Mark Reviews Movies: The Ten Best Films of 2020

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Article by Mark Dujsik | December 25, 2020

Here are the ten best films—and then some—of 2020:

10. Wolfwalkers
Co-directors Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart's Wolfwalkers is a gorgeous film, crafted expertly and with obvious care by artists who refuse to take any shortcuts. Apparently, they did it all by hand, too—from the layers of colors within the trees of forest, to the surreal flatness of a village, to the impressive sequences that simulate three-dimensional motion. The sketched outlines beneath the dark gray fur of the wolves are proof of that craft. Those visible lines also serve as a form showing off, in a way, but when you've created something this intricate and visually stunning, a little showing off is more than expected. It's deserved.

The story comes vaguely from Irish folklore, following two young girls—a wannabe hunter and a girl who transforms into a wolf in her sleep—and a battle between lively freedom and strict, heartless order. As simple and sincere and heartfelt as that story is, the distinct style and formal sophistication of the animation are so unique and prominent that it almost exists as a story unto itself—of how good and how devoted these artists are at and to their work.

9. Corpus Christi
Daniel (Bartosz Bielenia) just wants to become a priest. He is not one and, on account of his criminal record, likely could never become one, but after being released from a juvenile detention facility, he arrives in a small village and pretends to be priest. Corpus Christi, written by Mateusz Pacewicz and directed by Jan Komasa, puts forth a variety of questions about faith, forgiveness, and fraud. The central one, though, seems to be pretty straightforward: Is the measure of a person the sum of what he or she has done, or is it what they actually do in the here and now?

This is a thoughtful and compassionate film. It's not primarily about the complications of Daniel's character and fraud, convincing the villagers that he's a priest. It's about how Daniel, who is superficially the most unlikely person to talk to anybody about being a good person, is exactly the kind of person this village needs, as the townspeople grapple with the mourning and anger of a tragedy. The finale subverts the idea of sacrifice in a way that is both hopeful and tragically human. People can choose to do the best they can or not.

8. Minari
In Minari, writer/director Lee Isaac Chung's straightforward but complex drama about a Korean family that tries their hands at—and try each other over the course of—starting a farm in Arkansas, we get a sense of all the characters. Jacob (Steven Yuen) wants to be his own boss. His wife Monica (Yeri Han) just wants to make sure the family is safe and secure, physically and financially. Their young son David (Alan Kim) has a heart condition that prevents him from really enjoying his childhood, and their daughter Anne (Noel Kate Cho) worries that the kids in school will think her family is poor. Grandmother Soonja (Yuh-jung Youn) is content wherever she is, as long she has her playing cards.

Chung's film is pretty daring in how absolutely spare it is. His screenplay simply allows these characters to continue in their ways, observing with compassion and without any judgment as the characters become more firmly planted in their positions and the familial divides expand. There are important questions here, primarily about how we can and should define success. The only ones that genuinely matter, though, are about these characters and what fate they are willing to make as individuals and, hopefully, as a family.

7. The Father
Co-writer/director Florian Zeller's cinematic adaptation of his play, doesn't just show us the course of a man's life with dementia. The Father attempts and, through some simple but clever tricks of staging and editing, succeeds at giving us some sense of what it is like for Anthony (Anthony Hopkins)—to awaken every day unaware of where and when he is, of who the people surrounding him are, and of what ideas in his head are real or just some deception of his mind. Zeller, making an impressive feature debut, employs a sort of dream logic of the everyday and the mundane in his storytelling. The intentional confusion builds and builds by way of snaking plotting, precise staging, and directing with misdirection in mind. Scenes play out and then play out again. Phrases and moments repeat themselves. Why does there seem to be no sense of reason or rhyme to these things happening over and over again?

The impact of all of these tricks and sleight-of-hand is overwhelming on a conscious and subconscious level. A lot of that impact, beyond Zeller's commitment to his storytelling technique, comes from Hopkins' performance, full of playful, almost impish life. To see that energy fade in an instant during the film's final act, though, is to fully feel the tragedy of this situation.

6. I'm Thinking of Ending Things
On an initial viewing, I'm Thinking of Ending Things plays as a surrealist comedy, full of existential dread about identity, unhappy relationships, uncertainty about one's place and role in one's own life and the world at large, aging, illnesses of the body and the brain, and death. The point is that writer/director Charlie Kaufman's film is not one to approach lightly—and certainly not one to go to with any sort of expectations. At its core, the story is a despairing portrait of a young woman (played by an astonishing Jessie Buckley) who spends a lengthy trip debating the idea of dumping her new-ish boyfriend (played by Jesse Plemons, in a tricky performance). There are so many mysteries, both big and small, throughout this film. Kaufman wants us to dig, perhaps, but more to the point, he wants us to feel the doubts, the anguish, the confusion, the absence of logic, and the dread of the unknown, the remembered, and the forgotten.

It's a rather daring act of trust, but the film is so darkly funny, so imaginative, and so skillfully constructed that feeling its effect is just a matter of giving in to it. That's on a first viewing, at least. On a second, we know which question to ask: Whose story is this, anyway? The answer paints the entire experience as a tragedy.

5. Hamilton
A movie version of the Broadway smash was inevitable, but you can't do a movie of writer/lyricist/composer Lin-Manuel Miranda's musical without incorporating at least some of the stage show's theatrical elements. That's the brilliance of Hamilton, the film version of the show. The filmmakers have completely bypassed the issues of adaptation and just filmed the show, as it happened over three performances at the Richard Rodgers Theatre on Broadway in June of 2016, with the show's original cast on stage. The result is splendid. Those who saw a performance have a chance to re-live it or, likely, see it with the original cast for the first time. Those who haven't seen it get an opportunity to come as close to the experience of seeing the show live as possible. There is also real craft on display, in the way director Thomas Kail (who directed the show's workshop, off-Broadway, and Broadway runs) has orchestrated the filming and the way editor Jonah Moran has assembled three separate performances.

The musical remains a singular accomplishment in the way it presents history with such clarity and dynamism, while also becoming about why we tell these stories and why it's important who is telling them. The film gives us the stage show, as it was, is, and, in some way because of the film, always will be. Can great theater, simply presented as theater, make a great film? It does here, that's for sure.

4. Nomadland
Many, many things haunt Fern (Frances McDormand), the protagonist of Nomadland, a simple but incredibly affecting film. She lost her job, her home, and her husband. She now lives a nomadic life out of her van, but the ghosts of the past remain. The simplicity of writer/editor/director Chloé Zhao's film is that it has little to no story. It simply follows Fern, as she spends a year and change traveling the West and Southwest of the United States in her van. Along the way, she works odd jobs, takes in the views, and meets nomads like her. One of the more compelling aspects of Zhao's approach is that she uses real people—real-life nomads, doing all of the things we see them doing—in this film. This, then, is mostly dramatization, but it's also a documentary in a way, because Zhao spends so much time with these real people, observes their way of life, hears their stories, and almost seems to form the path of Fern's tale around what these people say and do.

So much of this film is about simply watching and truly listening, and in McDormand, exuding compassion and pain, the film possesses an incredible figure to watch and a most avid listener. Her performance isn't showy, and it shouldn't be. McDormand exists here in a state of being—of having experienced, not only loss and pain, but also joy and freedom—and of being absolutely present.

3. Sorry We Missed You
Can a person genuinely be free and independent if the foundation of their livelihood is uncertain and unstable? That's the central question of Sorry We Missed You, a slice-of-life drama about a family of four trying to financially, physically, and emotionally survive within the so-called "gig economy." It's an ordinary story about a group of ordinary people, and because of that, screenwriter Paul Laverty and director Ken Loach are able to create a veritable nightmare out of everyday occurrences and concerns. This is a film that's quietly devastating in its ordinariness. The family consists of the husband-wife pairing of Ricky (Kris Hitchen) and Abbie (Debbie Honeywood), as well as their teenage son Seb (Rhys Stone) and younger daughter Liza Jae (Katie Proctor). Ricky starts driving for a delivery company, and things slowly fall apart.

Laverty's screenplay is subtly ingenious in the way it translates practical problems into believable drama. Loach simply observes as all of this unfolds, knowing that the camera need only show us the actors as they deftly, naturalistically portray this family and its individual members' mounting crises. Hitchen is assured as a man whose hope is destroyed piece by belittling piece, and Honeywood's performance serves as an oasis of decency. The film, so precise in establishing and expanding its central problem, is a domestic tragedy, playing out in slow motion, that becomes an existential one, as well. What good is the supposed freedom of the gig when it takes over your day, your week, your life, and your very soul?

2. The Invisible Man
Writer/director Leigh Whannell's The Invisible Man is a genuinely distressing and nerve-racking film, because its very fiber is composed of trauma, pain, and hopelessness. Despite its horror and thriller trappings, the film, an update and a complete re-imagining of both H.G. Wells' 1897 novel and James Whale's 1933 film adaptation, is a potent examination of abuse and its lingering effects on the mind of the survivor.

The story isn't about the invisible man but Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss), the woman who attempts to escape his physically and psychologically abusive ways. This isn't just some exploitative plot point. The concept is built into every facet of the film. Its terror is in Cecilia's belief that malicious eyes are watching. Its horror is in seeing that malice approaching her, as well as in the knowledge that no one will believe her. The film's dread is in knowing that violence is inevitable, as we scan every part of the frame for some sign of the invisible presence from which that violence will come.

On a formal level, it is a pristinely crafted film. Whannell, working with cinematographer Stefan Duscio, trains us early to look in the negative space of the frame, preparing us for the future suspense. The filmmakers play with sound and traditional scare tactics, while Moss' performance, a dynamic embodiment of trauma, ensures that even the improbable elements of the story have the backbone of veracity to them. It is, ultimately, a Kafkaesque nightmare of knowing the truth, watching as everything falls apart, and realizing that people who should believe the horror of that truth are incapable of or averse to doing so.

1. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets
Surpassing easy and restrictive labels, Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets makes a sincere, empathetic, and humanistic impact. As for its making, is it an actual documentary, or is it improvised drama? Does it actually matter? There's an abundance of truth in this film, the best of the year, even if fraternal directors Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross do a little—or a lot—of deception to get at it.

There is such simplicity to this premise. The Ross brothers present a dive bar in Las Vegas during the course of the final 24 hours in which it's in business. The name of the joint is the Roaring 20's Cocktail Lounge, which looks like any small neighborhood bar anywhere in the United States. We meet the regulars, as they enter the bar throughout the day, stay as long as they're willing or able, and leave with various degrees of notability.

With the mere act of observation, the Rosses give us in-the-moment conversations that deal with politics, the generational divide, personal lives and experiences, whatever random drama emerges at any given moment, and, of course, that mainstay of late-night, alcohol-fueled talking: nothing at all in particular. Because the booze keeps pouring and being knocked back, there's an admirable and sometimes uncomfortable level of honesty to these discussions, monologues, and mutterings.

The filmmakers give us much more, too—a microcosm of the concerns of everyday people, of loneliness and remorse, and of a group of people who come together, because they instinctually know everyone at this place is feeling a similar way. Whether it's fully a documentary or partially one or a dramatic narrative of the improvised variety, this is a triumph of real—or "real"—storytelling.

Another Ten (in alphabetical order):
A comedy about a pair of the worst best friends imaginable, The Climb was written by and stars Michael Angelo Covino (who also directed with considerable skill) and Kyle Marvin. A series of vignettes, filled with great dialogue and fine performances, depict the friendship and the friends finding new ways to hit rock bottom.

It feels cheap to liken Collective, director Alexander Nanau's documentary about the horrific consequences of a nightclub fire in Bucharest, to a thriller, but that's the easiest way to describe the film's effect. We watch journalists and an idealistic government official fight the good fight, but there's little solace at the end of this alarming dissection of corruption.

Spike Lee's Da 5 Bloods is about how the pains of the past define those of the present, as four Black veterans return to Vietnam to find treasure and honor a fallen leader. The film, featuring an exceptional performance by Delroy Lindo, overflows with complex and troubling ideas, while offering hope that people are still capable of doing good.

Co-writer/director Yaron Zilberman's Incitement is a terrifyingly intimate study of Yigal Amir, the man who assassinated Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in 1995. The central point is to portray how a seemingly ordinary person reveals himself to be a cold-blooded, fanatical killer—all the while still thinking of himself as perfectly ordinary.

Through the intimacy of its story and its filmmaking, Our Mothers reveals a world and decades of grief, pain, and trauma. Making his narrative feature debut, Guatemalan filmmaker Cesar Diaz taps into the horrific history of his country's 36-year civil war to reveal the depths of the conflict's wounds upon the population.

The central conceit of Palm Springs, about people trapped in a time loop, isn't new, but this debut feature of director Max Barbakow and screenwriter Andy Siara is a special example of the gimmick. The filmmakers actually explore the ramifications of such a predicament on intimate and existential levels, with clever humor and genuine thoughtfulness.

The Personal History of David Copperfield, co-writer/director Armando Iannucci's adaptation of Charles Dickens' classic novel, approaches the material a bit cheekily. This adaptation probably isn't for the Dickens faithful, but it is perfect for those who appreciate the spirit more than the text. The casting, affirming that such a story belongs to everyone, is also inspired.

Co-writer/director Natalie Erika James' Relic is sneaky in the way it sets up various expectations for where it's heading, only to repeatedly shatter them. It's established as a haunted house tale of sorts, but the real story, founded upon caring for a loved one suffering from dementia, ultimately finds its true horrors in the deepest fears of these characters.

Writer/director Amy Seimetz's sophomore feature is a nightmare of dread and anxiety. In She Dies Tomorrow, the knowledge of imminent death is contagious, and the film directly addresses that deepest, most primal source of fear. With the film's confidently unhurried rhythm, Seimetz wants us to be uncomfortable and unsettled, and she undeniably achieves that goal.

An animated work of great imagination, Soul gives us an inspired view of life after and before death, a funny body-swapping comedy, and a sincere and heartfelt lesson about the meaning and purpose of life. Director Pete Docter, once again displaying his penchant for visual and narrative inventiveness, shows himself to be one of the filmmaking stars at Pixar.

Special Mention:

Small Axe
Call it a television miniseries or an anthology of five films (that just happened to air—on the BBC in the United Kingdom—or stream—on Amazon Prime in the United States—on TV), director Steve McQueen's cycle of stories about immigrants from the West Indies in London during the 1960s, '70s, and '80s is a huge achievement. Each installment tells an intimately specific story, presented with McQueen's signature compositional precision and focus on the human face.

Mangrove dramatizes the trial of the "Mangrove Nine," accused of inciting a riot after protesting racially motivated police overreach. Lovers Rock, the best of the quintet, portrays the free-wheeling flow of a house party with sensual joy. Red, White and Blue, about a man trying to change the police from within, and Alex Wheatle, about the life of the eponymous writer before he begins his career, are biographies, and Education depicts a genuine scandal in the educational system, seen through the experience of a fictional family.

There's an understandable temptation to isolate one entry or more in this series, but that kind of misses the point. All of them lead up to an ellipsis of an ending, so each one flows thematically into the next. While each installment works as a standalone film, the whole—depicting the unfinished history of change as evolving in some ways but frustratingly stagnant in the bigger picture—is a sprawling condemnation of systemic prejudice and, more vitally, a celebration of a specific culture and those who fight the good fight.

Honorable Mention:

All In: The Fight for Democracy, Another Round, Beyond the Visible: Hilma af Klint, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm: Delivery of Prodigious Bribe to American Regime for Make Benefit Once Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, Boys State, Embattled, Inmate #1: The Rise of Danny Trejo, A Regular Woman, Someone Somewhere, The Surrogate, A Thousand Cuts, The Trial of the Chicago 7

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