It’s been a while since I updated this blog. One of my resolutions for the new year is to do a bit more writing outside of Letterboxd, so why not start now?

That website informs me that I watched 260 movies in the year 2022, a little under a third of which were new releases from this year. That sounds about right. While I still don’t watch nearly as many movies as some of my colleagues in the critical community, I watched more new films this year than last year, and I’m fairly confident I see more than the average moviegoer.

With that said, there are, as always, tons of movies I just didn’t see due to lack of time, interest, or awareness. Most of my cinematic diet consists of American films, and reading others’ end-of-year lists has made it clear that there were a plethora of likely-great movies released internationally (from China, Korea, and India, for example) that I missed. Another resolution for 2023 is to watch more new stuff, particularly offerings from other countries, though I suspect that one will be harder to keep than writing the occasional post on this website.

If there are any overall takeaways I have for the year 2022 in movies, it’s this:

Big-budget cinema is back, baby! This year saw the release of several high-profile releases marketed primarily on the name of their directors or stars. There were historical epics like The Northman, The Woman King, and RRR; science-fiction spectacles like Avatar: The Way of Water, Nope, and Moonfall; flashy period pieces like Elvis and Babylon; and even an absurdly expensive Rian Johnson-helmed whodunnit in the form of Glass Onion. And that list doesn’t even include the surprise hit of the year, Top Gun: Maverick. Much has been made about the demise of theaters and movie-going in general in the wake of the pandemic. Many of those concerns are valid, as is the observation that multiplexes (particularly those that aren’t in cities like New York or Chicago) tend to be dominated more and more by Marvel movies, sequels, and factory-line drivel. This year showed that there’s still room for individual artistic sensibilities (even if it’s so-called "vulgar auteurism") to drive blockbuster fare; I maintain that Top Gun: Maverick was a runaway success not because it’s a sequel, or even because it’s a Tom Cruise movie, but because it’s a rollicking good time with a tight script that offers audiences something they haven’t seen before (in this case, intense aerial stunts performed by trained professionals — and Mr. Cruise himself — filmed with IMAX cameras inside the cockpits). Between that and Avatar: The Way of Water, it’s clear that there’s still demand for expensive spectacles that don’t cut corners and dare to attempt something new.
Old franchises can still provide new thrills. Scream 5 and Hellraiser revitalized two horror series long thought dead, simply by having smart scripts and talented filmmakers behind the camera. While Hellraiser isn’t quite as creepy as director David Bruckner’s last outing (the phenomenal The Night House), it updates the series’ mythology in intriguing ways and finds ways to tie core themes to characters in a way I didn’t expect. The most impressive piece of action franchise revitalization, however, is Dan Trachtenberg’s Prey, which strips the Predator formula down to the basics and uses it to craft an alternate history in which a Predator takes on an 18th-century Comanche tribe. It’s a shame Prey didn’t receive a wide-release on the big screen and went straight-to-streaming, since it offers some of the best action choreography of the year and places indigenous actors at the forefront (including a fantastic lead performance by Amber Midthunder). When it was over, I immediately wanted to see the Predator face off against people of other times and cultures. Bring on Predator vs. the Vikings!
Horror is still a moneymaker. There were several relatively low-budget horror movies that had staying power at the box-office, from the creepy thriller Smile to the Stephen King-esque The Black Phone. Movies like Barbarian found a cult following. And Terrifier 2 earned nearly $12 million on a measly $250,000 budget, its popularity spread mainly by word-of-mouth, proving once again that passion and talent are more important than the amount of money being put to use.

With those things in mind, here are the best movies I saw this year. I post them in alphabetical order, not because I don’t have favorites (I do), but because to pit these against each other would be an exercise in futility and frustration (not to mention I’d probably change my mind the following day). All of these movies are worth checking out, and I recommend using JustWatch to see where they’re available to stream or rent.

ATHENA (director: Romain Gavras)

The ten-and-a-half-minute opening long take alone would automatically make this a movie worth serious examination, but director Romain Gavras doesn't stop there, moving from beat-to-beat in Athena’s narrative with unrelenting drive and a constantly roaming camera for the full hour-and-a-half runtime. The story follows three brothers on opposing sides of city-wide riots sparked by an act of police brutality, with law enforcement and protestors converging on the victim's public housing project. The action is framed like a medieval battle, with the walls of the housing project functioning as castle ramparts that need defending from invading marauders, and French policemen moving in formations that are straight out of ancient Rome or Sparta. In terms of craft, this is the most magnificent piece of filmmaking I've seen this year that didn't involve motion-capture technology or putting IMAX cameras in fighter jets, a cinematic tour de force that made my mind boggle at the choreography and mechanics required to pull it off. In terms of narrative, it frames our modern political divide as Greek tragedy, a quagmire in which individual dramas play out against a backdrop of violence and social unrest. It feels both timely and timeless, a film borne out of 21st century concerns that's founded on broad tropes and themes, like a Homeric epic or a Shakespearean drama. It's a tale of brothers on competing sides of a burgeoning civil war, a parable about how differing allegiances can fracture common humanity. If I were a betting man, I'd say that in a decade this will be discussed as one of the best films of the era, a crowning achievement of cinematography that's also a sobering portrait of society at a very particular moment that nonetheless feels like something we've been through before.

AVATAR: THE WAY OF WATER (director: James Cameron)

James Cameron is my favorite near-billionaire, a filmmaker with enough stature and influence that he can afford to wait until technology has advanced enough for him to pursue his artistic vision — or he’ll go out and invent it himself. The Way of Water, like its predecessor, is a story built on universal tropes and themes: conflicts between fathers and sons, cultural clashes, and the tensions between environmentalism and capitalism. It is also an astonishing technical accomplishment, a movie that, for better or worse, heralds a new age of possibility. (For example, if 73-year-old Sigourney Weaver can now convincingly play an alien teenager, what does this mean for the future of acting?) I spent most of the film unable to distinguish between which environments were real and which were entirely digital creations, and the high-frame-rate technology combined with 3D projection to create one of the most immersive experiences I’ve ever had in a theater. Martin Scorsese has criticized the recent spate of superhero movies as "theme park" rides, but with the Avatar universe, Cameron has managed to combine the best aspects of cinema with the most thrilling parts of an amusement park. I could feel the wind on my face as the camera soared through the Pandora sky following Jake Sully and Neytiri on their flying banshees, and I found myself holding my breath when characters dove underwater on snake-like ilus. During the final action sequence, I noticed that my heart rate would increase whenever sparks or water droplets flew towards the camera, seemingly an arm’s length away. If this is more of a theme park ride than a movie, then my response is: More theme park rides like this, please!

Like George Lucas and Star Wars, Cameron aims to craft a mythic narrative, and he’s largely successful. This is a tale of virgin births and miracles, a story about how humans might learn to co-exist in the world without violence and exploitation. In this movie, animals literally speak; we just have to learn their language. It’s corny as hell, and I mean that as a compliment. Like many great artistic achievements, it’s a work of paradoxes: It’s a movie about the glories of nature made possible only through the development of advanced technology, and Cameron can’t help but fetishize militaristic gadgetry even as he critiques its use. There’s also a disconcerting tension between its calls for a more peaceful world and the way the narrative utilizes violence to solve its core conflicts. And yet, it’s also a movie in which the most intelligent creatures on the planet — intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually — are explicitly known to be pacifists. When the credits began to roll and the lights came on, I found myself longing to stay on Pandora, or at least to do my part to make our world more like it.

EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE (directors: THE DANIELS)

This is the little movie that could, a $15 million sci-fi dramedy that managed to earn over $100 million worldwide due to positive word-of-mouth. Michelle Yeoh stars as Evelyn, a laundromat owner whose life is in disarray: her marriage to husband Waymond (Ke Huy Quan in an incredible, retirement-ending performance) is strained, her daughter hates her, and the business is being audited by the IRS. When she’s suddenly visited by a version of her husband who claims to be from a parallel universe, she finds herself caught in an interdimensional battle that threatens the entire cosmos. It’s The Matrix meets Rick and Morty, an irreverent and wild ride across time and space as Evelyn learns to navigate thoughts of what-could-have-been with the harsh realities of the present.

If there were ever an appropriate title, it’s this one. At times, EEAAO is a sensory overload, a barrage of images, sounds, and ideas that leaves me wishing for a few moments of peace to process what I’m seeing. There are fanny pack-wielding martial artists, raccoon chefs, noodle-fingered lovers, kung fu movie stars, and an action scene that revolves entirely around butt plugs. It’s a lot. The Daniels trust the audience to understand the rules of their universe without explicitly laying them out, which can be confusing and overwhelming (though multiple viewings do help). They are far more interested in making emotional sense than logical consistency, and it’s on that level that EEAAO truly succeeds. The third act is a knockout in terms of craft and storytelling, and I found myself moved to tears by its ultimate call for love over nihilism. It's the perfect antidote to a lot of the poisonous narratives Hollywood churns out about conflict, violence, and how to create order out of chaos. The fundamental themes and story beats are so confidently presented that I can’t help but be swept away by the madness.

FIRE OF LOVE (director: Sara dosa)

I didn’t see many documentaries this year, but of the ones I did watch, Fire of Love was the best. Composed entirely of archival footage, it follows the lives and careers of volcanologists Katia and Maurice Krafft, a husband-and-wife team who traveled the world studying volcanoes. The film is mournful and reflective — we learn early on that they were both killed in the early 1990s — yet also remarkably inspirational. It would make for an intriguing companion piece to Grizzly Man, another fantastic documentary about a nature-lover killed by their passion, but Dosa is a far less cynical filmmaker, portraying the Kraffts’ story as a heroic romance rather than one of doomed idealism. The majority of the footage is taken from their personal archives, so viewers get an up-close-and-personal look at what it was like to be with them as they traversed the molten terrain of active volcanoes. The most astonishing thing, however, is the beauty of the imagery, which captures the immensity of nature and the fragility of the human beings who attempt to study it. I found myself awed by scenes of Maurice and Katia standing miniscule against a backdrop of flaming geysers and explosive earth, tiny figures who were just one element of an ancient, ever-moving ecosystem. Who would do such a thing? I asked myself, but in the face of such majesty, who wouldn’t?

NOPE (director: Jordan Peele)

Jordan Peele knows how to steal from the best. Nods to John Carpenter’s sense of dread (and social commentary), Hideaki Anno’s creature design, and Steven Spielberg’s techniques for building wonder and suspense are all present in Nope, his third feature film. It’s appropriate that he pay homage to some of the most famous craftsmen of blockbuster entertainment, since this science-fiction horror film, which follows a pair of siblings who discover possible extraterrestrial activity in the skies above their horse ranch, is all about how bombastic entertainment can be both magnificent and monstrous. Unlike Get Out and Us, which function as clear social satires and allegories, the metaphors in Nope are vaguer and more ambiguous, which leaves it open to a wider variety of interpretations. It’s a spectacular movie that questions the nature of spectacle, as if Peele is uncertain how to feel about his status as a Black genre filmmaker who’s achieved massive success. How should we respond to an industry that has erased Black artists' contributions, made racial strife a form of perverse entertainment (the lead character is named O.J. for a reason), and consumes the attention of the masses, all while still being a source of majestic beauty and economic success? Nope is about all of that while also being a terrifically suspenseful movie about flying saucers. Regardless of how he feels about it, it’s clear that Peele is a rare talent who is on track to be this generation’s defining genre filmmaker.

THE NORTHMAN (director: Robert Eggers)

I'm not sure I've ever seen trapezius muscles as big as Alexander Skarsgard's in The Northman. They're so large that he can barely turn his head. He walks with a small hunch, weighed down by his past and his fate, as though it takes all those muscles just to keep going. It’s a tremendous performance in a movie with tremendous ambitions. Based on the legend of Amleth (which inspired Hamlet), the story follows a Viking prince who swears vengeance on the uncle who killed his father and stole his kingdom. Eggers is no stranger to historical fiction — his previous two films, The Witch and The Lighthouse, were both period pieces with elements of supernatural horror — and The Northman feels the most grounded in actual history of his work to date, taking the Viking worldview seriously even as he engages with it on his own terms. The stunning camerawork (those long shots!) remains grounded in character, theme, and mood even as it places the audience at a distance; Eggers depicts the savagery of Viking culture observationally and free of condescension, as if to say, This is how they lived. Isn’t that fascinating? In The Northman, Odin is real, as is magic, not because they actually exist, but because the characters believe in them. A gust of wind might be a natural phenomenon, but who are we to say it isn’t sent by the divine? Ultimately, Eggers suggests, even death itself is an ever-changing phenomenon dependent on what people believe about it. The world is simply what we believe it to be. The Northman shows us the world of the Vikings; it left me thinking about my own world, what I believe about it, and how those beliefs shape my decisions.

PINOCCHIO (directors: Guillermo del Toro, Mark Gustafson)

No, this is not the Tom Hanks-starring Disney remake of Pinocchio, which hardly warrants discussion. This is the other adaptation of Pinocchio that came out this year, the stop-motion one that went straight to Netflix and might traumatize young children (the full title is Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio, and Del Toro’s name should be the first sign it’s intended for more mature audiences).

This is, quite simply, the most beautifully animated movie I’ve seen in years. It’s also one of the smartest. I can’t comment on how it functions as an adaptation of the original novel, but it’s astonishing as a subversive companion piece to the 1940 Disney film. That movie (which is also great!) is a rallying cry for traditional Judeo-Christian values, a morality tale in which the titular wooden boy becomes human by learning to follow his conscience. And if that conscience just so happens to want him to obey his father and other "respectable" institutions? Well, so be it. Del Toro and Gustafson’s script takes all the familiar beats of the story — Pinocchio’s creation, his imprisonment by Stromboli, his relenting to peer pressure, and his adventures inside a giant fish — and turns them on their heads, transforming a parable about the value of obedience into an ode to rebellion. Set in Mussolini’s Italy, everyone in this movie from Geppetto to Il Duce himself wants Pinocchio to obey, to do as he’s told, to fall in line — fascism begins in the family, after all. The temptation Pinocchio must overcome isn’t an urge of the flesh but coerced compliance. In the original film, the most morally troubling place was an island in which children could drink, smoke, vandalize property, and be free of authority. Here, Pinocchio’s hell is when he finds himself in a place defined by hierarchy and competition: a military academy. Could there be a more radical version of this story? Or a more fitting one for the times we live in? I found myself slack-jawed by the end, not only due to the gorgeous production design and craft on display, but by how far it’s willing to go to critique its predecessor’s ethos.

THE QUIET GIRL (director: Colm Bairéad)

Many of the movies on this list are monuments to spectacle, impressive displays of the fantastic that delight our most imaginative, fantastical selves. The Quiet Girl is a small story that nonetheless feels immense, one that knows when to move on and when to just sit for a few moments, embracing stillness. It follows Cáit, a young girl in 1980s Ireland whose neglectful parents send her to stay with distant relatives on their farm. Much of the film takes place in silence, causing the viewer to focus on expressions and subtle changes in tone as the timid Cáit and her new guardians gradually learn to warm up to each other. "If there are secrets in a house, there is shame in that house," they tell her. "There are no secrets in this house." That’s just one of the profound truths conveyed in this moving drama; in many directors' hands, this material could tip into maudlin sentimentality or cold detachment, but director Colm Bairead finds the beating heart beneath the impeccable imagery.

RRR (director: S. S. Rajamouli)

I’m not informed enough to comment on the politics or historical accuracy of RRR, but I do know that it’s one of the most enjoyable viewing experiences I had all year. This Telugu-language historical epic follows the unlikely friendship between a rural revolutionary and an officer of the Imperial Police as they take on the forces of the British Empire. It’s the best superhero movie of the year, transforming two real-life people into larger-than-life figures capable of taking on entire armies (or giant tigers) individually. Most movies are lucky to have one memorable action sequence; RRR boasts half a dozen. The explosions are big, the melodrama is bigger, and there’s even an epic dance battle involving choreographed suspenders.

SCREAM 5 (directors: Matt Bettinelli-Olphin, Tyler Gillett)

The Scream series is one of the most consistently good slasher franchises out there, and Scream 5 (aka Scream 2022) is the best entry since the original. As always, the self-aware exposition is on-the-nose but effective, and the film isn’t afraid to poke fun at itself and its own status as a "legacyquel." The kill scenes are inventively staged and refreshingly nasty, but beneath the blood and gore there's a solid critique of current trends in film culture (particularly "toxic fandom"). It also features a memorable performance by Jenna Ortega, who is undoubtedly the breakout actress of the year (and who shows up in another movie on this list). If you’re looking for a horror flick that takes itself seriously while still maintaining a sense of humor, this is the movie for you.

TÁR (director: Todd Field)

Most descriptions of Tár refer to it as a "character study" about a renowned composer on the verge of completing her masterwork: a live recording of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. While that’s true, it would be more apt to call it a ghost story. Lydia Tár (an astonishing Cate Blanchett) is the most famous composer in the world, yes, but she’s haunted, and not just figuratively. Strange noises awaken her at night. She develops chronic shoulder pain. An intricate, maze-like design keeps appearing in unexpected places. And in at least two blink-and-you-miss-it instances, an actual ghost can be glimpsed in the frame. Director Todd Field (with his first big-screen offering in 15 years) takes his time to set the stage for his titular character’s downfall, revealing the sinister truth behind her success at a glacial pace that invites the viewer to constantly question their perceptions. Is she a tyrannical and abusive monster or a wronged victim of cancel culture? And just how much of this is real, exactly? I was left with just as many questions as answers, and months later, I still find myself pondering the implications of its final reveal.

TOP GUN: MAVERICK (director: Joseph Kosinski)

Who knew a sequel to Top Gun could be this good? Thirty-five years after Tom Cruise proved he could lead the highest-grossing film of the year, he’s done it again. This time, the movie actually deserves it. The plot finds the titular Navy pilot on one final assignment before retirement: training a new group of Top Gun graduates (including the son of deceased wingman Goose) for an impossible mission. But the premise is just an excuse to show off big-screen aerial action and, more than anything, the enduring star power of Tom Cruise. Kosinski films the aerial sequences in full IMAX format with real fighter jets, and the result is the most exhilarating flight sequences since Dunkirk (if not ever). They're a showcase for Cruise's notorious focus on physicality, exhibiting a tactility that's missing from modern CGI-driven blockbusters, and that decision adds genuine dramatic weight to a plot that is essentially a retelling of the Death Star trench run, complete with the Force (the spirit of Goose) and Jedi wisdom ("Don't think, just do"). The G-forces pulling the skin taut around Cruise's skull are unmistakably real, and I found myself gaping in awe of the talent required not just to fly the planes but to film it.

Maverick is also a fascinating example of how sequels can work in dialogue with (and improve upon) their predecessors. In the first movie, Maverick was a young prodigy who had to learn to follow the rules; this one is about the need to break away from established protocols and disobey, to maintain humanity when the world seems designed to crush it. The original script's main character thread involved Maverick coping with the shadow of his father; this one finds him navigating what it means to be a father figure himself. That Maverick would make bets on whether he could get into someone's pants; this one waits patiently for his love interest to make the first move and makes it clear he's no longer afraid of commitment. There are entire scenes between Cruise and Jennifer Connelly that have no words. Just long glances and vibes. When’s the last time you saw a big-budget blockbuster that was this comfortable with letting people be in a moment together?

The action genre is fundamentally a conservative one, with individuals (usually lone white men) triumphing over their enemies through implicitly justified violence. Just as the first Top Gun is a perfect distillation of American militarism during the Cold War, this is an ode to a declining empire, a final "hurrah" for outdated ideals of individual heroism and good old-fashioned blockbuster entertainment. The enemy here is nameless and faceless, a decision that simultaneously promotes war-mongering (it doesn’t matter who we’re fighting, it seems, as long as we’re fighting) while also replacing the jingoistic anti-Soviet sentiment of the first film with a focus on characters and their relationships — sure, they’re in combat, but what does that mean for them? Maverick is far more a celebration of big-screen spectacle and stardom than an ad for the U.S. Navy, as the titular character fights to remain relevant in an era of technology and end his career with dignity. "Time is your greatest adversary," he claims at one point, and the filmmakers know it. This is a movie for a country reckoning with itself, one that wants to keep going even though deep down it knows it can't, and a film for an industry that is struggling to figure out how to maintain any semblance of artistry amidst the studio-driven assembly line production process. There is a comfort to nostalgia, to mythic wars between good guys and bad guys, to monoculture, and even to unity. But there's also death there, and boredom, and soul-deadening institutional machinery. For better or worse, Tom Cruise is trying to thread that needle, to use big-budget franchises as a vehicle for individual expression and sheer human will, to remind us of what we might be capable of if we work around the system rather than with or against it. Maybe nobody has to die. Maybe we can all keep our jobs. Maybe we can make peace with ourselves and our past and chart a new way forward. Maybe, just maybe, movies as big-screen communal entertainment can keep on existing. At the very least, if he has anything to say about it, they'll go out on a high note.

X (director: Ti West)

I wasn’t a big fan of House of the Devil, Ti West’s 2009 breakout horror film. That movie, filmed on 16mm and an homage to "satanic panic" films of the 1970s and 1980s, struck me as superficial imitation rather than a substantive addition to the genre. X, his latest effort (along with a prequel, Pearl, filmed at the same time), is also intended to look like movies from the time period it’s set in — in this instance, 1970s grindhouse and porno films. West’s affinity for film history is evident in the plot itself, which follows a group of amateur pornographers as they seek to make a skin flick on rural Texas farmland, only to find themselves fighting for their lives when their activities are discovered by the property’s elderly owners. Here, though, West doesn’t just mimic old-school aesthetics as a gimmick; he uses long-standing horror tropes as part of a broader exploration of filmmaking, objectification, and our cultural obsession with fame and beauty. He presents both sexual libertinism and sexual repression as symptoms of the same deep-rooted fear: that we’re undesirable and unlovable, if not now, then in the future. X posits that we aren’t turned on by sex as much as youth, leaning into the critique that slasher movies are fundamentally conservative (you have sex, you die!) while confronting viewers with their own ageism. This is gnarly, provocative stuff, a gripping and thoughtful examination of how disgust and arousal can both be frightening. How fitting, then, that X also boasts the best sex scene of the year, a moment of lovemaking that’s equal parts tender and horrific. Forget juvenile thrills: this is truly a horror movie for adults.

The Best Films of 2022