The Best 100 Films of the 1970's

WRITTEN BY ANDREAS BABIOLAKIS

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Can you believe that 1970 was fifty years ago this year? It’s unbelievable. Just think about how current so much of it feels. The electronic music that never left and only got stronger. The concept of the idiosyncratic celebrity like David Bowie or Cher. Okay, so the fashion and shaggy carpets never really came back, but there is a lot of influence from this time that never went away. A good portion of that influence is in cinematic form. Think about it: most of the films in the mainstream now, especially in Hollywood, are directly inspired by the waves of works from the seventies (thank you, New Hollywood). Then, there’s the French New Wave works that broke apart what films could be; the wave started earlier, but a lot of headway was made here by a number of filmmakers (excluding Jean-Luc Godard; his time will shine in the ‘60s list).

The seventies definitely makes its claim as one of the strongest time periods in all of cinema for a few reasons. Cross cultural influences were growing stronger than ever. Marginalized voices were being listened to at least a tiny bit more now than before; the rise of race related works, LGBTQ+ films, and feminist experiments was growing stronger. Things felt a little more grim with musicals slowing down (or at least changing into more serious fare), even though colour has completely taken over black and white as the predominant visual scheme now (ironically enough: Technicolor dies in this decade, too). A lot of movement was happening, yet there is a very distinctive feel here with the majority of films released. Filmmakers were foaming at the mouth to be more daring.

So, in return, we have many experimental works; this list of one hundred is, naturally, the weirdest and full of the most polarizing picks I have made yet. We have an influx of revisionist genre flicks, as well as the tail ends of styles that were well on their way out by now. The seventies called for change, and by golly that demand can still be felt today even just by skimming through these one hundred selections. So far, this has been the hardest list to compile by a large margin, and I figure this and the sixties will hurt the most (all of the great films I’ve had to cut; it’s killing me!). Nonetheless, I tried my best, and I’m happy with what I have here. Here are the best one hundred films of the 1970’s.

Disclaimer: I haven’t included documentaries, or any film that is considerably enough of a documentary (mockumentaries don’t count). I haven’t forgotten about films like F for Fake or Grey Gardens. I’m keeping them in mind for later (wink wink).

Be sure to check out my other Best 100 lists of every decade here.

100. House

When Nobuhiko Obayashi was approached by Toho to create the next Jaws, he instead relied heavily on his daughter’s worst nightmares. House is the messy result: an amalgamation of all things frightening and sloppy. It intentionally rests in the valley connecting comedy and horror, otherwise known as the indescribable sensation of complete absurdity. Now a cult favourite, House is the go-to film for cinephiles to temporarily be at a loss for words, as they gasp, laugh, and scratch their heads in unison. If Jaws demanded a bigger boat, House needs a larger cinema, full of exhausted movie fiends at the strike of midnight to ceremoniously celebrate this insane film experience like an annual pilgrimage. 

99. Chloe in the Afternoon

If adultery could be portrayed sincerely and poetically on screen, it would take Éric Rohmer to make this happen. Chloe in the Afternoon (or Love in the Afternoon: no affiliation with the Billy Wilder film) presents a husband who would do anything for his wife, yet still feels compelled to keep pursuing other women. Chloé isn’t even the only woman he parlays with, but the North American title gives us an indication that this liaison matters the most for symbolic reasons. As a part of Rohmer’s Moral Tales series, Chloe takes on the discussion of cheating with a rather neutral lens, which only makes the core change of heart feel all the more sweet. We don’t rally against Frédéric and his poor decisions. We try to figure out why he is doing this.

98. The Holy Mountain

Otherwise known as possibly the strangest widely accessible film of all time, Alejandro Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain is the mecca of psychedelic metaphor films. Sacrificing major chunks of screen time towards the world building of this crazy religious world full of planetary deities and their vices, The Holy Mountain seems like it’s really about very little until it finally goes about its quests. Jodorowsky goes full-on Buñuel just about, especially towards the compilation of nightmares spliced together as the titular peak is climbed. Once the fourth wall is broken, you’ll know truly what The Holy Mountain is: a celebration of all cults, and the lack of surrender to order. How ironic.

97. The Boys in the Band

Mirroring Mart Crowley’s breakthrough Broadway play, William Friedkin’s The Boys in the Band remains as truthful as possible. Confined mainly to one scene and a single location, this narrative takes place around a birthday party, where every guest carries baggage (even including the birthday “gift” Cowboy Tex). As the weather worsens and alcohol begins to run out, The Boys in the Band becomes a confessional moment between members of the LGBTQ+ community and society’s neglect for them. The Boys in the Band was very ahead of its time, allowing a space for discussions that many other films and directors refused to take seriously or even attempt.

96. Love and Death

When Woody Allen was still at his absolute silliest, he was finally starting to channel that existentialist anguish that he loved so much in Ingmar Bergman’s classics through Love and Death. A completely juvenile period piece about unrequited adoration in wartime, Love and Death is possibly Allen’s finest living caricature. It’s nicer to see Allen’s more polished works, but his goofiest era deserves some kudos as well. It doesn’t get any better than a prolonged dance with death through a path of trees that never ends, especially after an hour and a half of anxious whimpering and cowardice as a means to avoid said death. Full of contemporary qualms in a historical setting and many visual gags (let’s also not forget the innuendos), Love and Death is persistent clever nonsense.

95. Je Tu Il Elle

Before we got the more ambitious works by Chantal Akerman, an early foray into her maximal minimalism was Je Tu Il Elle, and it was the perfect introduction to what she could say. Akerman really doesn’t beat around the bush, and presents exactly what she is trying to say as real as possible. In this short exploration starring herself, Akerman connects with a stranger, a young lady, and us: we are the “Tu”. Cleverly, the relationship that is forced upon her feels quite stiff, but the one that brings her joy is shot with complete devotion, representing an emotional release without constraints. Akerman may have been better known for her later works, but Je Tu Il Elle was already a sign that she was going to break a hole in cinema’s conventions.

94. The Passenger

It’s only natural that Michelangelo Antonioni would team up with rising stars like Jack Nicholson and Maria Schneider in his English arthouse take The Passenger: a tale about a man hoping for a new life who claimed the wrong identity. Borderline lifeless outside of how it is shot, The Passenger reflects the emptiness of living in a void, and swapping lives will not cure what society has created. If existence was mundane before, the gamble at the heart of The Passenger is a danger that was completely unnecessary (is it better to live pointlessly than at risk?). Still, we get moments like the single shot climax that take our breaths away, and Antonioni captures the beauty of the same life that we all condemn because of our own inadequacies. 

93. Lancelot du lac

Robert Bresson was forever more interested in the art of film than the story, so his take on King Arthur and the Holy Grail is quite something. Lancelot du Lac begins with complete devastation: a blood bath that shocks our senses. Then, the film strays as far away from that ghastly sight as possible, and gets locked into various patterns of repetition (particularly the hypnotic jousting sequence). We await another bloodbath, because we saw it like a prophecy. Was it a dream? Was it a hallucination? We await the blood moon’s rise once more, and this lingers throughout the backstabbing and the fear mongering in the film. Once our wish is granted, it’s quick, as if we missed the whole thing. That’s when we know that Bresson made us thirst for blood, and that we’re as guilty as all of the characters in Lancelot du Lac. Shame on us.

92. Female Trouble

As much as putting Pink Flamingos on this list would make sense, it’s a little too primitive to include (consider it an honourable mention). However, Female Trouble is a bit of a more digestible middle ground for John Waters, who wasn’t ready to be fully accessible just yet. Embracing all of the shock that Pink Flamingos swam in, Female Trouble is like a follow up film for wider audiences. This time, the goal is to rip apart endearing family films, and Waters does this with complete confidence. Female Trouble is grossly hilarious, and an early sign that Waters can unite everybody even in the most unconventional ways. It's his bitterness towards nuclear America that has rendered all of his films masterful, and Female Trouble is his way of sticking it to the cinema that cookie cuts our lives (not anymore, they won’t).

91. Emitaï

The ‘70s was an incredibly underrated period for Ousmane Sembène, and contains some hidden gems like Xala and Ceddo. The best of these works is Emitaï: a study on resistance against colonization. Emitaï is willing to get more spiritual than other Sembène films, and even dips right into holy territory at one point (a lovely creative detour for the Senegalese master). Unfortunately, the film also contains his signature hard-hitting cynicism, which is apt for his discussions, including the smashing of these dreams of a new life; he saves them for the most depressing moments as well. Emitaï is somewhat of a bridge film, as it feels like a blueprint for Camp de Thiaroye and a continuation of the themes of poverty shown in the short film Borom sarret. Nonetheless, it’s a deep cut for the king of African cinema, and a must-see political work in the ‘70s.

90. L’Histoire d’Adèle H.

François Truffaut’s films could usually be attached to artistic prose, so it’s interesting to see what he could do with a biopic. Of course, he opted for a story that relied on pathos and the audience response. Victor Hugo’s daughter Adèle (played by a ahead-of-her-years Isabelle Adjani) is shunned by society even well before she was chastised for her mental illnesses. Naturally, her own tale (L’Histoire d’Adèle H.) carries her perspective, so we understand how the world is attacking her, even when this may not be the case. Watching an isolated battle like this is incredibly difficult, and yet Truffaut somehow manages to make Adèle Hugo’s saddening story into a loving tribute.

89. Pink Narcissus

For the longest time, Andy Warhol was credited for artist James Bidgood’s unfinished passion project Pink Narcissus. Filmed almost exclusively in his apartment (we can see how but still don’t fully understand how), Pink Narcissus acted as Bidgood’s company that maybe was never even meant to be released to the world. In its raw state, this experimental depiction of love that a bigoted society was missing out on is a luscious dream of imagery and symbolism, all meant to replicate the gay experience. Nothing explicit is created. You just get an indescribable euphoria, which may have been what Bidgood was trying to figure out himself. You can see why Bidgood was displeased with the film being released without his consent. You may also now understand why the mystery surrounding Pink Narcissus was so strong: who was able to create such a beautiful state of mind and spirit?

88. Monty Python and The Holy Grail

If you’re feeling really sadistic, you can have a great double feature between Lancelot du Lac and this Monty Python cult classic. Monty Python and the Holy Grail continues to deliver as one of the funniest films of the ‘70s. As the sloppier of the two Python greats of this time, Holy Grail cares much less about how it comes across as a narrative, and it’s almost brilliantly absent minded. Besides, the vignettes of familiar faces are what really sell this bizarre quest that was doomed from the start (how many of us know anything about King Arthur that didn’t come from this film, which is in no way meant to be educational?). Even as a constant barrage of stupidity, Holy Grail is brilliant (it isn’t easy to be dumb and funny on purpose). Out of all of the films that were effortless in creating laughs, Holy Grail is, well, the Holy Grail.

87. Mean Streets

The first time Martin Scorsese really left his mark on cinema, he crafted the early gem Mean Streets. He managed to pick up Harvey Keitel and Robert DeNiro before they were acting mainstays, and bottle their talents into this small scale crime tale of the big world. Naturally, tensions escalate, and this uncontrollable series of events turns into a cautionary fable with a hell of a lot to say after the film is finished. That’s a sign that Scorsese was always above using crime out of obsession. Sure, with Who’s That Knocking at My Door and Boxcar Bertha, you could see hints of something great. With Mean Streets, Scorsese was already there, being bale to tap into a side of American hostility with underlining values of pathos for a city (New York, obviously) and a country bogged down by vice. 

86. The Bird with the Crystal Plumage

With Suspiria, Dario Argento became the auteur of giallo. Before that, he had his small followings that adored his works. Out of this time period of Argento’s filmography, the greatest work was The Bird with the Crystal Plumage. I’m not quite sure what makes this one of the great slasher films of the ‘70s. Maybe it’s seeing the beautiful architecture and interior designs being destroyed by blood and carnage. Could be the ties to a higher lifestyle that is now plagued with unknown, horrific forces. Whatever it may be, Crystal Plumage carries a level of uncertainty on its shoulders, enforced by the fashion and sets as stylish as its murders. Giallo wasn’t anything new, but Argento’s take on the style felt like we were entering a new age (and we were).   

85. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Here’s one of those crowd pleasers that almost everyone can get behind. Miloš Forman’s Academy Award juggernaut One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest took its own liberties to separate itself from Ken Kessey’s iconic novel (particularly changing the perspective to a neutral outsider one for the film). The aim was to shed light on mental illness in a systemic setting, and remove any preconceived notions created by cinema and other parasitic art forms that came before. At the forefront, Cuckoo’s Nest is an acting battlefield where everyone wins. Deep down, this is an open door to a life that we may take for granted now. Back in the mid ‘70s, Cuckoo’s Nest was a much needed angle meant to unite humans. To this day (and luckily in a more tolerant climate), Cuckoo’s Nest is for all.

84. Sholay

One of Bollywood’s most successful films of all time is a blend of the industry’s typical conventions and the tropes of the then-gigantic spaghetti western style. Sholay is three and a half hours of untethered chaos, both positive and negative. With catchy musical numbers interrupted by carnage, or battles halted by silliness, Sholay is constant excitement and adventure, led by two criminals who are asked to protect a community and capture a murderer. Fully embracing the cheese of spaghetti westerns and obeying the conventions of Bollywood, Sholay is as exhilarating as it is sympathetic, riding entirely on visceral emotions. The film was reintroduced in the 2010’s in 3-D for another theatrical run. I think people would be itching to see Sholay again even without the gimmick.

83. Claire’s Knee

Most peoples’ go-to answer for Éric Rohmer’s opus would be Claire’s Knee, maybe because it exemplifies the French New Wave titan’s ability to conjure the ambience of peace, whether it is found in nature or through love. The central quests found here to achieve a meaningful relationship with another are all seemingly unfounded, until you get wrapped up in the scenery of Haute-Savoie. Sometimes, you feel compelled to just follow instinct, if it seems to cure your spirit. It’s why we go on excursions, and why we date. Claire's Knee follows some more peculiar chases of this bliss, but Rohmer’s gentle direction makes every character’s rationales seem reasonable.

82. Serpico 

Sidney Lumet’s biopic of Frank Serpico likely felt revelatory back in 1973. Now, Serpico just feels like the repetition of what we already know, sadly: the law is crooked, and so is law enforcement. Serpico tries to clean the force on the inside, and Serpico follows this quest with mixed results (mostly threats towards his life). By the end, you may not feel like anything has been resolved, outside of Serpico’s own self fulfillment, knowing he tried his best. All he has left is Alfie: his dog that he adopted many years before. The world is a terrible place outside of the very few things that bring us life. For Serpico in Lumet’s ruthless retelling, it’s his message being told, and those that have stuck by. In 2020, that’s all of us. I’m sorry nothing’s changed, Frank.

81. Young Frankenstein

Out of the two iconic Mel Brooks films of the ‘70s, Young Frankenstein is much more put together in what it is trying to achieve: a spoof of James Whale’s Frankenstein films. As ridiculous as it gets, it always feels like it's still a film in and of itself. While knowing the references helps, you can honestly go blindly into Young Frankenstein and make do, because it’s still a story from start to finish. Of course, being familiar with Brooks’ punchlines certainly helps, as this horror tribute is mightily clever with how it makes fun of its subjects. To really drive home the point that Young Frankenstein was always concerned with being a good film, we have Gene Wilder as the titular Frawn-Ken-Steen, who delivers one of the great comedic performances of all time. He’s over the top, but completely electrifying for the right reasons; he still lands every joke no matter what.

80. High Plains Drifter

It’s only appropriate that Clint Eastwood conjured up a western where we follow a villain (may as well be the devil, honestly) right in the centre of the New Hollywood climate. High Plains Drifter makes no mistake that we are seeing the story of a terrible person, either. If anything, we are worried about what is going to happen to Lago, if this is the man that’s supposed to help the town out (a spoiled, narcissistic, perverted abuser). You don’t know where you stand in the sadistic High Plains Drifter: an early sign that Eastwood doesn’t mind stomping on the very genre that made him an icon. Welcome to hell.

79. Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom

The legacy surrounding Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom was always going to be warped, given the incredibly disturbing adaptation of the works of Marquis de Sade by Pier Paolo Pasolini. Salò shifts to fascist Italy in 1944, and a handful of teenagers are kidnapped by aristocrats to be their sex slaves, waste receptacles, and bloody sacrifices (amongst other things). Possibly the only torture porn film worth a damn, Salò collects all of the anguish of a devastated nation and renders it borderline unwatchable (which, in return, has made Salò a must-see for sick cinephiles). It’s also Pasolini’s swan song, as he was murdered before the film’s release; we’ll never hear his complete side of his mightily unsettling political horror. 

78. Girlfriends

The independent scene of the ’70s still feels quite similar to the works of today, and one of those innovative forces in low budgeted masterworks was Claudia Weill, whose Girlfriends was able to contain all of life’s ups and downs within a teensy tiny runtime. Somehow, Girlfriends weaves through so much: discovery, betrayal, grief, regret, solace, and discomfort. At its surface, Girlfriends is a young photographer trying to figure herself out. Deep down, this feature is a hypothesis on how the separation of two lives turns into the reliance on one another, resulting in further deviation through counterforce. Despite how profound it is, in typical indie fashion, Girlfriends whispers its thoughts, allowing the words to creep into your soul. We’ve all been there, and Girlfriends is mightily identifiable.

77. Tess 

Sharon Tate believed her husband Roman Polanski could make a fantastic rendition of Tess of the d’Ubervilles, but she sadly wasn’t alive to see that she was right. Unable to adapt this request for ten years, Polanski finally fulfilled his late wife’s prophecy with one of his most tasteful films ever. Tess is still Polanski levels of cold, but it is shot so stunningly and full of so much wonder. It plays like a common period piece until it leaps one square too far into dangerous territory (then it becomes obvious why Tate believed Polanski was the perfect fit); it’s the kind of revisionist deviation that makes Tess stand out as a one-of-a-kind film in its style. Yes, Tess gets dark, but it’s still Polanski operating at his most delicate and tender. I believe Tate would have been proud.

76. The French Connection

Peculiarly, William Friedkin’s blending of New Hollywood and French New Wave won the Best Picture Academy Award. As fantastic as that is, it still boggles my mind. The French Connection is beyond alienating, with a bigoted detective running the show, a lack of warmth in the editing, and an abrupt ending that could not care less how you feel about it. It’s absolutely splendid. When it isn’t going against the grain, The French Connection ended up becoming the norm, with its stylistic tone, iconic car chase, and miserable aura clearing the way for likeminded films. If you really think about it and strip away the film’s legacy, it’s astonishing that Friedkin’s vision is as universally beloved as it is. It’s proof that excellent sense of the cinematic language will always prevail.

75. Phantom of the Paradise

Out of all of the shlock cult films that could exist, Phantom of the Paradise is one of the all time greats. You have Brian De Palma’s signature edge set to Paul Williams’ pitch perfect soundtrack (yeah, I said it. It’s one of the greatest of all time, and I’m sticking by this claim). The result is a peculiar converging of Faust and Phantom of the Opera with silly (and actually funny) songs; the serious ballads are just as wonderful as the humorous tunes. Thank God for Manitoba, where the province’s adoration for the film kept it alive. It absolutely deserves the love. Now, we can all watch Phantom of the Paradise whenever, and it’s undeniable fun and infectious.

74. Star Wars

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, George Lucas accidentally created the concept of the film franchise. It might go without saying, but it’s incredibly difficult to remember Star Wars without everything that we know now if you didn’t grow up when it was first released. For the rest of us, we can only speculate the opening of this treasure chest that changed cinema forever. Ignore the hype and legacy, and Star Wars (or A New Hope, if I must) is still a fun space western with samurai film tropes (and an Odysseus fascination). Star Wars was epic, fresh, and an untapped portion of the ever-evolving medium of cinema. Star Wars currently is a precedent for the constant influx of film series. Let’s be honest. Most origin stories or first entires still can’t hold a candle to Lucas’ cinephile-induced vision.

73. Blazing Saddles

Oh boy. Well, it’s safe to say that Mel Brooks’ finest creation is the savagely relentless Blazing Saddles, but that may not be the easiest thing to say in 2020. While most of the jokes come from a proper place of satire, there are the occasional duds that haven’t aged the greatest (the Dom DeLuise chorus line part is what sticks out the most in my mind, given a lack of resolution with its caricature of the gay community). For the most part, Blazing Saddles’ satire on macho right wing film genres, politics, and bigotry still zings, thanks to a massive writing team that included Brooks, Richard Pryor and Andrew Bergman (amongst others). Besides, it’s some of the greatest fourth wall breaking ever put to screen. The film rendered no target safe; not even itself. 

72. Being There

Hal Ashby’s strongest triumph was Peter Seller’s considerable final note, and the two eccentric minds were a match made in heaven. Being There places a naive, uneducated gardener who has never left his master’s mansion in a place of responsibility for the entire state of economics of the United States, when he is mistaken for a business type prophet (really, he just wants to plant some trees and watch television). This two hour case of dramatic irony is hilarious through and through, with Sellers’ finest acting (his lack of an Oscar will always bother us). It’s the final moments that pull the rug from underneath you (in multiple ways) that create a sense of wonder for us all, just when we got too comfortable. The world doesn’t function exactly how we imagine it does, whether it’s a secret society, or the breaking of physics.

71. Walkabout

One of the strongest entries in the Australian New Wave movement was an early indication of Nicolas Roeg’s idiosyncratic auteur style known as Walkabout. An existentialist look at growth in the outbacks, this tale drops two children of different ages in an unfathomable position. As you try to keep up with Walkabout’s unpredictable story, you are left in awe when you aren't scratching your head. Once it wraps up, you're exactly like the female, unnamed lead character, who wondered what it was all for. Is adapting to society really the way one lives? Or is it the possibility of anything in an uninhibited life that represents true freedom? Either way, Walkabout is a dilemma where Roeg lets us figure out our own decision, and no one leaves this film quite the same.

70. Jaws

The first blockbuster of all time was a slasher film meant to replicate the shattering of a comfort zone in the way Psycho rendered showers dangerous. This time it was the beach, and it was during the Fourth of July weekend. The fear of going into the water became the number one sensation of the year, and movie going lines were never the same. John Williams’ half-step pair of notes — surrounded by orchestral panicking — resonated. The shark at the centre of the film only appeared two thirds into the picture, and yet its impact was far too strong. When Jaws turns from a thriller into a quest for survival, Steven Spielberg’s signature warmth allows you to champion the three different souls trying to save a society; the scares during this chapter only feel stronger.

69. Ashani Sanket

As a filmmaker, Satyajit Ray was always ahead of his peers. Seeing him be progressive as a commentator on political woes is also quite something, and this opportunity exists in the timeless Ashani Sanket. A raging war between self sufficiency and hospitality emerges between a husband and wife during a wave of starvation, and we get caught right in the middle of the dilemma. Do we look out for ourselves, or do we worsen our own means (including privileged positions) to ensure that others are well fed (even if you don't know them)? Ashani Sanket isn't afraid to get real, either, and it leaps into uncomfortable territory quite willingly, as to prove Ray’s point: change cannot happen unless we feel the discomfort of admitting society’s imbalances.   

68. All the President’s Men

The Watergate scandal is old news by now, but having Alan J. Pakula’s journalism thriller All the President’s Men come out only a few years after the investigation was quite a punch to the gut. At least society had time to digest the content at the base of Spotlight. Here, in a world when news circulated far more slowly and with fewer avenues, President’s Men delivered a wallop of information that remains sickening. The way the film drips out information is borderline sadistic, as the slow revelations for how deep the deception goes is excruciating to witness. President’s Men’s no-nonsense approach makes it feel all the more real, as to allow the real event to reveal itself as the tainting of American history that it is.

67. Lady Snowblood

Toshiya Fujita’s revenge bloodbath Lady Snowblood is a nonstop series of dismembered limbs and decapitated heads, all in the name of honour that was disrespected and lives that were cut short. Lady Snowblood herself (Yuki) is an absolute badass, whose unapologetic ways help her remain one of cinema’s great heroines of action flicks. The film would be excessive if it wasn't so gorgeous in its depictions of slaughter, turning the one-by-one body count into a poetic outcry of anguish. The sequel Love Song of Vengeance is a completely different beast that is only worthwhile if you adore the first film; as it stands, I adore Lady Snowblood.

66. Cabaret

By 1972, the world knew Bob Fosse. By the 1973 Academy Awards, The Godfather had swooped in on Cabaret’s Best Picture win, despite the latter dominating the rest of the ceremony’s awards. Luckily, Cabaret’s legacy didn't stop there; how can it with an abrupt ending that sends such shivers down your spine? The slow evolution of Nazism in the Weimar Republic that grows in the back of the film is a subtle tension that occasionally explodes (that musical moment, for instance). Meanwhile, the romantic and financial woes at the front of the film are the narrative of the now; the Weimar subplot clashes with the main narrative, proving that life can change at any second. With Joel Grey as the Master of Ceremonies being so charismatic, his interludes in Cabaret becomes the mockery of life’s evils, just to break life up a little bit.

65. The Exorcist

The clout surrounding The Exorcist may seem like it’s the only reason why the film may be discussed. In reality, The Exorcist is simply an exceptional horror film. It’s scary, yes, but much of that comes from crazy technical innovation (I’m still stunned by the spinal tap scene). Narratively, we have a mother watch her daughter slip away, and a man of God be pitted against his faith. William Friedkin’s patience with delivering all of The Exorcist’s tricks is part of the end result, and they still make the inevitable frightening (no matter how many times you watch it). Yes, the hype surrounding The Exorcist may be based on how offensive or taboo of a watch it is, but facts are facts: it’s a masterful film through and through.

64. Manhattan

Woody Allen has always been fixated on the awkwardness of the human experience, and that was never going to change. However, seeing him finally celebrate life was a nice change of pace. Manhattan is arguably his most stunning film, as it takes advantage of scenic views and smoother pacing to soak in this city that neuroses and selfishness have destroyed time and time again. Allen is a man of New York, and no film has proved this better than Manhattan: an homage to a stomping grounds no matter what takes place within it. Shot in a stunning black-and-white, the film somehow feels less busy and anxious, despite the romantic queries at the narrative forefront. It feels like the one time Allen actually stops to smell the roses, and it's a great change of pace.  

63. Out 1: Noli Me Tangere

Often thought of as one of cinema's great quests, completing Out 1: Noli Me Tangere (I must specify this is the thirteen hour version) results in a vastly perplexing experience. For such a long time, you've watched film be constructed in its most primal forms (long shots of acting exercises, as to show the gestation of the performance arts). It molds into a modern rendition of the works of Honoré de Balzac, with a webbing of French New Wave loose plot threads. Along the way are experimental twists to ensure you've kept at a distance when you've been sucked in (backwards conversations, quick lapses of visual content, that sort of thing). By the end, you’ll have been tested in so many ways. A character’s thirteen hour quest “resolves” in seconds. The world you're introduced to lingers in an incomplete state. The final image is a quick cut to a completely different storyline; a reminder that there will always be something we've missed in life. 

62. Solaris

By the early ‘70s, Andrei Tarkovsky was beyond familiar with what he could do (see Andrei Rublev). So, going into space seemed reasonable. Solaris is the kind of science fiction film only Tarkovsky could make, as its reservedness is part of what makes it such a riveting experience. You’ll see brief images of what is possible, and then never see them again. Finally, Tarkovsky indulges his audience, with breathtaking or devastating images. Sure, Steven Soderbergh meant well with his own 2002 take, but Tarkovky’s stunning vision of memory, loss, and the great beyond is the definitive version; it's also an exercise in creating a narrative within empty spaces. 

61. Don’t Look Now

Nicolas Roeg’s greatest achievement was his deeply unsettling look at parental grief in Don't Look Now: a tragi-horror surrounding the death of a daughter. Hinged around uncertainty and blame, Don't Look Now feels a little off after the traumatizing opening sequence. Then, it gets weird. Very, very weird. It’s as if the deepest pits of the human soul opened up a doorway to a whole new dimension. Given the film's tone, this dimension is frightening. Turmoil can be inexplicable, and Roeg’s approach to a suffering family feels like the best means to put a series of images to these grey areas. No matter how out-there the film gets, we cannot stop watching Don't Look Now.  

60. One Sings, the Other Doesn’t

Much of the French New Wave was about contrast, and Agnès Varda managed to make one hell of an experiment when she created Suzanne and Pomme in One Sings, the Other Doesn’t. The story is much more complicated, as Varda pits both different souls into different political climates in France and watches each life gestate. Varda herself touches upon hot button discussions from back then, including abortion and the arts industry, turning this chipper film into somewhat of a sugary commentary with bite nonetheless. Some French New Wave works are easier to describe, because their experiments are much more explicit. One Sings, the Other Doesn’t is a two hour anomaly that will sweep you off your feet regardless.  

59. Dog Day Afternoon

Seeing Signey Lumet unhinged is quite something, and not many of his works feel as anti authoritarian as Dog Day Afternoon. Without a score, trapped in a small location for most of the film, and smushed next to unhappy campers, this fabrication of a real crime is so uncomfortable to watch (particularly with Al Pacino’s Sonny Wortzik at the helm). For over two hours, you're seeing a bank robbery turn into a gigantic mess of a scheme, and graves are being dug deeper and deeper. In a New Hollywood environment, it's interesting to get so deeply into the minds of criminals and their motives, and on that note Dog Day Afternoon is perhaps even slightly underrated. With a current lens though, the film continues to accelerate heart rates.

58. The Marriage of Maria Braun

Rainer Werner Fassbinder can’t just tell a story simply. No. The titular Maria's self fulfilling mission has to be set in Germany during wartime, as to create a very specific environment for her husband’s disappearance and assumed death. Sure, Fassbinder loves his backdrops, and the world created in The Marriage of Maria Braun proves this. However, that isn't even enough. It’s the extra mile, where Fassbinder showcases his knowledge of the medium he is mastering. Case in point: the final scene where image and sound clash in the most heightened of calamities. A romance can’t just be a romance in Fassbinder’s filmography, and it’s one of the reasons why The Marriage of Maria Braun excels. It's a great story first, with a series of cinematic flourishes to boot.

57. Badlands

Terrence Malick's first feature film feels unlike anything else he has ever made. Even still, Badlands is so driven by poetic imagery (lest I forget the fire). Even when we follow a couple of degenerates and their misdeeds, Malick is trying to find the beauty within the human experience. We're stuck with murdering psychopaths, and yet everything is framed gorgeously; the sound palette is also relatively calming for the most part. Somehow, Badlands is dream like without resorting to surrealism. It's Malick's affinity for capturing the human soul, no matter what evils may lague them. It's a gift we have received for decades since.

56. The Phantom of Liberty

Even when one of Luis Buñuel’s aristocratic hellhole experiments aren’t his best, it’s still an absolute must-see (and borderline perfect). The Phantom of Liberty really takes advantage of its surreal style by offering a series of images that borderline have nothing to do with each other (outside of political commentary, satirical sadomasochism, and historical context). I find that other Buñuel nightmare works have a very explicit comment at their core. Not The Phantom of Liberty, which is a shotgun blast that hits everyone in upper class European pedestals. The film even comes full circle, shattering the conventions of time, and looping as an escape from an awake state; this punishment shall never end.

55. Cooley High

It seems like Michael Schultz lost touch with what made Cooley High so timeless. It has all of the fun that his straight up comedies do, but Cooley High was also more invested in the societal stories it felt obliged to tell. Everything is fun and games until life heads south for our main characters, including the mistakes they make and their massive repercussions. What’s especially captivating is that every obstacle affects the other one, turning Cooley High into a snowball effect of comeuppance in a struggling neighbourhood. Then, the film gets extremely real, and we are aware that we have just seen entire lifetimes shoved into a digestible runtime. Other Schultz films might entertain everyone, but Cooley High captured everything, and it’s easily his most beautiful work. 

54. Fantastic Planet

Not many animated features have taken on the cult world quite like Fantastic Planet, which truly is a spectacle of the field (animation was relatively slow in the ‘70s, so this French-Czech creation is hands down the best of the decade). Every single scene — and I do mean every — has some sort of inexplainable creature or action happening, and yet we can’t turn away because of how incredible the artwork is. The universe created here feels endless. We’re still given a story about humanity trying to escape the clutches of the same predicaments we have given to other beings on Earth. This time, humans (or “oms”) are subservient to Draags, and we watch the unravelling of this agreement. Fantastic Planet is a mind blowing experience, despite the fact that we’re watching ourselves fall prey to, well, ourselves.

53. Suspiria

Never has horror been so colourful, stunning, artistic, and expressionistic. This is the film that everyone points to when Dario Argento gets shot down for his recent works. Suspiria is an all-time caliber horror film that is equal parts dated and impossible to reach (and that well intended reimagining by Luca Guadagnino doesn’t come close). The moments that are sloppy barely even matter because of how sensational the rest of this film is, and that’s including the excusing of many unexplained events (it’s a rare instance where unknown forces kind of just work). Even if you find much of the film hard to believe, Suspiria is an aesthetic masterwork: the final Technicolor film (what a last note to have), scored by Goblin’s possessed rhythms and chants. Suspiria is an art horror of an extreme echelon that not even Argento ever reached again. 

52. Autumn Sonata

The last film that Ingmar Bergman released in theatres (before he was fully sold on being a part of the television film revolution), Autumn Sonata is a stripped down drama that focuses mainly on one conversation that was meant to be had for decades. A perfectionist celebrity pianist mother (the other amazing Bergman: Ingrid Bergman) and her shunned, reserved daughter (Liv Ullmann) are pitted head-to-head in a single room for a good portion of the film’s runtime just to talk things out. With the expert acting, we already get the gist of what this relationship is like, so getting a full on backstory just doesn’t make sense. Meanwhile, here we are invading the privacy between two family members that are unleashing countless years worth of anguish. It’s the kind of hyper realistic drama that Bergman excelled with (especially with so few — yet crucial — ingredients).

51. Monty Python’s Life of Brian

Comedies often get the short end of the stick in the grand scheme of things, maybe because it feels easier to discredit how they are made due to their less serious natures. Despite the silliness at hand, it is borderline impossible to not see that Monty Python’s Life of Brian is still an excellent film through and through (yes, even that bizarre alien detour, which continues to be one of the greatest “what-the-hell” moments ever). Satirizing fanatical religion (not all religion: a huge misconception) was a huge no-no back when the Monty Python troop tried to make this comedy opus, and it took some celebrity power (and a certain Beatle) to make this living caricature bubble succeed. Luckily it did, as we were given a nonstop list of quotes, side splitting scenarios, and a supply of hilarious characters for all time to enjoy. It’s the kind of film where even mass execution is a riot, and that is saying a lot.

50. Wanda

Barbara Loden’s only feature film as a director was Wanda, and this effort was beyond a glimpse of something great to come; Loden was already there. At the start of the decade, Loden was already forging a new path with this passion project, of which details the limitations of women in a male dominant society. You have a sheltered lead (played by Loden herself) who is abused, neglected, ignored, and exploited by all of the men in her life; she just wants to be perceived as a good person. Loden was only 48 when she lost her battle with breast cancer in 1980. I can only imagine what else Loden was capable of making if Wanda was her first attempt at a full length film.

49. A Special Day

Perhaps one of the more underrated films on my list. Absolutely not enough people talk about A Special Day: Ettore Scola’s one-day look at a fascist controlled Italy and two unwilling participants in such a climate. Pairing up the golden couple of Marcello Mastroianni and Sophia Loren once more (only this time they are years older than during their previous run), A Special Day pits a suicidal broadcaster with a lonely housewife during Adolf Hitler’s visit to Rome to meet with Benito Mussolini. Shot in a golden sepia and paced fluidly, A Special Day feels like a living photo album of private lives. This chance encounter affects both participants greatly, as the reality of history’s changing tides sets in for good.

48. The Last Picture Show

Most coming-of-age films fixate on what is still left to experience in life. The Last Picture Show is obsessed with what’s no more. We visit a town that’s borderline abandoned outside of its locals, and we see life try to circulate through it. As a high school drama, Picture Show presents the adolescent search for something more, and the many cases we have carry faltering desires throughout the picture. This includes indulging secret lives, and unearthing buried feelings. Even though the lives of the teens at the front of The Last Picture Show are waiting for them, this picture makes it feel like this is it, as adults cling onto former memories or the current events that make them youthful.

47. Close Encounters of the Third Kind

Out of all of the sugary films that Steven Spielberg made, my pick for his best of the bunch is Close Encounters of the Third Kind: a rare case where Spielberg placed art ahead of feeling (even with the instances of sentimentality presented here). We never find out a hell of a lot about what this alien species that has visited Earth is, but the amount of discovery we do see — although small in the grand scheme of things — is riveting to withstand. We, too, feel like we want more; some of us want to escape as well. Usually, Spielberg feels heavy handed with his kindness. In Close Encounters, he approaches his story just right, and creates a blissful exploration of the unknown, fuelled mostly by speculation.

46. The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant

Quite early in his career, Rainer Werner Fassbinder still didn’t care about preconceived notions, and created the mightily risky The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant: an all female cast in a story that is cut up into various parts with completely different fashion choices (Despite the limited setting). Like a series of flowing emotions within the same people, enough changes about these characters visually to create slight confusion, but we never lose sight of who we’re dealing with. The same can’t be said about how the characters treat one another, as malice, deception, and lust drive this love triangle in circles. We feel the tensions rise as we, too, are forbidden from leaving Von Kant’s living quarters, and so we have to behold the tantrums and breakdowns that threaten to shatter these four walls.

45. A Touch of Zen

When I think of wuxia — and I mean golden age, iconic wuxia — no film stands out better than King Hu’s spiritual epic A Touch of Zen. It builds and it builds and it builds, but it never explodes. That would be hypocritical against its own message about self enlightenment. Instead, it radiates, and it’s the kind of action that soothes the soul rather than scratches an itch for violence. Despite being divided into two parts, it feels impossible to not watch A Touch of Zen in its entirety, especially given the home video concept we are blessed with. You have to experience the change of hearts, the development of serenity, and the overcoming of evil all in one motion. It’s naturally moving this way.

44. That Obscure Object of Desire

Even in a straight forward film, Luis Buñuel has to put some sort of a spin on its form. In his final film — That Obscure Object of Desire — the female romantic interest of the film is played by two actresses (Carole Bouquet and Ángela Molina), who represent a lover’s different insatiable hungers when it comes to romancing. Anything to catch viewers off guard, right? Oddly enough, we get used to this concept rather quickly, despite the leading couple’s quarrels and problems. Once we reach the final moments, Buñuel’s little experiment poses a new meta debate: what does this mean for a character played by two different performers at once? Are both entities affected? Does one entity carry on as per usual, at least in a metaphysical sense? By the time you wrap your head around this philosophical question, Buñuel’s filmography will have been finished for you. Even at his very final hour, he was a thought provoking genius.

43. American Graffiti

Don’t get mad, but I think American Graffiti may have been George Lucas’ opus, and the film that makes the Star Wars giant fully qualified to be a part of the “great director" discussion. I love Star Wars just like you all do, but seeing something so completely different (and this brilliant) by Lucas is what any naysayers need to do. When it comes to high school films surrounding the final hours of a curriculum, American Graffiti floods with the student body that is occupied with partying, all to escape the “what’s next?” dilemma. Well, every main character has to deal with that reality anyway. As an homage to the ‘60s, American Graffiti is beyond nurturing, with complete admiration for yesteryear oozing from every image (those pinks and blues!) and every sound (the never ending ‘60s soundtrack). The cherry on top is the finishing image which wraps up the entire film in a way that begs you to see the film all over again. That’s maybe when you’ll see that this carefree film was saying many things this entire time. 

42. Scenes From a Marriage

Divorce dramas aren’t anything new, and they weren’t in the mid ‘70s either. However, it feels like Ingmar Bergman figured the formula out completely with his television film Scenes From a Marriage. Finish part one, and you might expect an ambitious, large look at a relationship between a happy couple; maybe it will head south? Quickly you’ll see that this was just the set up, and we are locked in small spaces with a souring marriage for long periods of time, dealing with all of the hurt and desperation that is only getting worse and worse. Then, it gets beyond ugly, and Bergman’s build up to these moments is so gradual, you’ll have felt like you’ve lived with this couple in real time. Scenes finally ends completely unexpectedly, with an alteration of what heartbreak can look like. That’s the secret: suffering doesn't always work the same way.

41. The Sting

Following this cat-and-mouse deception thriller can be mightily difficult, because The Sting aims to confuse. In fact, I suggest you know as little as possible, because the unknown is what makes this film as fun as it is. Go ahead. Try and keep up. You’ll only find yourself fooled enough times to feel embarrassed. Subsequent watches of The Sting end up being highlight reels of all of the clues you missed well ahead of the respective payoffs. The Sting doesn't even lose staying power by this point either, thanks to the film’s great focus on the motives of characters, and how richly written these sketchy fellas are.

40. Celine and Julie Go Boating

Jacques Rivette’s opus doesn’t quite break the fourth wall. It simply never even bothered to have one. Celine and Julie Go Boating pretends to be a magical world, when really this is just how Rivette imagines cinema: as a whole new dimension. The titular friends discover a way to visit (and revisit) a “scene” at their leisure, and their curiosity serves as the basic plot for the film. Rivette also can’t help himself by breaking even his own rules occasionally. The further it goes, the wackier the film gets. Once this “boating” trip (which actually does happen, mind you) wraps up, cinema won’t feel the same for you ever again. It’s a friendlier approach to French New Wave’s modus operandi to redefine film, and it’ll make you feel like an imaginative child once again.

39. Killer of Sheep

If I can select one film that felt like America’s answer to French New Wave or Italian Neorealism, Charles Burnett’s debut feels like a frontrunner example to bring up on a continuous basis. Killer of Sheep isn’t really about much outside of its loosely connected vignettes (all surrounding a butcher named Stan), but it is truly about everything in return. Lower class Californian life is projected on a wide screen here, and the lethargy of monotonous work life is a running theme at all times. Stan’s hitting a brick wall. His work is joyless. His life is not where he planned for it to be. He’s been demoted to a single title meant to encompass his entire life’s legacy. 

38. Eraserhead 

Fresh out of art school, David Lynch did whatever it took to get financing for his first feature. Imagine putting your money towards a work, only to find out it’s Eraserhead. A film (possibly) about the worries of being a parent and not feeling ready, Eraserhead takes the nuclear American family and, well, nukes it. This is life as we know it, but not quite the way we know it. At any turn, the film can dip down a dark corridor that acts as an escape from the norm entirely (it could even be inside of a radiator), and this is when the world should have known that Lynch was going to be one special auteur. Now, imagine you’re one of the funders of Eraserhead in 2020. Instead of wondering what you’ve helped create, you may feel blessed to be a part of a zeitgeist that never stopped for a cult film that reigned supreme, bridging the underground with the mainstream for good.

37. 3 Women

Many of us love Persona, and Robert Altman was a part of this camp. He went the extra mile with one of his more daring experiments 3 Women. A daydream picture featuring loneliness being nurtured by hospitality, 3 Women feels slightly off but intriguing. Altman likes to leave something special at the ends of his films, but 3 Women is a bit different. He jumps the gun here, and he goes beyond his comfort zone. 3 Women transforms into a subconscious experience that really doesn’t have a proper interpretation of it at all, and it’s all clad in purple and gold (as if we dozed off in a field of irises). Many Altman films leave us wondering about life. 3 Women has us scrambling to figure out ourselves as dreamers.

36. The Conversation

Francis Ford Coppola may as well be likened to The Rolling Stones when it comes to creating the perfect set of four. Even his worst entry of such a series — The Conversation — is an absolute breakthrough in filmmaking. It achieves more with less than either Godfather film, as we’re mostly following Harry Caul (a surveillance agent) and his slow descent into a paranoid frenzy. Espionage is the kind of field where being in the know may make you feel more scared than being uninformed. That’s the result of The Conversation, where the titular recording drives Caul mad. There is no climax or grand finale here: only desperation to leave you feeling frigid. All I can imagine is that this is one case, and there is a world of similar agents fighting silent battles against themselves for their own lives.  

35. Amarcord

Peculiarly, Federico Fellini had a considerable down period during the ‘70s, despite being labeled as one of the greatest directors ever (which he still was, let’s be honest). If you’re familiar with Amarcord and nothing else from this time period, you too would be under the impression that he never missed a beat. That’s because Amarcord placed the filmmaker back on track with his ability to detail all walks of life in Italy with the most fascinating scenarios (including a snowball fight, and much time spent next to a tree). Like a flurry of memories that Fellini couldn’t hold in, Amarcord is the greatest work by a legendary filmmaker in years, mainly because it felt like the resolution to the many ideas he just couldn’t fully realize. He instead made a casserole with them all, and every moment is spellbinding.

34. All That Jazz

Bob Fosse was well established by the end of the ‘70s, but he may have felt that we didn’t know the real him. All That Jazz is his form of a confessional: a raw look at the life of a director who is abusing his own body, soul, mind, and dignity on a daily basis. As Fosse (erm, I mean “Joe Gideon”) flirts with death throughout All That Jazz, he begins to deviate from his current guilt, and heads into his largest fears: the reality that he might die alone and empty. All That Jazz vows to go where Fosse himself didn’t, and that includes the fantastical other world that ends up becoming the greatest dance he ever conceived. All That Jazz is titled after one of Fosse’s most popular songs; it’s his way of yada-yadaing his entire life’s work, as a means of comparing legacy to reality.

33. Nosferatu the Vampyre

It may seem stupid to remake an iconic silent film, but let us be the devil's advocate for a second. Nosferatu was already an adaptation of Dracula, with names swapped for rights related reasons. So, Wener Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre was his way of either channeling the F. W. Murnau classic or the Bram Stoker novel. Well, he kind of did his own thing instead. Creating the coldest version of the gothic vampire ever put to screen, Herzog’s vision is riddled with despair and societal depression, which involves much more than the characters we’re familiar with. As the world around the main plot deteriorates, you’ll know Herzog is up to his nonconforming tricks again. The entire film is drained of all of its life and blood, and the story glacially moves. It’s the reinterpretation of gothic cinema in all of its glory.

32. El Topo

When spaghetti westerns were finally feeling a bit dated, Alejandro Jodorowsky made it his mission to create the next wave. Well, the psycho psychedelic style of El Topo never really caught on, likely because no one knew how to follow up this experience at all. Converting standoffs into religious rituals (including the old testament bloody sacrifices), El Topo is the highest leap from what spaghetti westerns were doing that was feasible at the time. Fifty years later, it still hasn’t been matched, and maybe that should forever be the case. Jodorowsky combined his own philosophical questions with his fascination with danger, crafting the ultimate ascension process, putting a new meaning to the “acid” in acid westerns.

31. Valerie and Her Week of Wonders

I love mature looks at childish imaginations when they’re done right, and this Czech New Wave classic is quite the example. All of the questions that the young Valerie has about life are answered in a surreal way (the film gets borderline avant-garde at times, considering). Thus, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders becomes a child’s facing of her darkest fears and impending questions. What makes Wonders even more memorable is how not everything in the film is blatantly attributed to a specific part of Valerie’s life or wellbeing; we’re still not told everything that we're meant to know. It’s as if we are trying to piece together these thoughts for ourselves, and now we’re the interfering guardians trying to figure their child out. Either way, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders is exceptionally magical, and occasionally terrifying. 

30. Annie Hall

When Woody Allen was shifting from sillier comedies to finer made features, he became trapped in some sort of a creative vortex. As prolific as he is, he has never made a film like Annie Hall before or after. Even if you excuse preference, can you equate any other Allen film to this one? With its constant meta humour and multiple identities, Annie Hall is actually a bit more difficult to summarize succinctly if you really think about it. Let’s try anyway: an anxious mind hellbent by midlife crises and alienation muddles his fond memories of a relationship that could have lasted. That’s still not quite it. Even Allen's final attempt at detailing his own feature at the end (the eggs line) isn’t quite the full picture, but that’s the power of Annie Hall. We’ve all been here with relationships. Annie Hall doesn't really explain to us what we're feeling, but it captures it perfectly (warts, ticks and all).

29. McCabe & Mrs. Miller

Revisionist westerns were all the rage just when Robert Altman was on the rise. So, it only makes sense that he took a stab at the movement with his gracefully elegiac McCabe & Mrs. Miller: the meeting between two lives, and their means of starting a new town under unique leadership. Unlike other westerns, Altman’s take still never really explodes, even when it’s at its most intense. It feels like the warm breeze (or the chilling wind, rather) that kicks through most westerns; you're carried away by it, as you glance at histories frozen in time. Most revisionist films tried to say something new McCabe & Mrs. Miller states what was missed by countless other westerns the other times. Its fixations on the time in between the action is haunting. 

28. Le Cercle rouge

Towards the end of his illustrious career, Jean-Pierre Melville proved he still had it with his artistic noir Le Cercle rouge. Tethered to a fictitious quote placed at the start of the film (who cares when it still works?), Melville’s penultimate feature cleverly combines imagery with anticipation. We see red circles throughout the film (pool balls, for instance), and these linger subliminally with us. We wait for all participants to converge together as per the opening quote — attributed to Buddhist philosophy — in this dangerous predicament of deception. Melville always worked glacially too, so any action comes as a shock. It all pieces together for the pent up frenzy in the climax, where Melville and Le Cercle rouge kept to their promise, with criminals’ blood bonds creating their own circles of red.

27. The Traveling Players

You can describe every Theodoros Angelopoulos film as surreal or post modern, but the film that deserves these honours the most is The Traveling Players: a history lesson with zero regard for cohesion, and a complete focus on experience. For nearly four hours, we aimlessly get pulled into predicaments that only connect on an abstract level, but each piece has a hell of a lot to say. Like a subconscious tour group, the titular players hop through time and space into various scenarios, some of which are fatal. As if Odysseus was traversing his own soul, The Traveling Players is an epic on a whole different level; one that maybe literal confinements couldn’t allow. Many other directors may have gotten lost. Angelopoulos knows his own spirit well, and The Traveling Players never once loses its way, despite its daring off-road decisions.

26. The Deer Hunter

Arguably the most brutal Best Picture winner ever, Michael Cimino’s relentless The Deer Hunter almost gives zero cares about what any viewer thinks about it; Cimino knew what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. Russian roulette is tossed into a war prison setting it didn’t actually exist in. The opening wedding and hunting getaway sequences take over an hour. We’re tossed into the Vietnam War setting within microseconds. Yet, it all works. Cimino’s ambitious versions of mental fragility in wartime remains one of cinema’s most nerve wracking watches, and it’s not even a contest at some points. The time during the Vietnam War is rough enough; it’s the return back that’s especially nauseating. With all of the patience manipulation and expectation subversion, The Deer Hunter is an American film that is beyond determined to varying results (I obviously adore it).

25. The Spirit of the Beehive

In 2020, we’re more used to the mature look at a childhood imagination. Back in 1973, Victor Erice had a progressive, unique approach that still doesn’t feel like it has been replicated quite in the same way ever since. The Spirit of the Beehive is simultaneously within the mind of a frightened child, and the outside observer. Reality and fantasy blend in such a natural way, as if questioning either possibility doesn’t really matter anymore (outside of concern for the traumatized character who believes Frankenstein is real after having watched it). Even if we don’t believe any of this, Erice — to an extent — does, and The Spirit of the Beehive is an absorbing encounter with the deepest fears of a creative child.

24. Nashville 

Robert Altman is known for his gigantic films that go down every single possible path for as long as he felt like it. His zenith is Nashville: one of the times where it all somehow comes together in a magnificently gigantic way. We follow many musicians and fans (and a political subplot for a candidate we never see) through their various connections, wondering what it’s all for (although we enjoy every second). In other Altman works, a metaphysical statement or an earthquake has wrapped up the previous scenes. In Nashville, it’s the darkest capabilities of humanity, with the bittersweet ending of bittersweet endings: a commentary on how music soothes, and yet how easily blinded humanity is. How are we supposed to feel? With music used honestly and for nefarious purposes before this final image, one’s big break becomes our permanent thought that we can never shake off. 

23. The Tree of Wooden Clogs

The Tree of Wooden Clogs is one of those works where a plot isn’t really what you're here for. Ermanno Olmi’s opus is the exposition of farm life in eighteen hundreds Italy, and all of the life, death, riches and poverties found within. Although too artistic to feel vérité, Wooden Clogs is like the best captured footage of reality, as if we have been transported back. Without forcing a storyline onto us (outside of the slight instances, including the creation of the titular clogs), Olmi lets us roam around the scenery and create our own narratives. It’s over three hours, but somehow Wooden Clogs doesn’t feel long enough. How can you put a cap on lifetimes? 

22. A Woman Under the Influence

John Cassavettes always aimed to capture hyper realism via production minimalism and acting maximalism; it's a trait that he has been adored for ever since he started making pictures. With this mission (and just in his filmography in general), Cassavettes was never better behind the camera than with A Woman Under the Influence: an exposé of how society was treating mental illnesses around this time. Gena Rowlands turned in a performance that is all-time worthy (come on, Oscars) that will haunt you forever, like you’re a loved one witnessing your favourite person slowly withering away. A Woman Under the Influence is one of the leading films when it comes to the discussion of mental illness, because it refuses to sugar coat the conversation or dramatize it for any benefit. All we have is a hurting soul with an ailing mind, and it’s excruciating to withstand. 

21. Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

Perhaps one of cinema's boldest films ever created, Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman is three and a half hours of feminist perfection. The titular character is locked into the four edges of the screen, and we watch her imprisoned by society’s conventions. She cooks, cleans, and waits. As the film progresses, Dielman begins to stray off course a little bit, with hiccups in her routines; we feel a long uneasiness. Dielman turns tricks to survive, yet this existence is a damnation to begin with. When Jeanne Dielman completely leaps away from its mission for a split second, it’s the final nail in the coffin that Akerman has for us: a statement that catches you off guard, and changes the entire feature you have just watched. A crowning achievement in experimental cinema, Jeanne Dielman is the kind of project you don’t even attempt to try again, because Chantal Akerman got it down exactly right this first time.

20. Days of Heaven

Badlands made Terrence Malick a new voice in American cinema with something to say, but Days of Heaven was when we really got introduced to something completely different. A tale of lies is what is really buried deep into the film, but Days of Heaven is so magnificent to watch and listen to that you’ll often forget that this is a story about something much uglier. Days of Heaven feels like a celebration of life, even when there’s a plague of locusts killing local crops (still one of the greatest shots in film history). Malick didn’t make a film for two decades after this great triumph, but — as sad as this is — it almost didn't matter. Days of Heaven stays with you forever, and The Thin Red Line didn’t skip a beat in his filmography only because the former film is timeless.

19. The Ascent

If there is a film that was ever deserving of being called a classic and was disgustingly overlooked (especially considering contemporary perspectives), it’s Larisa Shepitko’s The Ascent: a harrowing, meditative experience that blends the heaviest grief with an overflowing angelic transformation. From second one, you are in dangerous territory: Soviet soldiers trapped on German soil in World War II. The Ascent hurts until it grows numb, sending you into both a dizzying spell and a state of euphoria (in a sick sense). Its yin and yang nature speaks volumes on both sides, about the burden of survival and the curse of loyalty, and the opposite truths of both sides. Do not miss out on a film that deserves so much better. The Ascent is perfect, and it demands to be seen.

18. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul

The world is a cruel place, and the ‘70s where a turning point where enough time had past where one could look back and gasp. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul pits two lost souls of different worlds together (a widowed mother and a younger Moroccan immigrant) in an intolerant Germany, politically torn apart by a terrorist attack at the 1972 Munich Olympics. Rainer Werner Fassbinder usually pushed himself further into history to really comment on more insensitive times, but here he didn’t have to go far at all. As these two lovers care deeper for one another, life is hell bent on tearing them apart, until the bigotries of others festered enough to turn into the titular fears of the leading couple. Toxicity ruins minds, and Ali: Fear Eats the Soul is the corrosion of joy within a hateful universe.

17. Alien

Made from the remnants of Alejandro Jodorowsky’s failed Dune experiment, Ridley Scott took the broken pieces and made the exemplary one-by-one slasher film Alien. Ridley Scott and company cleverly utilize science fiction’s signature slow pace to set a tone; you're left looking everywhere out of astonishment, anyway. When the bodies begin to drop, space no longer feels so expansive anymore (especially when you’re trapped on one vessel). As a thriller alone, Alien is already fantastic, and it knows how to toy with its audience. Then, there are the little things that elevate it over most horror films: the shrieking siren ambience, the gigantic H. R. Giger sets, the twists and turns, et cetera. When other directors tried to make familiar places scary, Scott and Alien aimed to make you never want to leave Earth at all. 

16. Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion

When Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion starts, you know you’re in for an intriguing experiment with a bit of a satirical edge. An inspector kills the woman he’s seeing, and pins it on somebody else. Then, it keeps going. And going. And going. By the end, you’re ripping your hair out and laughing until you cry. How in the hell is this even happening? Yet, what’s depressing is that it all seems likely true. Elio Petri’s commentary on authoritative figures in society is frightening, because you know people get away with murder all of the time. What happens if someone with power wants to get caught? We can only hope Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion isn't accurate, but the greatest satires hit far too close to reality; this is one of those cases.

15. Stalker

Science fiction is usually hell bent on showing you what you're missing in life. Andrei Tarkovsky has spellbound audiences for decades with his cult classic Stalker because of what he doesn’t show you. Two men are led by a “stalker” into a forbidden zone, where wishes are fulfilled. In grainy gold, we are told of such a mission. Then, Stalker shifts into full colour, making us believe in anything. The closer to the “Zone” we get, the more Tarkovsky turns industrial settings with greenery into wonderlands. As ugly as the backdrops are, every image of Stalker feels like it comes from a different reality. In small doses, Tarkovsky goes the extra mile, making sure we’ve been paying attention. Then, it completely dismantles itself, making us question what we’ve been seeing at all. Stalker is a never ending journey of desires, and it's what has allowed it to have such longevity even still.

14. Apocalypse Now

Starting a Vietnam War film with “The End” by The Doors is the only omen you need to know that you're in for a rough time. After both Godfather films, Francis Ford Coppola bit off more than he could chew with Apocalypse Now: a high budgeted film that somehow didn't do as well as it should have. It’s sad, because Coppola has never been in top form like this since. In retrospective, Apocalypse Now is a frenzied war zone with deteriorating minds and colour to make up for all of the death. You see all walks of life respond to trauma the further into the mission we go. Now coveted as a war film for all time, Apocalypse Now is a rising auteur going the distance who was told he flew too close to the sun, when he was actually on the verge of discovering a way to blast off into space.

13. Day For Night

Jean-Luc Godard severed ties with his best friend François Truffaut over Day for Night, calling the film a fabrication of the filmmaking experience. Named after the technique used to adjust daytime shooting to look like it's at night, the film is a love letter to the quarrels and debacles that happen on set. Infused with Truffaut’s signature whimsy, Day for Night may not be the full story, but it has a pinch of the dream that an aspiring director had before they faced the realities of their dream industry. Is that so wrong? When the on-set dramas escalate into fully blown problems, Day for Night as an homage to cinema only gets stronger, like the blanketing of truth via art. I suppose that's why Godard got so mad, but that doesn't make Truffaut’s beautiful vision any worse in my eyes.

12. Network

Chastised as a hyperbolic comedy when released, Network has sadly become the warning everyone ignored. Signey Lumet’s uncompromising style matched with Paddy Chayefsky’s obsidian-dark vision makes for a cautionary tale that still hurts, especially now that we are well into the age they foretold. With the greatest monologues assembled and the talent to back them up, Network was a podium of truths and spoken brilliance, and corporate feuding and deranged rambling has never sounded so sweet. As a satire, Network is one of the greats, even though the world it has created is really not far from our own; we're still mad as hell, and we hopefully won't take it any more (it's been forty five years, and nothing has changed).

11. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie 

The mission is simple: aristocrats want to have a dinner. That’s it. That’s the film. Well, Luis Buñuel operating at his highest caliber turns a pleasure into the upper class’s worst nightmare in The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, as this quest gets refuted again and again. First, it’s the simple things: guests got confused by when the dinner was. The film takes its time before it becomes crazy, and the thwarting of the elite becomes absurd to the point of hysterics. Discreet Charm becomes sadistic with its subjects, as Buñuel is the puppet master in charge of the whole ordeal. By the end, even cinema itself is a naysayer, as its own elements stop these rich fools from having their meal. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is a farcical comedy that needs to be seen to be believed.

10. Mirror

Every Andrei Tarkovsky film is interested in the spaces between that other works neglect to showcase, but Mirror is a complete investment in these voids. Even the spectacles are without a concrete reason, outside of you knowing you’re meant to see these images. Piecing together the last thoughts of the dying mind of a poet, Mirror uses fragments of memories and dreams to project a subconscious artwork that defies any normal description. You may find absolute truths in Mirror, such as metaphors for your own existence. You may find nothing at all, and that is okay, because Mirror still takes you to a spiritual realm that you’ve never seen before. Within a filmography that is arguably perfect, it takes a lot for a work to be Tarkovsky’s opus. Mirror is just that: the greatest work by one of cinema’s most inventive minds.

9. The Godfather

It seems like The Godfather, despite being as revered as it is, is still slightly misremembered for just how crucial it actually was. Here we are in the early ‘70s, and the New Hollywood movement is now stronger than ever. Here comes Francis Ford Coppola, who was previously doing taboo works and arthouse-influenced films. With the success he garnered for his work with writing Patton, Coppola was now finally able to make something with a reasonable budget. So, he adapted Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, without ever forgetting his roots. This was the much needed bridge between Hollywood and arthouse that American cinema desperately needed: a sign that exploration shouldn’t be frowned upon. It’s acclaimed now for the standard it set, but it had to go against the grain to do so. With a pinch of European influence in an American film industry that was turning for the better, The Godfather became a benchmark event that continues to be felt fifty years later.

8. Cries and Whispers

Perhaps the most daring film to ever be nominated for Best Picture (at least one of them), Ingmar Bergman’s crimson, obsidian, and ivory melodrama Cries and Whispers is an artistic statement through and through. With time invested in the darkest secrets that a dysfunctional family’s members are withholding from one another (well, sometimes), Cries and Whispers is the most vulnerable corridors of the human psyche. Toss in a family member’s impending death, and you have time ticking away, where final proclamations can be made before it is too late. Bergman also toys with memories, allowing for naivety to put a bow on a story of pure distress; does optimism always win? Bergman questioned faith, spiritual resilience, and existentialism many times before, but Cries and Whispers is his finest achievement in recreating the desperation of the lonely human.

7. Taxi Driver

It didn’t take too long for Martin Scorsese to showcase exactly what he was capable of, and his New Hollywood masterpiece Taxi Driver almost felt effortless. If Raging Bull was his way of putting his all in, and Goodfellas was him celebrating his second wind, Taxi Driver was Scorsese at his barest form as a newer director, and it’s as visceral as his films ever got. To be locked inside of a broken mind is a terrible experience, especially when we can see Travis Bickle’s repercussions better than he can; Taxi Driver lives off of dramatic irony. Then, Paul Schrader’s conclusion is something that defines who we are as viewers. What do we really think happened? Is this all just a fleeting thought upon one’s deathbed, or did an unrealistic dream come true? We end Taxi Driver off without a proper clue, rounding up a tale by one of cinema’s great unreliable narrators.

6. The Conformist

Some films feel like they were made decades after their actual release, and it has nothing to do with how well remastered a version of the film is. Bernardo Bertolucci has never been better than his futuristic-feeling noir thriller The Conformist. Every single shot by legendary cinematographer Vittorio Storaro is impossible to describe. As gorgeous as the film is, the inner-workings of its story surrounding Fascist era Italy are much uglier. An antihero that isn’t discussed enough is Marcello, who we follow due to his change of heart and problematic predicament. All of The Conformist (appropriately named) changes when he reveals his true colours and flips one too many times, proving that we’ve been following the wrong character this entire time. It’s hard to be mad at The Conformist for conning us when every single shot, effect, and sequence was worth it.

5. Aguirre, the Wrath of God

Aguirre, the Wrath of God was a complete rebellion against the traditional ways of making films. Werner Herzog doctored legal permits to shoot where he wasn’t supposed to: the Amazon River, and the Peruvian rainforest. The crew was thin, and most of the slim budget went towards an ungrateful Klaus Kinski (Kinski and Herzog were a hair away from possibly killing one another during this shoot). Despite all of this, Aguirre is a transcendent film that documents gradual corruption. At times it is darkly comedic, as if we are going slowly delirious ourselves. It proceeds to get more and more chaotic, with any semblance of hope completely slaughtered. With its technical prowess (all of the raft shots still seem impossible) and silver linings (the score by Popol Vuh is everything, Aguirre is maybe the most beautiful film about going insane ever made.

4. The Godfather Part II

Rarely does a sequel of a masterful film hold up its end, let alone actually be better. That’s how The Godfather Part II works, though. As a prequel (Vito Corleone’s youth and rise as a leader) and a sequel (Michael Corleone’s work as a don with a target on his back), Part II fulfills every promise it sets out for. With both stories combined, we get a fuller picture of how much Michael is throwing away with his mercilessness and disregard for former order (connect this with what was accomplished in The Godfather). We also understand the old Vito in the previous film on a whole new level, with his history represented with all of the right memories. Even as a stand alone, Part II is the best Godfather for us, because it ventured further into the European cinematic style that Francis Ford Coppola flirted with in the previous film. This is the definitive gangster epic, driven by a father’s ghost chasing a corrupted son who has dismissed everything before him.

3. Barry Lyndon

Like any other Stanley Kubrick film, Barry Lyndon wasn’t really understood when it was released, but it’s kind of easy to see why. It moves glacially, and many moments are lingered on maybe longer than they should on an initial observation. Cutting these scenes shorter would lose the hypnotic trance that Barry Lyndon creates, as you fixate on living Rococo paintings created with natural light. Kubrick also gets a bad reputation as a cold director, yet Barry Lyndon is a thoroughly emotional experience, particularly the severances of families in many ways. Yes, almost every Kubrick film is initially misread, but Barry Lyndon seems to be the film that took the longest to click. Previously the underrated Kubrick film, within the new millennium this masterful period piece (maybe the pinnacle eighteenth century period drama of all time) has grown to become one of his most celebrated works. Rightfully so, as Barry Lyndon is as profound as it is exquisite; it is deceptively much more complex than it leads on as well.

2. World on a Wire

Just once in 1973, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s only science fiction project World on a Wire was shown. Its blending of futuristic imagery and early ‘70s German fashion and interior design just worked so well, and this unique prophecy already had viewers hooked. Then, the philosophical take on perception kept everyone glued. After that, that was it. World on a Wire was a television film in two parts that just vanished, outside of the reported occasional airing. It was either a memory for inspired storytellers, or a product of hearsay for others. It wasn’t until quite recently (2010) that the entire world could see World on a Wire again, and it has become an anomaly in cinema. For a film as influential as it was, nothing feels like World on a Wire, because the instruction booklet got lost over time, and filmmakers were left to their own devices. Even if it wasn’t so individualistic in style, World on a Wire is an exhilarating take on futuristic singularity, creating a tormenting second act where an entire world flips on you. World on a Wire was a vision of the future that became the cinematic future, and it has still yet to be caught up to.

1. Chinatown

Right from the very first scene, the film noir of old is destroyed. J. J. Gittes asks a client to stop ruining his Venetian blinds: a common noir trope. It was no secret that film noir was in need of a comeback, but how could you top Sunset Boulevard, In a Lonely Place, and other works that perfected the style? Besides, films were becoming colourful now, and black and white was finally getting abandoned for the most part in the ‘70s. Films noir couldn’t really come back. They had to be reborn. The scrunching of those Venetian blinds in sepia tinged colour is how Chinatown let us know that this was the reincarnation the world needed. Chinatown wasn’t the first neo-noir, if you want to split hairs, but it was the definitive neo-noir, particularly because of how close to home it stayed. Most newer films of this style veer off course as much as possible. Chinatown worked with all of the old ways, but tried to use them in a New Hollywood setting. Films could finally be risky in Hollywood. We had to see how much darker films noir could be.

Crafted by the greatest screenplay of all time by Robert Towne (with Roman Polanski’s version of the conclusion that’s much more affective, let’s be honest), Chinatown is as literary as a film can get. You can almost feel the descriptions and dialogue from a novel ooze off the screen. Our protagonist is investigator Gittes, who carries a permanent resentment on his shoulders. He has ghosts that follow him, just like he is hired to tail others. His time in the titular Chinatown didn’t go so well, and he has tried to start a new life elsewhere to no avail. We are mostly caught up in his Mulwray case that obviously goes off the rails, but nobody can predict just how far the film is willing to go. Even after the twist, there are still many more, and Chinatown refuses to ease off. It gets as lifeless as possible, right down to the chilling end that ended films noir once and for all, with neo-noir to stay. “As little as possible” just couldn’t cut it, and it took the sacrifice of a token noir detective to face the worst side of humanity for neo-noir to flourish.

In a decade dominated by cynical films, the rise of dangerous American works, and the reinvention of old ways, Chinatown reigns supreme. It is unforgiving with how ugly all of its characters get, because there is no time to justify the flaws of everyone in a film where true evils are unimaginable. On first watch, Chinatown is a guessing game that most people lose. Every watch after, Chinatown is us trying to shoo away the inevitable, only to see it all happen again. We are Gittes, reliving these nightmares. Chinatown is everywhere, now; it’s not a location, but a past. Gittes is forever doomed in his cinematic prison, and we cannot help him any time we try. Never has a shift from the ways of old to the new been so blatant in cinema, particularly within a genre or style either. Chinatown may have been made to recreate a story of yesteryear, but it ended up claiming New Hollywood, the ‘70s, and essentially American cinema entirely. It embodies American filmmaking’s past and present with a sign of what was to come. It is suspended in time, furthering the limbo-nature of the narrative even more. Chinatown is the greatest film of the 1970’s, despite not feeling like it belongs in any era, to tell you the truth.

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Andreas Babiolakis has a Masters degree in Film and Photography Preservation and Collections Management from Ryerson University, as well as a Bachelors degree in Cinema Studies from York University. His favourite times of year are the Criterion Collection flash sales and the annual Toronto International Film Festival.