Top 20 Films of 2020

 2020 was an awful, tough year for so many reasons. Cinematically, it's bound to be remembered as a low point, the year when Bond was benched, Dune was done in and Black Widow was ensnared in a web of ever-shifting release dates. And then there's the others- Ghostbusters, Last Night in Soho, The Green Knight, F9, Candyman- it's been a dark 12 months at the multiplex. And yet it's important to remember what did get released in 2020, the films that provided an invaluable salve at a time they couldn't be needed more. Yes it will go down as a year of delays and shut screens, but 2020 delivered so much quality cinema, so many genuine gems of sound and vision that the usual annual top 10 has had to be doubled. Ultimately, I think it'll be defined as a year where, against all odds, cinema still found a way to triumph

As always, there's oversights, this year more than ever. In particular, I couldn't catch Never Rarely Sometimes Always, First Cow, The Vast of Night, Onward, Possessor, Wolfwalkers, Another Round, Sound of Metal, Kajillionaire or American Utopia in time for this list. And then there's Promising Young Woman, Palm Springs, Minari and Nomadland, films that have yet to be released in Ireland. Speaking of which, I've stuck to my principals when it comes to release dates, so apologies to Uncut Gems, Parasite, The Lighthouse and Portrait of a Lady on Fire, but they're last year's greatest. Also a shoutout to the blistering, truly excellent Sorry We Missed You, which did get a release in many countries in 2020 and I saw last year, but actually came out in Ireland in November 2019. All of these are great films that are worth your time, so seek them out when you can and support cinema if you can. For now, here's my celebration of the films that saved 2020

20. His House

In spite of- or maybe because of- how dark 2020 was, it's been an incredible year for horror. Remi Weeks' debut was electrifying on arrival, a horrifying and empathetic portrait of the refugee experience. The film is full of small-scale but frustratingly relevant observations that belie deep, visceral terror. It's inventive and elegant, mining scares from everyday moments of dread, a creeping feeling of displacement, and the lingering horrors of national trauma. His House is a ghost story in the truest sense, as much about what remains as it is about loss, brought to life by Sope Dirisu and Wunmi Mosaku. The film finds universal terror in specific details, and as a result, is scary in a way that feels eerily relevant in 2020

19. Weathering With You

If it's not quite on the level of his 2016 masterpiece Your Name, then Weathering With You is still proof that Makoto Shinkai and his team are still singular talents in animation right now. The film looks stunning but has the substance to match, capturing climate anxieties and teenage disillusion perfectly before weaving them into a story that's so optimistic that it almost feels out of place in 2020. It's a film that excels at articulating the big and the small; the same amount of passion is put into painting the huge, sky-shaking miracles as it is into the little routines of the everyday. This doesn't create contrast as much as a sort of dueling beauty of the massive and intimate forces that shape the world and the people in it

18. The Trial of the Chicago 7

Although it occasionally suffers from an overuse of Sorkinisms and showy direction, The Trial of the Chicago 7 was an awards heavyweight done right, shot with sincerity and brought to the screen with polish. The script is as sharp as any Sorkin offering but what really made Trial sting was how it mirrored the past and the present to find some sort of order amid the injustice. The riot sequences were electrifying and heartbreakingly true, but the highlights came in the courtroom sequences, where the heavyweight cast are bringing their A-games, clashing and strategising and exploding at each other. It's stagey but thrillingly so, with genuinely hard-hitting moments of commentary. Special mention too to Sacha Baron-Cohen in arguably his best performance to date, going full tilt and raging against the machine in one of the performances of the year

17. The Invisible Man

One of the delights of the first half of the year was the surprising rebirth of the Dark Universe. After The Mummy came to us DOA, Leigh Whannell came in with this about-turn, a genuinely thrilling, shocking and exciting one-and-done horror. It was such a smart, fresh take on trauma and abuse in a way that's rarely seen in the mainstream, refusing to ever romanticise the central relationship or portray it as anything other than toxic. Elizabeth Moss was possibly at her best too, keeping Cecelia as a complex, difficult character who is as empathetic as she is frustratingly human. The scares are full-blooded but the film works most in the small moments, drawing the audience in and forcing them to recognise what they're seeing. It feels like such a smart reninvention, cementing Jason Blum as the closest thing we have to a modern Roger Corman

16. The Half of It

2020 felt like a crucial year for cinema in so many ways, and The Half of It felt central to so much of the dialogue. It contributed to conversations about both distribution and onscreen representation while also feeling like an smart, fresh addition to the canon of modern teen cinema. It uses an age-old plot (Cyrano de Bergerac) to provide a vision of where the industry could be headed. In a year where Tenet an I'm Thinking of Ending Things employed intricate storytelling techniques in an effort to create something new, The Half of It demonstrated how effective simple stories can be when they're executed with intelligence and emotion, and was all the better for it

15. Mangrove

Steve McQueen's Small Axe was arguably the cinematic event of 2020, five incredible standalone TV movies that further prove that he's one of the essential storytellers of our time. Mangrove, the first of the quintet, is such a hard-hitting courtroom drama that really hones in on police brutality and systemic racism in a year where they've never been more relevant. Crucially, it was a film that transcended its time and place: these issues extend out of 1971 Notting Hill and become universal and honest. It was tough in the way that feels unique to McQueen but there's a jaded optimism that blends with the film's sense of genuine danger. It's the total opposite of escapism but by facing difficult truths head-on, it becomes honest and essential and deeply moving

14. Les Misérables

Unrelated to the Victor Hugo doorstopper and the Tom Hooper musical smash, Ladj Ly's incendiary debut felt like the most 2020 film of 2020, one that's impact is bound to be felt more in the years to come. It echoed the spirit of La Haine but still managed to feel so unique, bridging the frustrations and anger of an entire city and the forces at work within it while still acting as a propulsive, exciting thriller in its own right. What made it so effective was how it addressed the systems at work in its story. They're inherently broken, and totally unfit to protect the most vulnerable members of society. It was an epic, and a film that will undoubtedly get better the further we get from it

13. Calm With Horses

In a surprisingly strong year for Irish cinema (see also: Dating Amber), Calm With Horses was top of the pile. It was stylish, stark and striking, a violent, brutal tale of love and loyalty that, for all of its proudly-displayed influences, still feels new and raw. It's a heady blend of tones, bleak realism carefully mixing with something softer and dreamier, a secret ingredient that keeps the film from ever feeling obvious or played out. At times it feels like director Nick Rowland is trying to escape his own subject matter, edging the plot towards a tender portrait of a wounded father looking for some sort of redemption before the film yanks him and Cosmo Jarvis' enforcer back into the shadows of the underworld. The result is one of the most exciting pieces of Irish cinema of the last ten years

12. The Devil All the Time

Antonio Campos' latest has proven to be one of the years most divisive films, and it's not hard to see why. It's a hard film to love, so harsh and restrained and often frustratingly bleak. It urges the viewer to give up, to stop digging, and yet amid the sticky Southern heat and moral decay lies a quiet, disturbing beauty. It's the story of an America that's simultaneously buzzing with life and consumed by death, a chaotic primordial soup of crime and violence that births one of the year's best ensembles. MVP has to be Robert Pattison, spinning a web of sordid sin while spitting the lord's words through a thrillingly overcooked Southern drawl. It's a cruel film, but openly so, and those willing to engage with its dark charms will be greatly rewarded

11. Da 5 Bloods

All things being equal, Da 5 Bloods is the film of the year. Nevermind that it misses the top 10- that's just personal preference- because no film articulated the year's anguish and frustration better than Spike Lee's war epic. Upon its arrival in June, it was an angry, mournful elegy for a country that's been fighting the same conflicts for decades, projecting deep-seeded rage in lush, colourful bliss that packed a poignant sting. It took on another meaning two months later when Chadwick Boseman passed away at just 43 years old. Suddenly, the film revealed another layer of itself. And while it's not his final film, the image of his Stormin' Norman bathed in the reverential sun of the Vietnamese jungle was as striking as it was deeply, deeply heartfelt, immortalising him in cinema as a galvanising screen presence gone too soon

10. First Love

It was a tricky year for blockbusters. Birds of Prey was huge amounts of fun and Tenet brought the thrills but by and large, 2020 was a year where the box-office heavyweights were almost entirely benched. In their absence, Takshi Miike's First Love blazed in off the 2019 festival circuit to bring action, comedy and insane scrapes the likes of which Hollywood could only dream of. If it lacks the scale of a Fast and Furious or a Marvel, then it doubles the sheer energy and chaos and adds animated interludes, (nearly) naked ghosts and exploding dogs. It's hard to think of another film from this year that's as fun as First Love, which somehow keeps up Miike's 100+ film streak of fantastic, batshit crazy films

For all of the scrapes, scraps and setpieces, it's still Miike's romantic comedy, and it's in its softer moments where the film really comes alive. The characters are immediately lovable and the charm is off the charts, resulting in a furious thriller that is as good-natured as it is absolutely insane. It flew under the radar when it was released on Valentine's Day without much fanfare, but if it's thrills you're seeking, it's a hit of pure adrenaline, with added sugar and some dark laughs for good measure

9. Babyteeth

Babyteeth has a deceptively morbid premise. If, after a year like 2020, you weren't quite up to watching a film about a sixteen year-old girl dying of cancer, that's completely understandable, but Babyteeth approaches its difficult subject matter confidently and calmly, leading to a film about death that's weirdly life-affirming. It's dryly quirky and darkly hilarious, but neither of these things come at the expense of the film's emotion. Instead, they aid director Shannon Murphy as she lines up the film's sucker punch, lending the bizarre world of suburban Australia enough colour to combat the encroaching tragedy. It's a countdown towards the inevitable that, much like Eliza Scanlen's disaffected heroine Milla, refuses to let morbid circumstances get in the way of what's important

Babyteeth is a film about death that's not really interested in the end, instead analysing how such a dark, difficult situation warps and changes everyone involved in it. Babyteeth is at its best when Murphy shows the audience Milla from the perspectives of the people around her, from her worried parents to her troubled older boyfriend. Crucially, all of these characters are framed with love. The film likes all of its players, and ensures that you do too, and the result is smart, poignant and hugely engaging

8. Lovers Rock

Lovers Rock is a monument to human connection and the black experience in a year that couldn't have needed it more. The best of the Small Axe films sees Steve McQueen construct a safe space for a group of West London partygoers in 1980 before letting them have at it for a transcendent 68 minutes. It's light on plot but rich with feeling and detail. It's a film that revels in specificity, painstakingly recreating the sights and sounds and smells of its time and place and encourages the viewer to immerse themselves in this world McQueen has built. Maybe it's not as hard-hitting as the rest of the series but that never feels like a problem: the film is a heady, euphoric concoction that's at its best when it just lets its characters be

It's a beautiful piece of cinema that always feels vital. The rush and excitement of a night out where anything can happen and everything can change permeates this film. It buzzes from the opening minutes where the party is meticulously prepared, and explodes into something immensely powerful when an entire room of people break into an a capella rendition of Janet Kay's Silly Games. It's a celebration of community, of coming together to celebrate just because they can. By the end, you're left slightly bereft, wishing that it could have lasted just that little bit longer, which is perhaps the best thing a film can do

7. Dick Johnson is Dead

Dick Johnson is Dead opens with a man playing with his grandkids. When he's done, he gets up and begins to go home, only to get crushed and killed by a falling air vent. And then he gets up, revealing that the whole thing was a set up. He dies a few times over the course of the film, a gloriously off-kilter documentary from his daughter Kristen that captures a man she's gradually losing to dementia onscreen. It's weirdly fun for something that directly engages with death and loss, but what makes it work is how it leaves everything out in the open. It's a film dealing with huge existential absolutes, but by depicting death and heaven and even Johnson's own funeral as quirky shorts, it conjures up surprising amounts of warmth and comfort in an entirely transparent way. Kristen Johnson doesn't just want you to know why she's doing this; she wants to show you how, too

The best thing in it though is Dick Johnson, the best character in a 2020 movie. It's almost hard to believe this man is real, so unquenchable is his lust for life and penchant for mischief. He's easy to love and makes good company for 89 minutes, and when the film tips into morbidity with a glorious eleventh-hour bait-and-switch that slides into tearjerker territory, he yanks the audience back into the his weird world with an incredible reveal and a wonderful prank. It's one of the strangest, funniest and most moving movies of the year. 

6. Soul

Pete Docter's Pixar outings have steadily been edging further and further into weighty existential territory. If Monsters Inc. tackled parental responsibility, Up dissected the grieving process, and Inside Out visualised the inner-workings of the brain, then Soul takes it up a notch to question our very reason for existing. Narratively the film feels very on-brand for Pixar, like a remix of their unmistakable story beats and images put together to create something new. What feels fresh is the conclusion the film reaches. It's a slightly harder truth achieved in a more abstract way, but something about that feels exciting. It's visually stunning in the bizarre world of the Great Before but the heart of the film lies in the warmth and detail that New York is rendered in

It's a film with a passionately argued case for the small joys of life. It frames the huge cosmic ideas of its story as utilitarian and unremarkable compared to the beautiful things we see everyday but often miss. Ultimately it works out a little smaller stakes-wise when compared to most of Pixar's catalogue, and viewers craving the studio's trademark emotional gutpunch won't find it here, but that's not what Soul is going for. Instead, it's a film that triggers thought and reflection, urging the audience to walk away with a refreshed appreciation for the things that make them who they are. And 25 years deep into telling these beautifully crafted stories, that feels like the right place for Pixar to be

5. Mank 

When Mank released at the start of December, it arrived at quite possibly the optimal time. If the film release schedule had gone as planned, it would have come after a fairly standard year at the movies, with the usual franchise fare and festival big hitters, and Denis Villeneuve's Dune being released just two weeks later. Obviously, none of that happened, but that gave Mank an eerily perfect context. After all, it's a film about Hollywood at a precarious time, looking backwards and forward at the same time to arrive at a truth it already knew from the start: the movies are a machine, entirely fueled by the green stuff

If that sounds cynical, then it's not giving credit to the love with which Fincher renders Tinseltown. Written by his late father and gloriously brought to life by a team of true artists, Mank's vision of a Hollywood on the cusp is a delight, a space to inhabit for 131 wonderfully transportative minutes. Gary Oldman's at his boozy best but it's Amanda Seyfried who steals the show as a light among the bitter cynicism who ultimately winds up as another cog in the machine. It's funny, it's poignant and it even allows itself moments of dogged optimism. Mank is one of the real feats of the year, a deep dive into the dark heart of entertainment, where everything is politics. To borrow from the Hollywood Review's take on Citizen Kane, Mr. Genius has come through again

4. True History of the Kelly Gang

January 2020 saw the release of Sam Mendes' immense 1917, an engaging, engrossing war poem about a collective loss of innocence. It was a great showcase for lead George McKay, whose greatest work to date snuck out onto VOD a few months later with this snarling, viciously warped take on history. True History of the Kelly Gang is a powerful fusion of tones and moods. It takes actual figures and events, frames them in the earthy, naturalistic cinema of 70s Herzog, combines that with bloodsplattered Ozsploitation and then sets the whole thing to a skull-scorching punk soundtrack and proceeds to laugh as it gleefully destroys the very notion of a conventional biopic

That may sound like a lot- and it is- but True History succeeds by telling its story so confidently. From the start, it assures viewers that it knows what it's doing, so when it lapses into experimentation, it ensures that you're dragged along for the ride. It's a demented explosion of bad taste and cinematic tradition that thrums with this otherworldly, dangerous energy that Justin Kurzel wrestles to the screen with surprising elegance for something so chaotic. It takes colonial powers to task and has a damn fun time doing it. It's big yet focused, exercising great discipline while doling out huge amounts of madness. It's a film that doesn't settle for the accepted version of the story, instead ripping any sanitised version of history open to ensure that it's left to interpretation. Is this what really happened? Who knows, and who cares. True History of the Kelly Gang certainly doesn't, and is all the better for it

3. Rocks

Rocks is an absolute miracle of a film. It's a monument to sisterhood, a love letter to the power of friendship and a celebration of collaborative filmmaking. It captures a specific time and place, preserving this moment in late 2010s London on film forever, leaving it behind for future generations. Its story- about a 15 year old girl and her brother are left to fend for themselves on the streets of London after being abandoned by their mother- sounds grim, but in execution, that couldn't be further from the truth. Instead, the film uses a kind of weaponised positivity, refusing to give into the harsh circumstances at the centre of the story and suggesting that even everything if else goes wrong, love will always come through in the end

It's a refreshing take on a coming of age story too. At a time when it's become fashionable for stuffy thinkpieces to blame young people for struggling with problems they didn't ask to bear, Rocks directly rejects this way of thinking and holds its heroine up as strong, capable and optimistic. She never feels sorry for herself and the film never defines her by her situation, and as such Rocks begins to feel like such a tonic, an antidote to encroaching pessimism that urges the audience to have faith in the next generation. It already feels like a classic, a breath of fresh air in British cinema that seeks to counter increasingly insurmountable social issues with huge amounts of hope and it is truly special

2. Bacurau

I feel like I've talked about Bacurau a lot this year. To be fair, there's a lot to talk about, but forgive me if I repeat myself. Kleber Mendonça Filho's film is so full and complete and alive, covering so much ground in 132 minutes that it's amazing that a) it exists at all and b) that it's such an elegant piece of genre storytelling. It's a full-blooded action film that builds on Mendonça Filho's knack for creating self-contained, dynamic worlds while also providing a scathing commentary on Western entitlement. Along the way it flirts with science-fiction and horror and makes the whole thing feel like a spaghetti Western. And if that wasn't enough, Bacurau is filled with pathos and heart, drawing so much eerie dissonance from the feeling of being an outsider in your own home

The way all of these ideas and tones are conducted is nothing short of masterful. The first half makes use of this gorgeous, menacing slow-burn before hitting the audience with this hard shift in tone and perspective and then cranking it up to eleven in the climax with hardcore gore and venomous social commentary. In a year where the future of cinema seemed to be constantly up for debate, Bacurau felt like a hybrid of everything that film can do at its best. It was a remix of the past that signaled what could come next. It was exciting, both in its high-octane, trippy thrills and its hare-brained fusion of well established styles in cult cinema with more tradional arthouse sensibilites. It felt like such a passionate reminder of why filmmaking matters, and for that, it stands out as something truly magnificent

1. Saint Maud 

Religion and horror has always made for a good combination. Saint Maud is a religious horror in the most literal way, where the terror in the story doesn't come from supernatural forces or some sort of demon, but from the deeply distressing acts committed in the name of God. The genius of Maud, however, comes from how it uses perspective. We see everything through Mofyd Clarke's nervy eyes, but crucially, the film never frames her as clearly good or evil. Instead, Rose Glass uses this to tell a story about faith, about how it tricks us into doing the wrong thing, about how anything can become a sign or a challenge, and about how acting on blind devotion can lead to both tragedy and salvation. There's so many individual moments of genius packed into 84 brisk minutes. Glass is an economic master of horror who often gets the best scares from sharp, deliberate jolts rather than a sense of lingering dread

Along the way, the film reveals itself as something darkly beautiful. It's so layered and nuanced and full of love. Seeing that love be misplaced and misinterpreted and used to justify all sorts of evils is this film's wicked genius; the masterstroke that generates huge amounts of terror and tragedy. The performances stun, not least Mofyd Clarke in one of the most striking star-making turns I've ever seen. Saint Maud is a masterpiece of horror, not just in 2020 but of the 21st century in general. It is stunning, and it leaves me so incredibly excited to see what Rose Glass does next

Top 20 TV Shows of 2020

2020 was an awful year for so many reasons, but surprisingly, one medium that's had a great 12 months was TV. It was a year where people were relying on their televisions for solace and comfort. Maybe that came in the form of a murder-mystery documentary about big cats, or twelve hours of Jude Law being tortured in real time. Maybe your lockdown was made brighter by Schitt's Creek and its surprise Emmy-sweep. Maybe you cursed the way Supernatural ended, or obsessed over Normal People, or became one of those weird people who thinks that Twin Peaks: The Return is a movie. Maybe you thought that Better Call Saul overtook Breaking Bad in terms of quality and are confused why more people aren't watching it. Maybe you squeed any time Baby Yoda did literally anything. Maybe you wondered when chess became so cool and seriously considered taking it up after The Queen's Gambit. Maybe you review bombed season two of The Boys because you've got no patience. And maybe you just held on for 2021 when Disney+ would ensure nearly weekly Marvel content. The point is, TV proved to be a serious salve this year, providing not just entertainment but a means of connection for so many people. So much so that, in the end, my annual top 10 had to be doubled. I watched so much television this year, new and old, and it was an invaluable escape throughout the hell that was 2020. The following are the twenty(ish) new shows that gave me joy and peace this year. Please enjoy

I didn't see everything, though, so here's a list of shows that I wanted to catch in 2020 but couldn't:

The Last Dance

Little Fires Everywhere

I May Destroy You

Ted Lasso

I'll Be Gone in the Dark

Quiz

Mrs America

I Hate Suzie

Ozark

Bridgerton

Kingdom

And then there's Pen15 and Schitt's Creek, two shows that I know would crack the list for sure... if I'd seen the latest seasons. I know they're ace and intend to get up to date at some point, but for now, here are 20 shows I've loved in 2020

20. The Umbrella Academy

After a disappointing first outing, Netflix's super-sibling-saga came back with a vengeance in its second year. It was a soft-reboot of sorts that saw the Hargreeves family flung across seven different periods in the early 60s before converging days before JFK's assassination. Yes, really. It was addictively wild and genuinely fun, the kind of high-concept, gloriously off-kilter hijinks that the first season just missed out on delivering. The Umbrella Academy's second season felt pacey and urgent, setting its end in sight from episode one and urging viewers to just enjoy the ride. What makes it work so well is the cast. The ensemble isn't just great here, they're paramount to making the often aggressively bizarre plot beats flow seamlessly. Particular shoutouts to Kate Walsh as the venomous Handler, Elliot Page as the infinitely sympathetic Vanya and Aidan Gallagher's very stressed out Number Five. It was breathless, chaotic television that finally found its footing, and if it can deliver on its typically batshit cliffhanger ending, then we're in for another timeline-disrupting rollercoaster of television

19. Three Busy Debras/ Aunty Donna's Big Ol' House of Fun

That's right folks, at number 19, we've got a tie. Both of these shows are great for the same reason and deliver largely the same ultra-surreal laughs, so it makes sense to put them in the same slot. Three Busy Debras is the kind of intensely weird, easily bingeable comedy that Adult Swim's become known for, adapted from a play by the three on-point leads. It was an irresistible dive into the suburban dreamscape of Lemoncurd that played like an unholy fusion of Blue Velvet and The Eric Andre Show where the jokes often feel like they're coming from another plane of reality. Naturally it's an acquired taste, but between the surprisingly sharp ATM episode, the horrifying sleepover and the endlessly memeable Cartwheel Club, it was six 11 minute bursts of pure, unflinchingly weird hilarity

And if you like Three Busy Debras, chances are you'll fall for Aunty Donna, too. The Youtube comedy troupe take their antics to Netflix with aplomb. The skits themselves range in quality but there's so many of them and they're all performed with such verve and energy that the misses feel minimal. Gags like Blair Buoyant the Clairvoyant and the sudden conversion of the trio's house into a bar are typical of the energetic stretching of one joke into a five-minute barrage of silliness that more often than not continues to occur throughout the episode. Again, the results won't be for everyone, but few gags were as refreshingly stupid this year as the man who definitely doesn't want to drink your piss 

18. After Life

For every moment in After Life where Ricky Gervais gives in to some of his more tiresome indulgences, there's notes of genuine heart and humour that save it from being another extension of his stand-up persona. Released back in April, it was another dive into the softer side of Gervais that we really don't see enough of. What really worked about the second round of the Netflix sad-com is how the show made use of its ensemble. Supporting characters like Paul Kaye's laddish psychiatrist or Joe Wilkinson's postman Pat lend the show's humour more depth and scope. We also saw more of Kerry Goldliman's recently departed Lisa and spent more time with Tony's ailing father Ray, both of whom are crucial to cushioning the show's razor-sharp cynicism. The show also excelled in its tragic moments, treating them with candour and respect. After Life is set to wrap up in 2021 with its third season. Here's hoping he sticks the landing

17. Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist

As far as debuts went, Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist was one of 2020's best. It was sugar-sweet and aggressively optimistic at a time where they were hard virtues to come by. Austin Winberg's sublime musical comedy proved to be an effective antidote to 2020 with hefty doses of humour, heart and showstopping musical numbers in what was a surprisingly nuanced take on grief and tragedy. The cast are stunning- not least an ace turn from Alex Newell- but first among equals is Jane Levy. Her Zoey is one of the year's best characters, instantly likeable, always relatable and frustratingly human. The show finds a happy, effective formula early on before turning it on its head in the latter half. Winberg explores every corner of Zoey's powers, with high points including the sudden reversal of her musical telepathy that leaves her singing her own thoughts out loud, or a deeply touching number entirely performed by deaf actors. Tuning in each week was an invaluable salve during the first lockdown, and a passionately argument for the kind of gradually unfolding storytelling experience impossible to find through binging

16. Devs

Nothing about Devs is easy. The plot unfolds slowly and cryptically, the performances are deliberately muted and the concepts at work are never fully explained. And yet, sci-fi wunderkind Alex Garland rewards patience, using his episodic format to let the story unfold into something unnerving, unexpected and deeply moving. It's an experience, a show that explores concepts of free will vs. determinism while simultaneously using them to propel nail-biting setpieces. Lyndon and Katie's confrontation on the dam is a real marvel, using the audience's knowledge of what's inevitably going to happen against them and injecting heavy doses of feeling into a show that, in different hands, could have come off as coldly mechanical. It's a show concerned with huge philosophical absolutes but always remembers why those concepts matter at all: because they're about people. People who go through the universe helping each other and hurting each other and wondering what it all means. Devs was the kind of viewing experience that was unattainable anywhere else in 2020, exploring in eight short episodes what many series don't achieve over eight seasons

15. Dead to Me

Dead to Me stumbled onto Netflix in 2019 like Big Little Lies' fun, sarcastic cousin. It wasn't a perfect show by any means but it struck gold in its two leads and ended on a cliffhanger so expertly pitched that a follow-up was all but inevitable. Fortunately, the second season is funnier, darker and more twistedly unpredictable than the first. Mastermind Liz Feldman ups the stakes for Judy and Jen, throwing all sorts of messy, challenging reveals into their already deeply-warped path. Following on from season one's absolute bombshell of an ending, the show is able to approach loss from a more complicated angle. At times it almost feels like a ghost story but Feldman always wrangles the show back to Earth with unexpected tenderness and the best quips on TV. Christina Applegate and Linda Cardellini are as perfect as ever, but the show hugely benefits from the arrival of Natalie Morales' Michelle. She softens the tone while also making the plot so much more complicated, and by giving Dead to Me these massive, real-feeling stakes, Feldman is able to navigate the tricky concepts of grief and guilt in a way that's both enjoyably pulpy and hugely empathetic. That's not an easy thing to do, which is part of what makes the prospect of the show's upcoming ultimate season that much more exciting. If you haven't watched Dead to Me yet, pour yourself a glass of orange wine and dig in

14. Sex Education 

At the risk of turning this into some sort of gross euphemism, Sex Education's first season was well-meaning, occasionally clumsy and hugely enjoyable. It didn't always seem to know where it was going but it was confident enough to get there anyway. As Otis learns in a hilariously X-rated opening montage, practice makes perfect, and that's something the show's second season demonstrates across eight delightful, funny and heartfelt episodes. There's a much bigger scope this time around, and the show is able to focus on all of its characters so smoothly and completely. The world of the show feels so dynamic and alive, no one feels short-changed, and the ensemble is so diverse that the show can explore so many issues with intimacy and honesty without it ever feeling like a Very Special Episode. The show's discussion on sexual assault in particular is so nuanced and vital: serious props to series creator Laurie Nunn and her team for bringing Aimee's story to the screen with such sensitivity. It just feels like a privilege to spend eight episodes in the world of these characters, and the result is the rare teen series that can appeal to nearly any demographic. Why? Because for all of its when/where-are-we aesthetic shenanigans, Sex Education understands its cast better than most shows on TV. And that's worth celebrating

13. What We Do in the Shadows

They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Whoever they are, they've obviously never watched FX's glorious What We Do in the Shadows. The film was an unlikely smash, but the prospect of a series seemed like such a risk. Lo and behold, the first season was a riot, extending the film's legacy in a way that was consistently hilarious and delightful. Even still, the idea of a second season still felt like a gamble. What else could they do with the Staten Island quintet? Well for starters, there's Guillermo's ongoing struggle with his vampire hunting destiny, a genuinely fantastic plot that undercuts all the laughs. The gags are still killer though, with the highlights this season including an undead Hayley Joel Osmond, a coven of semen-stealing witches, regular human bartender Jackie Daytona, and the wonderful misunderstanding that is the Superb Owl Party. The show knows exactly what it's working with this time around, and it could have a claim to being the funniest show on TV right now, so purely hilarious and infinitely quotable are the series' jokes. It's consistently hilarious, which in a year that desperately needed laughs, was very welcome indeed

12. The Haunting of Bly Manor

The Haunting of Bly Manor had a lot to live up to. The spiritual sequel to The Haunting of Hill House that's also following Mike Flanagan's ace take on Stephen King with Doctor Sleep, Bly wasn't without its detractors. And okay, it's not Hill House, which stunned with a nuanced, gorgeously realised take on collective grief. But here's the thing: it was never trying to be. Flanagan's take on The Turn of the Screw is quiet and eerie; not scary as much as it is deeply sad. The characters are instantly lovable- shoutout to Owen and his ace food puns- but they also tie perfectly into Bly's take on trauma and the scars that form over time. It's proof that Flanagan has found real magic in his ensemble, from returning players Victoria Pedretti, Oliver Jackson-Cohen, Henry Thomas and Kate Sigel to on-point newcomers Rahul Kohli and T'nia Miller. Every episode feels like another piece of the puzzle, with standouts including self-contained ghost story The Altar of the Dead and time-bending heartbreaker The Romance of of Certain Old Clothes. And although its central framing device doesn't always work, the destination it arrives at is as sincere and heartfelt as Flanagan has ever been: a beautiful, fitting end to an equally stunning season of television

11. The Good Place

It says a lot about how genuinely fantastic The Good Place is that, despite the fact that only four episodes aired in 2020- way back in January no less- it's still one of the year's standout shows 12 months later. The Good Place was always a show that was unafraid to experiment, to shed any previous conceptual commitments and start again from scratch, and as such, it was always going to face serious challenges when coming up with an ending. Fortunately, the series' swansong is as good as it's ever been, four standout chapters that feature high emotional stakes, heady existential conceits and oh-so many laughs. There's huge guest-turns from the likes of Timothy Olyphant and Lisa Kudrow and belting performances from the whole main cast, but special mention as always to the effortlessly charming Ted Danson. What really worked about the finale though was how specific it was. It wasn't a definite end point in all of these character's lives, but a crucial climactic moment that lets each of them decide the ending they want. It's wonderful stuff as always, the perfect end to one of TV's finest comedies

10. Gangs of London

2019 left an Iron Throne-sized hole in the TV canon, and conversation naturally turned to what show- if any- could follow. And while Westworld tries and fails to be HBO's ace in the hole, the natural successor to GOT comes from a slightly more surprising place: Sky Atlantic's Gangs of London. And no, that's not just because Catelyn Stark is in it. Gangs of London has constantly shifting politics, uneasy familial bonds and capital-v violence beautifully brought to the screen by martial arts mastermind Gareth Evans. It's epic television, the story of a city on the brink as the forces that govern it go to war. In a year where blockbuster entertainment was hard to come by, Gangs delivered, especially in its stunning fifth episode that followed a white-knuckle siege on a Welsh safehouse. But what made it work was its throughline, the central mystery around recently murdered patriarch Finn Wallace, expertly played by Colm Meaney. As the show makes sense of what he's left behind, it gradually begins to count down to destruction, threatening a total meltdown that would bring London's underworld to its knees. It's a showcase for all involved, not least leading man Sope Dirisu as the conflicted, tortured undercover cop. It brought a whole universe together with elegance and verve, cementing itself as the most exciting (and brutal) show of the year

9. The Queen's Gambit

It would have been easy for The Queen's Gambit to be another prestige miniseries that attracts critical love and awards attention, but no one actually watched. Thankfully, that wasn't the case at all, and the show turned out to be both highly engaging and a surprising talking point. Its success shouldn't have been a shock- the cast are excellent, the writing is sharp and the whole show just looks gorgeous- but on paper, a miniseries about chess doesn't exactly scream "your next binge". And yet, The Queen's Gambit stunned from the start, a classy, exciting show about obsession, addiction and loss all told through the prism of chess. Anya Taylor-Joy continues the hot streak she's been riding for the past few years as troubled prodigy Beth Harmon, whose rise and fall is charted across seven breathless, engaging episodes. Along the way is a portrait of a young woman fighting through a life fraught with disadvantages who never once lets that define her. The show navigates its themes the same way Beth navigates her life- through chess- and by imbuing every match with huge amounts of meaning and massive dramatic stakes, it ensures that newcomers and grandmasters alike are left on the edge of their seat

8. The Mandalorian

*Both seasons of The Mandalorian were released in Ireland in 2020, so both seasons are being counted on this list*

If you're a long time reader, you'll know my frustration with the most recent installments in the Star Wars universe. After the wonderful The Last Jedi, Solo was frustratingly dull and The Rise of Skywalker came out creatively numb, so one of the joys of 2020 has been watching The Mandalorian and finally getting excited about Star Wars again. The first season was a strong start that explored previously unseen corners of the galaxy, but it's in the show's second year where it really turns up the heat. From its aesthetic- a spaghetti western/ Lone Wolf and Cub fusion- to the largely self-contained episodes that slowly reveal a larger story, there's a lot that Jon Favreau has nailed in The Mandalorian. Even the second season's gradual introduction of familiar faces and places feels relatively smooth, especially impressive in a series that can never quite master fanservice. But the essential ingredient to making it work is the relationship between Mando and the Child, whose name we finally found out this season. It's genuinely tender, and lends huge amounts of heart to the big-budget sci-fi action that the show delivers in every episode. The Mandalorian has done what was progressively beginning to seem impossible: it made Star Wars cool again. And that, my friends, is the way

7. Lovecraft Country

 

It's been a tricky year for America. From George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter protests in the Summer to the most contentious election in living memory in November, it's been a difficult twelve months, so Lovecraft Country couldn't have come at a better time. A righteously angry horror series that explores the terrors of America's past while also navigating the titular author's problematic politics, Misha Green's show is interested in using genre to explore highly relevant social issues from the start. It mirrors its horror (haunted houses, demons and secret societies) with real world terror (racism, classism and sexism), and through doing that, Green is demanding that history doesn't repeat itself more than it already has. The scares are sublime, creatively icky and stuffed with meaning, and the show draws on history and lore that urges the viewer to keep educating themselves beyond what they see onscreen. Lovecraft Country is intelligent and thrilling and filled with some of the year's best characters and Green ensures that everyone gets their due and feels important. Particularly she hones in on the women in Atticus Freeman's life. Episodes like Strange Case and I Am aren't just great episodes of television; they're pieces of genre storytelling that explore issues faced by women of colour at the time and in the present. In a year where the American identity was fraught with chaos and uncertainty, Lovecraft Country snapped things back into brilliant, bloody focus

6. Primal 

Western animation has been on the up and up for the last decade now. Shows like Gravity Falls and Steven Universe have pushed the envelope for animated storytelling on TV, but the medium has also been embraced by showrunners looking to tell stories that are slightly more adult in their content. Primal is, simply put, the best animated show currently airing right now. Created by Samurai Jack's Gennedy Tartakovsky, the show follows a caveman and a dinosaur united in tragedy and only able to rely on each other as they traverse a perilous prehistoric landscape. The show looks gorgeous, fully making use of its medium to spin yarns that just aren't possible in live action. The aesthetic lies somewhere between a heavy-metal album cover and the worst trip you've ever had, but what makes Primal so great is its surprisingly huge amounts of empathy. The way Spear and Fang navigate their respective losses is rendered with such sensitivity and nuance that goes a long way in forming the show's backbone. As the show goes on, episodes like A Cold Death and The Coven of the Damned demonstrate that while the world is full of suffering, sharing their pain makes people/dinosaurs/mammoths/witches stronger, and it's this demonstration of collective grief that makes Primal so engrossing. It's fantastic, the same mix of eye-popping visual storytelling and genuine emotional stakes that made Samurai Jack a classic

5. The Boys

2020 was the first year in a decade without an installment in the MCU. In the meantime, the Snyder cult finally got their wish and countless articles were written pondering the hole the general absence of comic book films left in the pop-culture landscape. And in this breathing space, we got the second season of Amazon Prime's insane, riotous The Boys. The show was good in its first year but that was just a warm up for what Eric Kripke and his team have dreamed up for Butcher, Hughie, Starlight et al. in this utterly batshit second outing, The show balances an intelligent take on the abuse of power, the rise of the alt-right and the power of the media with the crass insanity of superhero porn, disembowled whales and a very horny bulldog. It's trashy, pulpy and fun but the way it explores its ideas is genuinely shocking and relevant. The montage at the start of the seventh episode demonstrates how alt-right movements gain traction over social media and manipulate the weak, and the very idea of Aya Cash's Stormfront is terrifyingly appropriate for 2020. And although the weekly release drew scorn from some fans, it actually really worked in the show's favour, giving the insane world of the show time to expand and develop. And the payoff was more than worth it: one beatdown in the finale is deeply, deeply satisfying. The Boys was undoubtedly the show for a year without Marvel, gleefully, ruthlessly poking fun at our obsession with superheroes and our worst social urges in one fell swoop. In a word? Diabolical

4. Ghosts

If you've been paying attention to British TV comedy in the last few years, you'll know that the trend at the minute is the sadcom: Fleabag, After Life, Uncle and a wealth of other shows that ground their comedy with moments of frank heartbreak. And that's great- all of these shows are ace, and balance their contrasting tones wonderfully- but there's something to be said about the purity of humble, unassuming silliness. Ghosts doesn't have anything the say about the human condition or the society we live in. There's no social commentary or deeper themes, and despite its post-watershed airtime, the comedy is fairly general and accessible for all audiences.

 And yet, Ghosts is one of the best things on TV. Why? Because it's funny. Written by and starring the troupe behind Horrible Histories and Yonderland, Ghosts demonstrates how much this ensemble have honed their comedy over the last eleven years. They've adapted their style for an adult audience wonderfully, especially in the second season. The show is hilarious, benefitting from a varied cast of characters that allow it to explore so many different kinds of comedy. Newcomers to the troupe like Charlotte Richie and Lolly Adefope assimilate so well to the team's hyper-specific brand of humour, and the result is one of the funniest casts on TV. It's such a warm show too. Every character is likeable, from lovelorn poet Thomas Thorne to ridiculously charming caveman Robin, and the way the show is gradually teasing out its characters backstories this season is great, too. The show has won itself and ardent, dedicated fanbase, and it's not hard to see why. In a dark year, its blend of kindness and silliness was greatly appreciated

And the Christmas special? Truly wonderful

3. Normal People

Normal People was unlike anything else on TV in 2020. For one, it's hard to think of another show this year that attracted this level of obsession, to the point where even Connell's trademark chain had its own ferociously devoted fanbase. Part of the phenomenon of the show was undeniably in the timing, delivering intimacy and human connection right at the start of the lockdown. As such, the show's gorgeously observed moments of love and empathy really resonated. Connell and Marianne's love story was irresistible, painfully real and frustratingly imperfect but also so full of genuine warmth. It attracted huge amounts of attention for its sex scenes, and rightfully so: it portrays the characters' intimacy beautifully while also examining how they're using sex as a form of communication. It's in these moments that they give each other permission to engage with the parts of themselves they keep hidden from the rest of the world, and it's here where we as an audience see them as they really are

It's a beautiful love story that also expresses so much more along the way. The eighth episode feels like it's ripped right out of Luca Guadagnino's playbook, while episode ten is a frank, hard-hitting take on male mental health that's never felt more relevant. The show is always empathetic to its characters even when nobody else- including themselves- can understand them. Connell's spiral into isolated depression and Marianne's unhealthy choices in her relationships are treated delicately, which is exactly what allows directors Lenny Abrahamson and Hettie MacDonald, as well as writers Sally Rooney, Alice Birch and Mark O'Rowe, to open their inner worlds and put the most specific, powerful human emotions onscreen. Normal People is a beautiful whirlwind of a show that flies by in a heartbeat and leaves hugely profound observations on love and loss in its wake

2. Bojack Horseman

After beginning with a first season that nobody really knew what to do with, Bojack Horseman grew into one of the funniest, smartest and most brutal shows on TV. It approached depression and addiction with honesty, tore into the dark side of the entertainment industry and delivered some note perfect animal puns over the course of six seasons, but its final trick was its most impressive: it had a perfect ending. The second half of season six was very much Bojack's downward spiral, as his past caught up with his and flung him to the darkest territory that the show has ever tackled. As Bojack's life unraveled, the show forced us to see him as he really is, leaving every one of his sins out in the open. Naturally, it was an uncomfortable, suffocating watch, but it still found time to give Princess Carolyn her happy ending and deliver one of the best depictions of the writing process ever put to screen. It was classic Bojack: emotional and intelligent and brimming with life

But what made the last batch of episodes so monumentally great was how respectful they felt. Not necessarily to the characters, but to the show's carefully constructed tone. The show was never going to have a happy ending- that would be too easy- but too bleak of a finish would have betrayed the uneasy hope the show had built in Bojack over 69 episodes. The finale is uncertain but optimistic, very much keeping true to the tone the show had perfected over its run. It was beautiful, heartbreaking stuff that somehow still managed to be one of the funniest shows on TV. Will we ever see the likes of Bojack again? Maybe not, but it was nice while it lasted

1. Better Call Saul

It seems like such a long time ago, but back in 2015, Better Call Saul was this unlikely little spin-off that crept out of the legacy of one of the greatest shows of all time and came out pretty good in its own right. Five years later, Vince Gilligan's masterful extension of Breaking Bad is a) quite possibly the best show on TV right now and b) maybe even better than its drug-cooking older brother. This was the year the four-season slow burn paid off, where the eternally shifting dynamic between Jimmy and Kim clashed with the bloody, nightmarish underworld and exploded into something beautiful. Every time it looked like Gilligan had played his ace, he immediately followed up with something even better. Wexler vs. Goodman, Bagman and Bad Choice Road are three of the greatest hours of television in recent memory, but the genius of Saul lies in how it takes these standout chapters and makes them work in such glorious harmony. They're parts of a whole, but so much more as well: individual landmarks along a larger road to ruin

As always, the blend of humour and tragedy is perfect. One minute you're giggling at Jimmy's escalating pranks on the delightfully dickish Howard, the next you're deeply distressed by Kim's confrontation of the fearsome Lalo Salamanca. The show is a masterclass in tone, but the longer it goes on, the better Gilligan seems to become at layering the world of Jimmy McGill with pathos and meaning. Jimmy's relationship with Kim has become so central to the heart of the show, and Gilligan dangles our uncertainity of her fate over us, daring us to keep watching to find out what happens. Rhea Seehorn is incredible, giving the audience a perspective on a side of Jimmy that he doesn't even know he has. Gilligan puts their relationship to the test in this season but always teases more chaos to come. Everything in this season comes to a head in the last moment, a jaw-dropping ten second-long gesture that promises that, whatever happens next, it's not going to be good

Every episode cemented the legacy of both the show and its creator. Breaking Bad was already the quintessential modern American myth but Saul surpasses it with a depth of feeling that Walter White's cold sociopathy never allowed for. We love Jimmy enough to hate him every time he makes a wrong turn, and the show is actually more thrilling because we know where most of the cast end up. There's nothing on TV like Better Call Saul right now, a perfect add-on to a masterpiece that's a marvel in its own right. It's truly spectacular, and my favourite show of 2020

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