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