Every “best of” list is by definition ridiculous, but best-of-the-decade columns constitute a particular form of lunacy. For standard year-end lists, writers are reacting in the moment, often (at least in my experience) only having seen each film once. The process is instinctive, reactive, impulsive; we’re basing our rankings off of relatively recent viewing experiences, often still buzzing from the visceral and emotional highs they gave us. The relatively short timeframe helps us make fair comparisons; when everything is equally fresh in our minds, we’re less vulnerable to recency bias or the primacy effect.
The method of compiling a “best of the decade” list is different. Instead of relying on the power of immediacy, it hinges on the peculiarity of memory. What strikes you in the moment isn’t always what lingers with you. Films that once landed with considerable force recede from view; conversely, certain scenes and images implant themselves in your mind, refusing to be washed away with the tide.
Not that initial viewing experiences are irrelevant. Far from it: Each of the 20 titles on the forthcoming list appeared on my year-end top 10 in the respective year of their release. But in combing through the 1,400-plus movies that I watched over the past decade—if you’re interested, the unofficial total is 1,415—I found myself gravitating toward the experiences that have stuck with me. This isn’t, strictly speaking, an empirical list of the greatest films of the past 10 years (as if creating such a catalog is even possible); instead, it’s a list of the movies that have come to mean the most to me. These are the pictures I think about most often, and which have shaped my relationship with cinema, and the world.
But first—and keeping in mind that 20 is a very small number—let’s talk about what didn’t make it. Every critic in the known galaxy adored Mad Max: Fury Road—it’s handily the top choice on Metacritic’s compilation of decade-best lists—but while I found it to be an extraordinarily impressive production, it never gripped me on an emotional level. I very much liked a number of other films that were consensus critical picks—among them Moonlight, Boyhood, A Separation, The Florida Project, 12 Years a Slave, Manchester by the Sea, Get Out, Before Midnight, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, and The Wolf of Wall Street—but honestly, none of those was ever really in contention. Carol, in contrast, came very close; that one hurt to cut. Same for Drive and The Spectacular Now. Seven years ago, I was convinced that Zero Dark Thirty would make this list, but it’s gradually slipped out of my consciousness. I’m not smart enough to properly appreciate Under the Skin. I failed to connect with Certified Copy or Melancholia. I actively dislike Holy Motors and The Tree of Life because I have bad taste.
Another obstacle: To avoid stacking the list with my favorite directors, I imposed a rule limiting myself to no more than one title per filmmaker. That still didn’t help Paul Thomas Anderson or Wes Anderson, both of whom put forth multiple mighty efforts that nevertheless fell short. (There’s a parallel universe where Moonrise Kingdom made it.) It didn’t save the Coen Brothers either, despite my growing affection for Inside Llewyn Davis. Denis Villeneuve somehow delivered gems in three consecutive years, but I couldn’t find room for any of them, though I probably should have tried harder with Arrival. I remain resistant to the charms of Noah Baumbach, so while I admired Frances Ha and quite liked Marriage Story, you won’t find either here. I didn’t entirely love Roma, but Alfonso Cuarón remains one of the most gifted artists around, and it broke my heart to exclude Gravity—the very last cut.
Cuarón’s omission also points me to a sobering realization about this list’s lack of diversity. Of the 20 movies that I selected, 17 were directed by white men; that’s too many. Only three take place in a language other than English; that’s too few. And just one was made by a woman; that’s unacceptable. Whether this is my personal failure or indicative of bias within the broader system—and it’s surely a combination of both—I sincerely hope that 10 years from now, when making a list of my favorite films from the 2020s (you know, assuming that COVID-19 hasn’t completely decimated the entire industry), I’ll be highlighting a much more diverse mix of artists.
But enough with the negatives; we’re here to celebrate. The films that follow are all wonders, capturing my attention and imagination through a blend of conceptual daring, formal excellence, and emotional honesty. They’re all vastly different of course, but they’re also the same; they all beamed moving pictures onto a screen and burrowed their way into my heart. These are my picks for the 20 best movies of the 2010s:
20. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019). The most relaxed film Quentin Tarantino has ever made, it’s also his most wistful, yearning for the easy pleasures of a bygone era. But Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is more than just a filigreed valentine to the silver screen’s days of yore; it’s also a passionate defense of movies as they are now, and a testament to their unique power. Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt complement each other beautifully, but the sequence that I most readily remember—aside from the audacious, revisionist, surprisingly poignant ending—is the one where Margot Robbie slips into a theater and watches herself on screen. As she basks in the glow of her own performance, her joy transfers—invisibly, alchemically, completely—straight to us. (Full review here; streaming on Starz.)
19. Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013). The problems surrounding the production of this film have been well-documented, and should in no way be ignored. But neither can the end result be dismissed. Abdellatif Kechiche’s swooning, wrenching love story isn’t an especially dramatic picture, preferring to observe rather than incite. But in chronicling the life and death of a landmark relationship, Blue Is the Warmest Color creates an extraordinary intimacy, a depth of feeling rarely glimpsed on screen. Léa Seydoux and Adèle Exarchopoulos together develop a remarkable chemistry, full of heat and longing but also revealing cracks of confusion and resentment. The movie’s impact is devastating, but it’s also rewarding; to spend time alongside a romance that seems so real, so vibrant and vulnerable, feels like a gift. (Full review here; streaming on Netflix.)
18. War Horse (2011). “They don’t make ’em like they used to” is a pernicious saw, partly because it attributes uniform glory to an unspecified past that’s as full of clunkers as it is classics, and partly because, well, sure they do. But the traditionalist vibes of Steven Spielberg’s World War I epic—its redolent sunsets, its hardscrabble strivers, its sweeping score—camouflage its energy and modernity. It’s easy enough to imagine a film like this one being made in the 1940s, perhaps by John Ford. But the artistry on display—the combination of exacting craftsmanship and soulful storytelling—is distinctly Spielberg. The director, who had a stellar and underrated decade—runners-up for this list included Lincoln, Bridge of Spies, and The Post—is not especially subtle with his themes, but his bluntness is forceful rather than thudding. War Horse is shamelessly obvious and utterly magnificent, an episodic adventure full of emotion, excitement, and grace. They never made ’em like this. (Streaming on Netflix.)
17. The Cabin in the Woods (2012). The 2010s were a strong decade for horror, especially the back half; Ari Aster dropped his chilling one-two punch of Hereditary and Midsommar, Jordan Peele delivered his own thought-provoking combo with Get Out and Us, and high concepts were explored in A Quiet Place, The Witch, and Don’t Breathe. But while the terrific It Follows came very close to cracking my top 20, my favorite horror movie in recent years is less an exemplar of the genre than a send-up of it. That makes The Cabin in the Woods sound gimmicky, but Drew Goddard (working from a script he wrote with Joss Whedon) is too smart to rely solely on parody. He makes sure that the film is legitimately suspenseful as well as relentlessly clever, with an intricate, coiled narrative that supplies shocks and laughs in equal measure. It’s deconstructive, sure, but it’s also immersive; the verisimilitude pulls you in, allowing you to savor the brilliantly specific gags alongside the splashes of gore. With its snappy dialogue and sly performances—I could listen to Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford squabble about cabinets forever—The Cabin in the Woods doesn’t eviscerate the genre so much as stand atop it. (Streaming on Amazon Prime and Hulu.)
16. On Chesil Beach (2018). This is, quite simply, one of the saddest movies I’ve ever seen. But it’s also oddly celebratory, finding rapture in family, music, and love. That sense of warmth is what makes Dominic Cooke’s drama feel enveloping rather than punishing, drawing you close with its tenderness and sincerity. Which isn’t to say that On Chesil Beach is a happy film; to the contrary, it’s a romantic tragedy of the highest order, a feature-length gut-punch that spins innocent confusion into lifelong devastation. What’s astonishing about the movie is that it acquires such immense power with such little commotion; similar to Before Midnight, roughly half of it takes place in a single hotel room, as two lovers brush up against the prickly boundaries of their affection. But when one of those characters is played by Saoirse Ronan (matched nicely by Billy Howle), the emotion becomes richer, fiercer, sharper. In narrative terms, not that much happens in On Chesil Beach—unless you count the shattering of hearts, on screen and off. (Streaming on Amazon Prime.)
15. Thoroughbreds (2018). The story of two teenage sociopaths who conspire to kill a deplorable stepfather, Cory Finley’s thriller evokes strains of Hitchcock, the Coen Brothers, and studio-era noirs. But Thoroughbreds is too electric, too alive, to play as mere pastiche. Olivia Cooke and Anya Taylor-Joy are both hypnotizing as the mismatched murderesses—the former deliciously blunt, the latter masking nerves of steel—but it’s Finley’s technique that really sizzles, the stylish way he frames shots and builds tension. The plot is nasty business, but the movie never feels dirty or unpleasant; the aura of suspense is tantalizing rather than suffocating. Darkly funny and unusually spiky, Thoroughbreds feels like the work of an inveterate craftsman; that it was the 28-year-old Finley’s first feature suggests that he has many breathtaking races left to run. (Full review here; streaming on HBO Now and DirecTV.)
14. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (2010-11). Sure, the theatrical capstone to J.K. Rowling’s fantasy saga will appeal to book readers, and for good reason; in terms of story, it’s a terrific final chapter, full of drama, sacrifice, and hard-won triumph. But what’s special about the on-screen conclusion is what a great movie it is. Director David Yates could have activated autopilot and just transliterated Rowling’s words into moving pictures, but instead Deathly Hallows hums with visual energy and artistry. There are so many dazzling sequences—the mournful memory wipe; the buoyant-but-somber dance scene; the race through a courtyard full of danger, both magical and mortal—which derive their oomph not from our familiarity with the source material, but from the way they look, sound, and move. (Also, sue me for combining the two films into a single entry; if you can list those two Joshua Oppenheimer documentaries together, then I can do the same for releases that are literally subtitled “Part I” and “Part II”.) As a book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is a remarkable literary achievement. As a movie, it’s something else—a tense, mesmerizing adventure that casts its own, decidedly cinematic spell. (Streaming on USA.)
13. Edge of Tomorrow (2014). The premise—basically, Starship Troopers meets Groundhog Day—is great in itself. But Doug Liman’s exhilarating actioner wouldn’t be nearly as memorable without its witty screenplay and stellar performances. Emily Blunt is reliably excellent as a tough-as-nails warrior, but the real key is Tom Cruise’s limber, crafty turn as an out-of-his-depth PR stooge who keeps landing into deadly trouble, again and again and again. Cruise has always been a fascinating action hero, exploiting the contrast between his Hollywood boyishness and his rugged commitment, but here he taps into a fount of playfulness and self-deprecation, creating a character who’s simultaneously sympathetic and hopeless. And Edge of Tomorrow—which was rebranded to Live Die Repeat after it sadly tanked at the box office—is more than just a nifty gimmick; it’s a superbly executed blockbuster, with robust action sequences and a thrilling sense of forward momentum. Cruise’s character may keep reliving his final days over and over, but this kind of ingenious mainstream movie could only be made once. (Longer review here; streaming on USA.)
12. Parasite (2019). As a contagion upends the world, the title of Parasite almost hits too close to home. But Bong Joon-ho’s ceaselessly mutating film—a social satire that turns into a playful caper before morphing again into a gripping thriller—is more than just a scathing indictment of class and capitalism. It’s also an indecently entertaining movie, made with consummate craft and ingenuity. The great Song Kang-ho leads a splendid cast who help turn their seemingly archetypal characters into flesh-and-blood people, while Bong exhibits masterful patience, his knotty story slowly yielding pleasure, surprise, and dismay. That Parasite became the first foreign-language film to win the Academy Award is both a tribute to its greatness and also somehow unimportant. With a movie as witty and lively and powerful as this, “Best Picture” feels like an understatement. (Full review here; streaming on Hulu.)
11. Looper (2012). If Rian Johnson will be remembered for anything—and with luck, the protean filmmaker will be remembered for lots of things—it will be for making Star Wars: The Last Jedi, a good movie that inspired incomprehensible levels of hatred from toxic fans. I like The Last Jedi a lot (and I like Knives Out even more), but Looper is Johnson’s crowning achievement, fusing his blockbuster savvy with his boundless creativity. Time-travel pictures are hardly a newfangled idea, but Johnson’s film takes place in a highly particular universe, a realm that’s as fully realized and imaginative as that galaxy far, far away. Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis spar productively, but it’s Emily Blunt who gives the movie its human core. Her character, a resilient woman just fighting to survive, anchors Looper to our own reality, even as it boldly defies the laws of how we expect movies to proceed. It doesn’t just bend time; it twists an entire genre, discovering something new even as its desperate occupants travel round and round. (Streaming on Syfy.)
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Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.
You definitely should have tried harder with Arrival.