okay. The Handmaiden is playfully cruel, but Park is careful to steer the story towards a hopeful conclusion; with every piece that clicks into place, it becomes clear that this is a love story, albeit one involving erotic literature, mercury poisoning, and a very large octopus. It's a film about con artists that ultimately tells a story about the cruelty of love, spinning an irresistible web of pain and manipulation that utterly entrances. It's Park Chan-wook's romantic comedy, and is every bit as beautifully nasty as that sounds

3. Swiss Army Man

Great films are like good friends, in that the most important ones usually come out of the strangest circumstances. Swiss Army Man, the story of a man escaping from an island with the help of his best friend, a seemingly magical, farting corpse, is one of the most powerful portraits of loneliness, connection and hope that's come out in recent memory. It's a film about a wounded mind, and spends its runtime gently unraveling it, and what comes out of that is truly remarkable. There are no neat, obvious answers here, and the film is as jagged and messy as its hero's anxiety riddled mind. This results in an utterly singular viewing experience, where the entire thing feels subjective; every line of dialogue, every gesture, even the score of the film sounds like it's coming straight out of the brain of Paul Dano's lonely castaway. Its portrayal of mental illness feels true, forgoing the clear narrative signifiers that hold lesser films back and going for something far less accessible but infinitely more poignant. There are times where it seems like it shouldn't work, but marvelously, miraculously, it does. The film excels at finding tiny moments of insight and mining them for huge amounts of resonance, consistently hilarious but also deeply moving. It's a work of pure idiosyncrasy, of the unorthodox magic of the human brain, and it is truly unlike anything else I've ever seen

2. Train to Busan

 

The top two were tough to separate, but eventually I settled on an order, and so Yeon Sang-ho's beautifully assembled zombie thriller comes in at a respectable second place. There is a misconception that horror is nasty, that it seeks to tell awful stories of awful people being awful to each other. Train to Busan is a very clear example to the contrary: a story of ordinary people in the face of terror that seeks to remind us that sometimes we're better to each other than we realise. The story of a train hijacked by a legion of the undead, Train to Busan is a study of how we cope with crisis, slowly breaking down its wonderfully realised cast of characters while putting them through some white-knuckle thrills. It's one of the most honest looks of how this species might act in a doomsday situation, and although it's never afraid to show the selfishness and cruelty that its characters are capable of, it's clear that this is a film that is trying to find the best in humanity amid the panic. 2016 saw global developments that seemed to push us further to the brink of destruction than ever before, setting the ball rolling for everything that's going on now, but Train to Busan suggests that even in the face of impending doom, there is an inherent human goodness that is worth believing in. Its scares are masterfully conducted and rife with emotion, and the furious pace makes for an escalation of tension unlike anything else in 2016. It puts us against the worst to see us at our best, and in the end that pays off; there is great hope for the future in a little girl's song, and that's the conclusion that Yeon wants us to take away from this. An absolute game changer for horror

1. Arrival

It's weirdly fitting, and entirely unintentional, that my favourite film of 2016 came out the same weekend that I started this blog. Cinema is a universal language. It holds up a mirror to the world and uses its imagery to show us what we are, and what that could mean. Science fiction has been one of cinema's greatest tools for reflection since the invention of the medium, and with Arrival, Denis Villeneuve is absolutely honouring this. It is broadly a film about communication, about how we might interact with the other despite our inability to deliberate amongst ourselves. It translates complex theories on language and behaviour through the codes at work onscreen, exploring the different ways we might seek to understand the unknown

But like any message, there's another meaning at work in Arrival, a resonant truth that asks one very simple question. The key dilemma at the centre of Arrival is so uncomplicated, so basic in how it is presented to the audience, that it would almost seem totally ponderous... if it wasn't so viscerally human. Arrival is, more than anything else, a work of pure emotion. It's an incredibly intelligent piece of work, but instead of employing its intricacies to signal some kind of intellectual superiority, Arrival uses its brilliance in the most constructive way possible. It sees the potential of its concept to unlock something that is so human it is almost impossible to articulate, and without any kind of cool detachment, plunges headfirst into an infinite, incredibly specific universe of emotion. It doesn't provide any concrete answers, but it doesn't need to. Its aim is to explore the most human instinct: the urge to connect. 

Of course none of this would mean anything without Amy Adams, who delivers an absolute masterclass of acting, so deeply, almost uncomfortably human. She takes everything at work in the story and turns it into pure emotion, softening the heady sci-fi into something that is so rare and so precious. Arrival is the best film of 2016 because it is cinema. I don't mean that as some pretentious statement meant to highlight a certain set of criteria for what does or doesn't make a valid piece of art, but that it's cinema because it couldn't be anything else. It is one of the purest and most persuasive arguments for cinema as a medium for connection and empathy that I've ever seen. It's glorious. It's beautiful. It makes me cry if I think about it too long. It's Arrival, and it's my favourite film of 2016