Picks for the 'Best Films of the Decade'

Written by The Curmudgeon

Ugh…

I don’t like writing lists. Well, I’ve got nothing against lists as a concept. Shopping lists are bloody helpful. As are my daily lists of reasons to actually wake up in the morning.

What I mean is this: I don’t like list-y journalism. Listicles. They feel lazy to me. They’re clickbait-y. Top 10 this and Top 10 that. It’s a crash-course in how to write articles with all the flare and inspiration of that ungraded presentation you did back in high school. You know what I’m talking about – the one you left until last minute and basically made up on the spot.

Regardless, we’ve made it through another decade. We’ve endured another ten years on this nightmarish hell-world we call Earth. It’s dog-eat-dog, every man for himself. It’s full Mad Max out there, baby – even if it doesn’t look it, it sure as hell feels like it. Or maybe I’m being dramatic to justify abandoning my creative integrity to make a listicle.

My self-respect aside, I thought it’d be a bit of fun to review the last decade, and pick out a few movies from the last ten years which I’d be comfortable calling favourites.

Before I begin, the following is my personal opinion. These are my picks for the best films of the decade. Not to mention the fact that there are a lot of amazing movies from the past ten years, and I don’t want to be writing a list forever. All clear? Good.

Without further ado…

The Secret World of Arrietty (2010)

The Secret World of Arrietty is an adaptation of Mary Norton’s 1952 children’s fantasy novel, The Borrowers. The gist is this: there exists a race of incredibly small people – no larger than your index finger – who scurry about the nooks and crannies of your abode, in secret. To survive, they simply borrow that which you won’t miss, or perhaps, won’t even notice has gone. On account of their miniature stature, they don’t require much – a single sugar cube could keep them for months, for example.

Protagonist Arrietty (Saoirse Ronan) is a borrower. Young and adventurous, she yearns for her first outing to steal that which won’t be missed. However, a chance encounter with sickly Shô – a young, human child, stricken with an ambiguous illness – causes herself and her family to be discovered.

The movie is amongst the repertoire of the acclaimed Ghibli animation studio, and an early outing for Hiromasa Yonebayashi in their ranks – a name which will be revisited in this list. In the typical Ghibli spirit, the film is gorgeous. There’s a subtle satisfaction to how carefully considered the physics are in this imaginary world. Take the way this tea pours out of their tiny pot, for example:

The aesthetics are only part of what makes a movie, however. At the core of Yonebayashi’s story is a girl who is existentially overwhelmed. Faced with Shô – a creature of such great magnitude – Arrietty cannot help but abandon her vigour and adventurousness for existential contemplation. She’s struck with the sudden whiplash of realising how small she truly is; literally, and figuratively. Shô, however, is small in his own way. Since his illness demands that he is house-bound, his world is small and stifling. In this sense, the two characters are forced into dialogue with their own mortality – Arrietty, on account of her diminutive stature and physical insignificance, and Shô, because of the looming threat of untimely death.

It is this aspect of The Secret World of Arrietty which really resonated with me, personally. Watching the two characters overcome their depression by inspiring one-another is something to behold.

Hugo (2011)

What if I told you my favourite Martin Scorsese flick isn’t Goodfellas (1990)? It isn’t The Departed (2006), it isn’t Mean Streets (1973), it isn’t Taxi Driver (1976), although the latter comes pretty close.

No, my favourite Scorsese film is the one no one talks about, or cares about, for that matter.

In a bizarre change of pace for the legendary director, Hugo is a children’s movie inspired by the French film maker, Georges Méliès. The plot is a fairly standard mystery. An orphan, the titular Hugo (Asa Butterfield), finds himself enthralled by a plot involving his deceased father and a clockwork automaton. But the plot isn’t really what interests me about Hugo.

What makes this movie so memorable is Scorsese’s affectionate ode to a film maker he loves and respects deeply. If you’re unfamiliar with Méliès’ work – as I mostly was, prior to seeing the film in 2011 – the director traded mostly in magical, whimsical tales, such as A Trip to the Moon (1902). His movies were spectacle in its purest form, presenting bizarre imagery and grand illusions. In this sense, Hugo takes on an almost biographical aspect; not that it is true to Méliès life, but that Scorsese writes the film much in the same way Méliès might write a film about himself. It’s whimsical beyond comparison, it’s sentimental, and Scorsese’s passion for a director who inspired him is seeping from every pore.

It’s honestly a shame this film went as underappreciated as it did.

Wolf Children (2012)

I’ve got a confession to make, folks.

I don’t like Mamoru Hosoda.

I don’t like him one bit.

Well, that’s not to say I don’t like him, as a person. I’m sure he’s swell. I just don’t like his movies all that much. I honestly believe they’re some of the most overrated movies in the medium.

My biggest issue with his films is that they demand too much of the audience, usually by derailing the plot in a way which doesn’t make sense, or is frankly unsatisfying. This is a process I refer to as ‘Mamoru Hosoda-ing.’ A stupid term? Yes. But you know how you get to the end of The Boy and the Beast (2015), and it turns out that one kid who had about 5 minutes of screen time is the big-bad? Or how, in The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (2006), it is revealed that the titular girl’s friend who barely spoke is a time-traveller? That’s what I call Mamoru Hosoda-ing.

In either case, there’s one exception to this rule. Wolf Children is the only Hosoda film which I believe meets its reputation.

An emotionally relentless film, Wolf Children revolves around a woman, Hana (Aoi Miyazaki) who falls in love with a lycanthrope. As the title would suggest, she bears his wolf children as well. Surprise surprise.

When the unthinkable happens and Hana is left to raise the children alone, their half-human-half-wolf aspect begins to take on a more figurative purpose. That is to say, Hosoda utilises the unique inter-species tendencies of these two children as a way of exploring the trials and tribulations of motherhood. Tracing the children’s development from babies well into adolescence, Wolf Children is a touching and detailed portrait of a struggling, single parent desperately trying to adapt to the evolving problems which accompany her offspring as they inevitably grow older, and drift apart.

Don’t watch this one if you don’t like weeping convulsively, because that’s exactly what you’ll do.

Her (2013)

Given director Spike Jonze’s partnership with screenwriter Charlie Kaufman, Her presents a unique situation, given Jonze’s credit as both director and writer. Clearly, Jonze learned much from his screenwriting associate, because Her is an almost perfect movie.

Set in a not-so-distant future (characterised by an overabundance of technology not unlike that which we use today), Her captures the romance between lonely, amorous Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) and A.I. Samantha (Scarlett Johansson). A bizarre premise, yes; functionally, a man falls in love with his phone. But at its core, Her is a contemplation upon the rapid advancements in technology, and the distance between human beings which might result.

Nowhere is this more prominent than in the opening scene of the film. Theodore pours his heart out in a touching, deeply personal monologue. The speech depicts some remarkable, idiosyncratic love between himself and an unseen other. After a while, however, we realise he’s not speaking for himself, but is writing a letter on someone’s behalf - for a woman he’s never met.

That is Theodore’s vocation in the world of Her – he writes personal letters for other people. If the haunting bastardisation of human communication isn’t totally obvious in this case, I’m not sure what else to say.

The film is bolstered by some all-round incredible performances. Joaquin Phoenix is a popular performer at this point, but I’d like to underline how incredible Scarlett Johansson is in this movie. She has a real, tangible on-screen presence without ever actually being on-screen.

When Marnie Was There (2014)

I don’t want to overpopulate this list with Studio Ghibli films, so I’ve had to do a toss-up between The Wind Rises (2013) and When Marnie Was There (2014).

Ultimately, I chose the latter, simply because it resonates with me on a much more personal level.

From the aforementioned Hiromasa Yonebayashi, When Marnie Was There demonstrates exactly how the burgeoning Ghibli director has differentiated himself from Hayao Miyazaki. Contrary to Miyazaki’s typically whimsical filmography, the movie is, in a term, emotionally raw.

The plot centres upon a twelve-year-old, asthmatic misanthrope by the name of Anna. Sent to stay with relatives in the countryside, Anna develops a kinship with a mysterious girl – Marnie – who may or may not even exist. I don’t want to say any more about the story, because there’s much to be enjoyed going into the film knowing as little as possible as far as that’s concerned.

Anna is among the most unique and complex Ghibli protagonists. She’s not strictly easy to get on with; her deep self-hatred and fear of abandonment manifests in bouts of outward aggression. She has a tendency to say and do unkind things which she doesn’t mean, but she’s all too self-aware, resulting in a violent cycle of inward resentment. Indeed – Anna is severely depressed, at just twelve years of age.

Yonebayashi uses the friendship between Anna and Marnie to explore the insecurities of both characters, making for a satisfying, three-dimensional dynamic. As we begin to peel away the coarse rind which hides the deep, cognitive issues plaguing our protagonist, the plot gradually reveals those moments in her history which have left her so troubled.

This is a film to be enjoyed by anyone with any experience in turbulent mental health, especially as a child. Sometimes, I’ll listen to the film’s outro song, Fine on the Outside by Priscilla Ahn. Taken from the perspective of Anna, the line “would you cry if I died” is a tragic thing to spawn from the mind of a such a young girl.

Over the Garden Wall (2014)

Is Over the Garden Wall a movie? Not strictly. But I’m including it because it’s only ten episodes long, eleven minutes a pop. All in all, it’s basically a movie-length miniseries, or a movie divided into several parts.

It’s difficult to capture, in words, why Patrick McHale’s animated opus is so incredible. I’ve contemplated writing about it many times, but it remains elusive.

Two children, Wirt (Elijah Wood) and Greg (Collin Dean) are lost in the woods. There’s no indication of where they came from or how they came to be here – at first. Accompanied by a talking bluebird named Beatrice (Melanie Lynskey), the two attempt to navigate the winding woods and peculiar pastures of The Unknown.

It truly is lightning in a bottle. It’s got a very distinctive, anachronistic tone, blending American Gothic traditions with a more contemporary storytelling sensibility. This is mostly due to the fish-out-of-water protagonists, who clearly act and behave like children of the modern day, in contrast to the old-timey-Disney setting they occupy. This dynamic certainly lends itself to some of the more humorous aspects of the show, as we watch the perfectly regular Wirt attempt to apply his modern logic to situations which don't call for it. When he sees Beatrice speak for the first time: “a bird’s brain isn’t big enough for cognisant speech” – a comment which Beatrice, understandably, is offended by.

Frankly, it is the characters which are the easiest selling-point to communicate. To call Wirt the straight-man would be a disservice to his character. He’s intelligent, but dorky, and his tendency to melodramatically burst into free-form poetry is cute, if not slightly pathetic. He is also a bit of a coward, a trait which he gradually irons out over the course of the plot. He is contrasted perfectly to his insane, younger half-brother, Greg, who speaks almost entirely in nonsense. It isn’t so much that Greg is brave. Rather, he’s too naïve to recognise danger, and will often just go wherever his whim takes him. Beatrice, finally, is the misanthropic curmudgeon of the trio. Morally ambiguous, she is the most at-odds with the group, and her motives are suspicious from the start. To me, her gradually developing admiration for, and friendship with, Wirt forms the heart of the show.

Ultimately, Over the Garden Wall presents a unique aesthetic situation. It’s funny, loaded with unique, Gothic charm, it’s got a wonderful cast of characters, and the journey therein will make you want to stay in the unknown with them forever.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

Wes Anderson has made a name for himself by being uncontrollably quirky. Some people hate this about him. I’ve heard many complain about ‘all his movies being the same,’ or that his quirkiness somehow makes the films one-dimensional.

I disagree completely, and I would even go as far as to say The Grand Budapest Hotel is among my favourite films of all time.

Tracing the memoirs of a now-deceased writer who met with the patriarch of a dilapidated, once-beautiful hotel, the film makes its mission clear from the offset. As it jumps back in time from one character to the next, finally arriving at the proverbial doorstep of one M. Gustav (Ralph Fiennes), the film conveys in clear imagery the majesty of a hotel that once was. This is, simply, a love-letter to a time gone by.

M. Gustav is the concierge of the hotel, and Zero Mustafa (Tony Revolori/F. Murray Abraham)– the future owner of the establishment – is his lobby boy. As the former is wrongfully accused of a murder he didn’t commit, the two embark on a ridiculous adventure to solve the mystery and clear his name.

Anderson proudly constructs a Hitchcockian caper, blended with his own personal command over visual comedy. It is this very visual comedy which is often referred to as “quirkiness.” To say so is to discredit how effective it truly is.

Take the scene when Gustav is arrested, for example. “She’s been murdered,” he asserts, calmly. “And you think I did it.”

Suddenly, he runs off, as the police follow in hot pursuit. Meanwhile, the camera doesn’t move one bit. The juxtaposition between the sudden burst of action and the totally static perspective is funny without the use of any actual jokes.

Anderson’s reverent toast to an older style of film making is bittersweet, however. For every flat, old-fashioned piece of cinematography, for every saccharine, archaic colour palette, there is the brutal reminder that what was is no more.

For those who have seen the movie, I simply say this: “There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity. He was one of them. What more is there to say?”

Nocturnal Animals (2016)

Tom Ford is a genius. The man genuinely baffles me. He’s some hot-shot fashion designer, then in 2009 he comes along and decides he’s going to make a movie. More importantly, the movie is actually good. Really good.

If you’ve not seen A Single Man (2009), you owe it to yourself to see it. But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about his second directorial outing, Nocturnal Animals, an adaptation of Tony and Susan (1993) - a novel by Austin Wright.

Technically speaking, Nocturnal Animals juggles three narrative threads running in parallel. Primarily, the plot hinges upon Susan (Amy Adams), a bourgeois living a luxurious yet empty existence. Her husband is handsome but unavailable, and unfaithful. After receiving a manuscript for a novel written by her ex-husband Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal), Susan finds herself reflecting upon the past; her relationship with Edward, and how it weighs upon her present. The story of the novel presents the second narrative thread. It depicts a harrowing tale of a family of three – Tony, also played by Gyllenhaal, his wife, Laura (Isla Fisher), and their daughter, India (Ellie Bamber) – as they are unexpectedly terrorised by a group of thugs while travelling. Ultimately, Tony’s wife and daughter are abducted, raped, and murdered, and Tony is left stranded. Susan’s reflections upon her past serve as the third narrative thread, as we watch her relationship with Edward crumble and her regrets relive themselves in her mind. These three stories are masterfully interwoven in a way that they all bear upon one another.

Edward’s novel, although extremely compelling in its own right, makes for a fascinating portrait of the ex-husband’s overwhelming feeling of emasculation after their egregious divorce. That Edward and the character he writes are portrayed by the same actor is telling. That Tony’s wife and daughter bear obvious resemblance to Susan is likewise no mistake, either. Is it that Susan interprets the characters this way? Or is it how the characters are described?

The visual worlds Tom Ford imagines are communicative in themselves. The mannered cinematography of Susan’s present is controlled and collected, yet grey and monotonous. It contrasts with the romantically warm palette of her memories of Edward. Meanwhile, the novel presents a milieu that is dusty and unpleasant.

Adams is perfect as Susan. The subtle differences between her younger, happier self and her older, jaded self are measured flawlessly. Gyllenhaal delivers two incredible performances – perhaps the most raw and real of his career. Michael Shannon deserves a special mention, too, as the ruthless but altruistic Sheriff, sniffing out the thugs responsible for the death of Tony’s family. Bind this all together with a majestic score by Abel Korzeniowski, and you’re staring down the barrel at one of the greatest films of the twenty-first century.

The Nice Guys (2016)

You know, I never used to like Ryan Gosling. Now he’s one of my favourite actors. The next three movies on this list are the reason why.

As you’ll know, if you’ve read my Red Riding Trilogy article (click here for more on that), I’m a big fan of the noir genre (is it even a genre?). Shane Black’s The Nice Guys, while a refreshing and hilarious addition to the noir canon, went largely unnoticed.

A pulpy throwback to 1970s cop thrillers, the film sees alcoholic, barely-functional P.I. Holland March (Ryan Gosling) attempt to track down the missing Amelia Kuttner (Margaret Qualley). Meanwhile, aged and jaded hired muscle Jackson Healy (Russell Crowe) is contracted by Amelia herself to get March off her tail. When the two collide, they realise there’s more to Amelia’s disappearance than meets the eye. What unfolds is a classic story of corruption, scandal, and porn stars.

The film lovingly homages the ‘70s buddy-cop detective flick with finesse, but I’d be lying if I said the whole reason this film is on the list ISN’T because of the performances.

Ryan Gosling is an objectively funny man. He is objectively funny. If you don’t think he’s funny, at least in this movie, you need to get your fuckin’ head checked. His haphazard, incompetent disposition riffs perfectly off Russell Crowe’s relaxed street-smarts.

Shane Black is known for his witty dialogue, and The Nice Guys is his finest. A personal favourite line – from this or any movie – occurs while March deflects a rowdy crowd of teenage girls at a birthday party: “Jesus Christ, one at a time!” … “you just took the lord’s name in vain” says one of them. “No I didn’t, Janet…”

“I found it very useful, actually”.

You get the point. Go watch The Nice Guys. It’s a blast.

La La Land (2016)

I imagine this will be the most unpopular pick on this list.

I distinctly recall Damien Chazelle’s throwback to old Hollywood musicals being the most popular film on the planet for about a week before everyone collectively decided it was too schmaltzy for them.

I was not one of those people.

I feel the need to defend La La Land on account of the fact that it’s often misunderstood. A lot of people accuse the movie of sucking up to Hollywood in an attempt to curry favour with the academy.

Personally, I think this is a totally surface-level criticism of one of my favourite movies of all time (there, I said it!).

Indeed, La La Land is an homage to classic, Hollywood musicals, but not without criticism of the Hollywood mentality. The title itself is referential to the dreamlike unreality of the Hollywood populace. I’ve said Hollywood so many times, it’s beginning to lose its meaning…

I actually wrote about how La La Land criticises Hollywood culture in one of the first pieces I wrote on this (currently readerless) blog that I maintain for no discernible reason. If you’re interested, you’ll find that here.

Regardless of whether the above criticism of the movie has any salt, it’s still a passionately-made, intricate piece of cinema. The opening number is an instant demonstration of the incredible score and choreography, and Emma Stone’s chemistry with Ryan Gosling makes it so clear that the duo are close off-screen as well. The fact that the two performers sing for themselves gives a real authenticity to the numbers, and the sheer amount of work Gosling put into learning the piano is staggering.

Plus, I’m a sucker for that bittersweet ending…

Blade Runner: 2049 (2017)

The final Gosling flick on the list, Blade Runner: 2049 is another film I’ve written about before (see more on that here).

The fact that 2049 is actually a good movie still feels unreal to me. Think about the current cinematic climate we’re in – remakes and sequels to franchises from 30 years ago are spewing left, right, and centre. Most of them are unnecessary and terrible, but bankable.

When it was revealed that a sequel to the cult classic, Blade Runner (1982), was in production, my heart sank. I love that movie, and there’s no way they could do it justice. However, after I saw Denis Villeneuve was attached to the project, alongside Roger Deakins, the possibility of the sequel being decent became very real.

2049 picks up more-or-less where the original left off. There are humans, and there are replicants - biological androids. The humans rule and the replicants are bound to slave labour. Keeping the “peace” are the Blade Runners, hitmen who hunt and “retire” unruly replicants.

Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), the protagonist of the ’82 film has gone into hiding. His replicant lover, Rachael (Sean Young), is dead. In their wake, they left the first, birthed replicant child.

Enter Officer K (Ryan Gosling). K is a replicant Blade Runner, entrusted with hunting his own kind. Upon his discovery of a birthed replicant, K is delegated to the hunt once more. After all, if a replicant is capable of child birth, what separates them from us?

Things get a little cloudy when K arrives at the very real possibility that the child may, in fact, be him.

To say that 2049 is a good sequel is an understatement. 2049 is just an excellent movie, and it understands the philosophy of Blade Runner quite clearly. Joe’s character arc epitomises the dilemma of the original. What constitutes ‘human?’ Who makes that decision? Does it matter?

Roger Deakins is one of the greatest cinematographers of all time. His incredible eye, in tandem with Villeneuve’s direction, makes for a beautifully-realised world, and a faithful development upon the iconic setting of the original. The film improves upon the original in many ways, providing a much more engaging plot and genuine sense of mystery – something which the original, admittedly, lacked.

Suspiria (2018)

The 2018 remake of Suspiria does what all great remakes should do: it divorces itself, almost completely, from the source material.

Dario Argento’s exploitation horror of ’77 is a very much a visual creature. Director Luca Guadagnino opts for a more narrative focus, and does so brilliantly.

The film retains its ’77 time period, and its Berlin setting. The story can be divided into two parts: on one hand, we have the young, ambitious Susie (Dakota Johnson), a dancer enlisted into a prestigious dance school. On the other, we have the old and placid psychotherapist, Dr. Klemperer (Tilda Swinton), desperately trying to understand the disappearance of one of his patients, a fellow student of the very same school. What results is a masterfully unfurled mystery, combining aspects of Gothic horror, exploitation horror, and Cold War noir.

The marriage of Gothicism and Cold War noir is of particular note. The two genres compliment each other perfectly, sharing interest in expressionistic visuals, the sublime, and the looming sense of impending dread. Perhaps I’ll talk more on the overlaps between Gothicism and film noir in the future…

The performances are stellar, as well. It’s great to see Dakota Johnson shaking off her association with the abysmal Fifty Shades of Grey (2015). It’s Tilda Swinton, however, who really deserves the spotlight. She plays three characters in the film, but it’s Klemperer who is the most impressive demonstration of her talent. To watch Swinton so perfectly embody an elderly, German, and very MALE psychiatrist is…uncanny.

Klemperer is arguably the more interesting of the two protagonists. As far as the noir aspect of the film is concerned, he makes for a refreshing replacement of the amoral spy or private eye. His persistent hounding into the school’s dangerous coven of witches is not a mark of fearlessness. Rather, it seems his advanced age and wisdom make him indifferent to his physical well-being. All the while, the unsolved disappearance of his wife after WWII weighs on his shoulders from start until finish, adding an emotional edge to the story which was absent from the original. The lump in my throat which I couldn’t seem to shake as Klemperer discovers the fate of his beloved spouse represents everything I love about this movie.

What are your favourite films of the decade?

There we have it – the list of my favourite movies of the decade which no one asked for, and almost no one will read.

As for the incredibly small handful of people who do read my blog: what about you? What are your picks for the best movies of the decade? How does it compare to other decades in the history of cinema?

This has definitely been the longest piece I’ve written, but I suppose that’s to be expected of a list like this. Alas, my fingers hurt, and I’ve said too many nice things in a short period of time. I’ll see you all next time…