Ten Films from 2021

Nothing more or less than my ten favourite films, of all those that I watched in 2021.

10. Army of Shadows, dir. Jean-Pierre Melville

Army of Shadows. a film by the master of suspense, Melville, is about the French Resistance during World War Two. Like Melville’s other works, it is a tale told through whispers, looks, and gestures. Lino Ventura (Italian by birth but the lead in many French films) stars as Gerbier, the stolid, implacable leader of a Resistance unit. Gerbier’s demeanour is not that of an intrepid freedom fighter: he comes across instead as a somewhat stern bank manager, or perhaps an unambitious vice-principal in a provincial school. In this way, he forms the cornerstone of the gradual, accumulative work of a single Resistance cell in a massive war. Bit by by bit, Gerbier and his compatriots pick away at their own little corner of the German occupation in Marseille, having only occasional encounters with the higher-ups. There is a simple mundanity to their work, devoid of any heroic glamour or mythic significance, that makes the story compelling. Perhaps the finest example of this is a scene when Gerbier, being airlifted back to France after a visit to Resistance HQ in London, struggles to pull on his parachute backpack. There is both tragedy and comedy in the imagery of him grappling with the equipment and hurling himself out of the plane in an ungainly fashion. Still, as the film wears on, it becomes purely tragic, as Gerbier and his comrades are forced to make ever more brutal decisions. In the scenarios and results, Army of Shadows is a war film much like any other, but in its attention to mundane details and simple personal characteristics, it is a unique and powerful representation of the human experience of war.

9. I Know This Much is True, dir. Derek Cianfrance

I’m cheating a little by including two miniseries on this list, but both of them are as fine an example of cinematic art as any two-hour film. Cianfrance’s six-part show, adapted from a 1998 novel, examines the fractured lives of twins Dominick and Thomas Birdsey, and their wider family, Thomas is a paranoid schizophrenic, and Dominick spends much of the show trying to take care of his brother, who had been doing well for a period of time, but is now in a steep descent. One day, Thomas walks into the local public library and cuts off his own hand, claiming that it is a protest against the Gulf War. As Dominick tries to protect his ailing brother from harsh treatment in mental institutions, he is pushed to confront both his own instabilities, and the murky past of the Birdsey family, uncovering a Gothic tale that stretches back over decades. In synopsis, this sounds like a deeply unpleasant and gratuitous narrative, but in execution, it is a tremendous investigation into the trauma that accrues and persists in families over generations. Part of the miniseries’s appeal is the quality of its actors: Mark Ruffalo plays both twins, manifesting two very different characters in a remarkable transformation, and the depth of his understanding of the characters anchors a show that could easily become tawdry. Above all, though, the sensitive and light-touch direction from Cianfrance is very effective in keeping things on level ground. While at times it can be a very difficult watch, by its conclusion, I Know This Much is True delivers some heartfelt insights into the problems of overcoming trauma and resolving long-standing familial conflicts.

8. Scenes from a Marriage, dir. Ingmar Bergman

The second miniseries on this list, though it was later released in shortened form as a feature film. This six-part show is exactly what it says on the tin: a collection of moments in the marriage of an ostensibly happy, normal, affluent couple, Marianne and Johan. Each episode is one scene, which often unfolds in realtime, and each is comprised almost entirely of the interactions between the couple, though there are occasional brief appearances from other characters. One of the interesting structural features of the show is that most of the dramatic “events” take place off-screen, usually between episodes, and we learn of them as either Marianne or Johan tells the other about what happened. This shifts the focus away from the formulaic “plot” of their lives, and onto the ways in which they discuss, negotiate, bicker, and battle about the reality of their relationship. From scene to scene, the power dynamic between husband and wife sways back and forth. One of them is always more in love than the other, leaving the one who is more dispassionate at that moment in greater control. The work is inspired by Bergman’s own experiences, perhaps even his five-year relationship with Liv Ullmann, who plays Marianne; and indeed at times it feels like a documentary, with many long, handheld takes, shifting between the faces of the characters as they try to understand or overwhelm each other. Scenes from a Marriage was very influential, not only on filmmakers such as Woody Allen and Richard Linklater, but on its viewers: divorce rates in Sweden allegedly doubled around the time of its broadcast. Perhaps it is too much to attribute this to one TV show, given that it was already a time of social change; yet nonetheless Bergman presented a sharp and unflinching picture of marriage, devoid of glamour and sentimentality, that has probably never been equalled since.

7. Aliens, dir. James Cameron

Now that CGI blockbusters have completely conquered the 21st century box office, most recently with the overwhelming success of Spider-Man: No Way Home, the handmade sci-fi epics of the 1980s may look a little quaint to some. Arguably, however, these films are the wellspring of the contemporary output, especially the work of James Cameron. To make a sequel to such a perfect film as Alien must have seemed foolhardy, but somehow Cameron pulled it off. Aliens is one of the most gripping blockbusters that I have ever seen, a Hollywood production that succeeds at one crucial thing, which Marvel films completely disregard: it makes the audience believe that the hero might not win. Of course as viewers we all know that the monster will be killed and the child will be saved, and we would be deeply discomfited if this did not happen; yet still it is the job of the blockbuster director to convince us, just for a moment, that the worst may come to pass. With its taut construction, brilliant effects, and captivating performances from Sigourney Weaver and others, Aliens achieves that with aplomb, keeping you on the edge of your seat until the final drips of alien fluid have evaporated from the screen. It is a masterclass in tension to which our current comic-book filmmakers could pay much closer attention.

6. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, dir, Mike Nichols

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is a miracle of a film. It is miraculous, because it was Mike Nichols’s directorial debut: he later remarked that careful viewers of the film can observe that he was learning how to direct in realtime, because it was shot in-sequence. It is miraculous, because its cinematographer, Haskell Wexler, happens to be one of the most influential directors of photography in Hollywood history. Above all, though, it is miraculous, because it is about the marriage of a middle-aged couple, portrayed by two of the greatest actors in the world who happened, at that time, to be married to each other. The combination of Edward Albee’s scintillating script, and the paint-stripping dynamic between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, makes for a domestic tale that feels less like a parlour piece, and more like a visit to the Western Front on June 6, 1944. It incorporates thrilling theatrical elements, while remaining completely cinematic in form; it produces a sense of drama just as heightened as Aliens or any other fantastical film, while remaining connected to the textural truth of these characters. It unfolds over the course of a single night, as George, associate professor of history at a small college, and Martha, his wife, play host to Nick and Honey, a young couple who have just moved to the town. The reception begins on a bad note, because George and Martha had already been at a long faculty party, and when Martha informs her husband that they’ll be having guests, it is getting on past 2am. George is not best pleased with this news, and Martha is not best pleased with his lack of enthusiasm. So begins a caustic game of cat-and-mouse, as their marital grievances are aired in front of the youthful newcomers, whose presence becomes weaponised, in varying, alternating ways, by the older pair. First-time viewers should come prepared with a calm mind, because the ensuing two hours are both riveting, and emotionally exhausting.

5. Dune, dir. Denis Villeneuve

If you have any interest in movies, you will probably have already heard quite a bit about the latest adaptation of Frank Herbert’s milestone sci-fi novel. The story follows young Paul Atreides, heir to his father’s dukedom, and one destined for grand cosmic exploits. He is, in a way, the original “chosen one” of modern sci-fi and fantasy storytelling, yet the crucial detail of this legend is that Paul’s exalted future is a cursed one, for his messianic status carries with it a dread compulsion. We see little of this in Villeneuve’s Dune, because this is only the first half of the story, and so is occupied mostly with establishing the world and characters. This is achieved with incredible style, scale, and finesse. Herbert’s book is full of meaningful gestures, and even amidst many dramatic shots of ascending spaceships and gaping horizons, Villeneuve is very successful at retaining a sense of these small moments. The production design is astonishing, bringing a whole universe to life on screen, but with a great sense of materiality and texture: it feels finely crafted, but not overly designed. Sound, too, is applied to great effect: from the great groans of the mammoth sand-worms, to the ominous chant of the Sardaukar warriors, Dune sounds strange enough to be a completely different place, but familiar enough to be accessible. Above all, though, the film is driven by some incredible performances. Timothée Chalamet delivers perhaps his finest work as Paul, especially in quiet moments, depicting both the naivety and the burgeoning gravitas of a young man destined to become the most powerful being in the universe. Oscar Isaac, Josh Brolin, Javier Bardem, and many others turn in excellent supporting roles, cleaving close to the distinctive qualities of their characters from the books. The stand-out appearance, however, is Rebecca Ferguson as Paul’s mother, Lady Jessica, portraying the balanced vulnerability and lethality of that pivotal character in memorable fashion.

4. Three Colors: Red, dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski

The work of Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski is very difficult to describe. At first glance, it appears to be dry social realism, capturing the ordinary, banal activities of very normal, even dull people. As his films unfold, however, the viewer enters into a different world entirely, one characterised by striking images that come from nowhere, and emblazon themselves on your mind with the force of a religious icon, by peculiar twists and developments that are realistic and plausible, yet reflective of some stranger truth, and by half-glimpses and echoes of a silent supernaturalism, like a coin that sticks to a man’s hand when he wants to throw it away, or an old woman trying to put an identical wine bottle into a glass bank in three different locations, at three different times. The combination of these impressions produces an effect unlike that found in any other filmography, except perhaps that of Tarkovsky. The Three Colors trilogy were French, Swiss and Polish co-productions, with each film focussing on one of the political ideals of the French Republic: liberty, equality, fraternity. Red is the last of the three, and deals with fraternity. Like many of Kieslowski’s films, the storyline is thin at best: a young Swiss woman, Valentine, pines for her boyfriend, who is in London and communicates with her only through peremptory phone calls. After accidentally hitting a dog with her car one night, and returning her to the owner, she becomes involved in a curious exchange with an older man who has built a contraption to listen to his neighbour’s phone calls. Meanwhile, in characteristic Kieslowski fashion, a secondary story unfolds with Valentine’s neighbour, Auguste, a law student, whose paths will cross with the old man later on. Outlining the film in this makes it feel almost trivial, yet through these collections of stray moments, Kieslowski captures the sense of wonder and significance that can steal upon any of us during the normal course of daily life, so long as we are open to it.

3. Stalker, dir. Andrei Tarkovsky

Most good science-fiction or fantasy films are good because they succeed at creating a whole other world: Blade Runner, Star Wars, Dune, etc. They do this through remarkable production design, incredibly detailed mise-en-scène, costuming, sound design, and so on. Tarkovsky’s Stalker, however, is a science-fiction film that offers almost no outlandish design elements for much of its runtime, which often presents very spare, minimal compositions, and which indeed is characterised by a total lack of world-building. Set sometime in a distant future, in a time of hazardous conditions and blasted landscapes, it follows an expedition led by the Stalker, into a dangerous area called the Zone. Within this place, characterised by ambiguous extraterrestrial activity, there is said to be a Room that grants the deepest wish of anyone who steps inside. Despite the considerable risk and secrecy involved, people often dare the journey, led by this Stalker or other people like him. Strikingly, however, it is the scenes outside the Zone that are filmed in an unusual way: they appear in a strong sepia-like tone, as though the world has been overwhelmed by some nuclear or chemical catastrophe. It is only when the expedition enters the Zone that colours are shown in their normal hue, as our intrepid, or desperate, team penetrates deeper into the landscape. There are no aliens in this film, nor any floating cities, and indeed there are few images that look actually like the work of another civilisation. Despite this, however, every second of the movie is pervaded with a tense, unsettling atmosphere, unlike anything from any other film or book that I’ve experienced. It is impossible to say what produces this: something about the barrenness of the landscape, or the way the actors speak, or the rawness of the sound. Some of the locations where Stalker was filmed were, in fact, highly toxic, and it’s possible that some people who later died of cancer, including Tarkovsky, contracted it due to exposure at these sites. Perhaps that is what gives the film its otherworldly atmosphere: one way or the other, Stalker is a journey into the depths of cinematic uncanniness.

2. The Beatles: Get Back, dir. Peter Jackson

I’ve watched very few documentaries in my life, a major gap in my viewing history. My claim, then, that Get Back is the best documentary I’ve ever seen, must be taken with a pinch of salt. What is more certain, however, is that it is one of the best works on the creative process ever produced. The background to Jackson’s three-part, eight-hour film is well-known: during the Beatles’ recording sessions for what became Let It Be, cameras were allowed into their world. The footage first surfaced in an unpopular, and later denigrated, film released around the time of their breakup. In recent years, Jackson and his team have applied Lord of the Rings-level technology to restore and remaster the footage, translating the 16mm reels into high-definition, and manipulating the sound in order to reveal private conversations between the band members that have been inaudible for decades. The result is an astonishing document of creative geniuses, intent at work, at a level of intimacy that is unparalleled. My knowledge of the Beatles is quite limited, and I’ve only begun to listen properly to their music since seeing this documentary, so I cannot venture a view on the historical merits of Get Back. As someone with creative interests, however, I can say that to observe these giants of twentieth-century culture at work, painstakingly constructing songs that would be played by millions for generations, is an incredible thing. Above all, it is amazing to discover that even for these legendary figures, so much of their work involved slow, careful, often tedious examination of every little detail, until they had squeezed the maximum potential out of the raw material that sprang from initial inspirations. Apart from anything else, Get Back is an immense encouragement to anyone who has tried to make anything, ever. Even for some of the greatest songwriters of all time, producing good-quality work was hard, frustrating, even infuriatingly difficult. Of course, they were also immensely talented, as we see in moments such as when Paul casually riffs off the structure of a new song like Get Back, with bandmates looking on with comical non-interest. What this documentary demonstrates, though, is that they were not merely talented: they persevered, through the adversity of the process, until they achieved something close to their original idea. It’s unbelievable how simple, and complicated, that process can be.

1. Paris, Texas, dir. Wim Wenders

Mainstream filmmaking these days, and a lot of indie cinema too, shows a disappointing inattention to the importance of colour in storytelling. From 2021, I can think of a few exceptions — Dune, The Green Knight — but it is rare to find a colour film that displays understanding of what colour means. Paris, Texas is the antithesis to this: colour is imbued in every scene, integral to the story. At first viewing the importance of red will be obvious, appearing constantly: in clothes, paint, props, cars, light, on and on. Yet blue and green also have significance, too, and pink, and brown. It is a painterly film, though not in the Renaissance mode of The Godfather, but something more distinctly American, in a story that is also an in-depth investigation of American life. The film begins as Travis (Henderson, not Bickle, played by Harry Dean Stanton) walks out of the West Texas desert, mute and frail. He’s soon picked up by his brother, Walt, who takes him back to Los Angeles. Travis has been missing for four years, and his young son Hunter is in the care of Walt and his wife. On the road, Travis slowly begins to speak again, but is reluctant to reveal what happened to him, or his still-missing wife. Once at home with Walt’s family, Travis begins to know his son again, rebuilding the relationship, yet he cannot stay: once he has recovered, he feels compelled to go and find his wife, and repair some terrible wrong that he once committed. Paris, Texas is a road movie, about travel and how a person can become lost in it; a domestic film, about connections and how they become broken, a loner’s tale, about an isolated man and his obsessions. Beneath all this, it is imbued with a deep sense of melancholic hope, a certainty that a newer, better life can still be recovered from the ruins of old, shattered dreams. In my view, the film already establishes itself as a masterpiece in the first two hours, but the final half hour transports it to a whole other place, one of intense emotion captured with crushing simplicity. It may not be for everyone, but for those viewers who feel themselves to be searching for some distant oasis, for some intangible place once glimpsed in a forgotten dream, Paris, Texas may be the ideal film.