While not as flashy as the most celebrated auteurs of today, whenever Alexander Payne releases a new film, it is a worthy event for cinephiles. As a director working in the realm of dramedies that are equally humorous and downbeat, Payne, whose new film, “The Holdovers,” has been nominated for Oscar Best Picture this year, specializes in a class of films that are reminiscent of a previous generation.

When critics lament “they don’t make these kinds of movies anymore,” this generalized body of movies is representative of Payne’s filmography. The director brings a unique vigor to adult-oriented, human dramedies about aging, companionship, and self-reflection. On the exterior, his films come off as milquetoast, but his acidic humor and melancholic streak push the limits of what audiences expect from mid-life crisis road-trip comedies. Here are all of Alexander Payne’s films ranked.

8. The Descendants (2011)

Alexander Payne solidified his status as one of the best working directors in Hollywood following his golden age in the late ‘90s and early 2000s, which was capped off by “Sideways.” During perhaps his creative prime, he disappeared from the big screen for seven years. He promptly returned to critical acclaim and recognition from the Academy Awards with “The Descendants” in 2011. While the consensus at the time regarded this film as quintessential Payne, it holds up the least within his filmography, as it strives for the traditional beats of dramedies about middle age and family in the form of a star vehicle for George Clooney.

“The Descendants” follows a lawyer, Matt King (Clooney), a lawyer based in Hawaii who is conflicted by the pressure to sell his family’s valuable land trust in the wake of a boating accident that leaves his wife in a coma. He uses this unfortunate predicament to rekindle with his daughters Alex (Shailene Woodley) and Scottie (Amara Miller). Each performance is authentically lived-in and vulnerable, which is on par for a Payne film. Clooney, in particular, who received a nomination for Best Actor, allows his glamorous star persona to be stripped down in favor of exposing his character’s lonely soul and lack of insight into his surroundings. A careful eye for location is an essential trait of Payne’s, as his appreciation for Hawaiian culture and the natural beauty of the land is evident in “The Descendants.”

However, the emotional core of the film, involving a man shaking out of his monotonous life and preparing his daughters for the tragic death of their mother, is surprisingly tepid. Payne, who expressed in an interview recently that too many movies extend their welcome in the runtime, directs his films with a propulsive pace. With “The Descendants,” however, the pacing is sluggish, and it never leaps off on the right foot. Where his other films are unafraid to lean into absurdist humor or the darkest pockets of his characters’ emotional angst, “The Descendants” continuously operates in vacant territory. By no means is the film of poor quality. It routinely hits the right beats of a serviceable comedy and drama, but compared to the rest of the Payne oeuvre, it is noticeably ordinary.

7. Citizen Ruth (1996)

Alexander Payne’s debut film appears as an outlier in his filmography, but when mirrored with his follow-up, “Election,” the pathway to him being the great satirist of his generation is foreseeable. While this thematic trait has faded away in his cinematic arsenal over the years, Payne is interested in scathing critiques of society and politics. In particular, he has an affinity for juxtaposing harsh political satire with the backdrop of an innocent setting. Payne’s rich storytelling was announced to the public in 1996 in his prescient political satire, “Citizen Ruth.”

The film stars Laura Dern as a drug-addicted and impregnated woman, Ruth Stoops, who becomes entangled in a fiery birth control debate in her town after a judge orders her to get an abortion or else she’ll be facing a felony charge, with both sides soliciting her as a totem for their respective argument. In the film community, Payne is rarely associated with his contemporaries who emerged in the ‘90s indie boom, including Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson, and Paul Thomas Anderson. He would go on to make films that run counter to these auteurs who have developed their unique worldviews. “Citizen Ruth” belongs to this underground filmmaking movement, as it taps into a counterculture inspired by the films of New Hollywood. Payne’s filmmaking infancy presents him as a more visually aggressive director looking to subvert the medium, where in his later years, he found a middle ground that used a familiar cinematic template while still retaining his voice.

Like many debut features, “Citizen Ruth” is raw. Payne’s future films will all be more focused. It is evident that Payne’s heart is in Ruth’s character. Tracking her as an individual belonging to the lowest rung of the class hierarchy who suddenly vaults to political prominence is a surefire way to develop a character and comment on the spontaneity of public influence. Payne’s fixation on this enticing concept muddies the usual dissection of loneliness and angst that are present in his best films. His sardonic tone that was perfected in “Election” prevents Ruth from being one of Payne’s most expressive characters. Nevertheless, “Citizen Ruth” is a justified scathing critique of how political discourse alienates marginalized people. In this case, the stifling of a woman’s voice regarding her right to choose is especially damning.

6. Downsizing (2017)

The ultimate outlier of his filmography, Alexander Payne used his cachet after years of being celebrated by critics and awards bodies to step into the vast field of science fiction. Along with his venture into uncharted territory, Payne sought to combine his skill for humanist dramas with his eye for social satire to produce his most ambitious film to date, “Downsizing.” Critics and audiences were not enthralled by the director’s ambition. The film became a major critical and commercial flop. While the flagrant criticisms are valid, “Downsizing” is a misunderstood film with an uncharacteristic tone and vision that deserves a second look.

Payne’s sci-fi dramedy tells the story of Paul Safranek (Matt Damon), who chooses to partake in a scientific breakthrough where his body is shrunk to a microscope size to live a life of wealth and splendor in an experimental community. His wife, Audrey (Kristin Wiig), backs out at the last minute, leaving Paul alone to befriend a Vietnamese activist, Ngoc, (Hong Chau). The flow and narrative structure of the film is jarring, which may explain the dismissal it received from audiences.

The opening act is quintessential sci-fi world-building, complemented by a dramatic arc of a financially struggling married couple looking for an escape. Then, the story pivots to a fish-out-of-water story of Paul just trying to survive in this bizarre downsized world. The third act is unexpectedly minimalist, shifting into a traditional Payne film about kinship between two lost souls. While unconventionally paced, “Downsizing” has a mind of its own, and it refuses to conform to genres.

Reclaiming “Downsizing” as a flawless masterpiece is impossible, as the flaws are apparent. The third act, while ambitiously forgoing its sci-fi labyrinth environment, loses the social edge of its commentary that the story was founded upon. The chemistry between Damon and Chau is a breakthrough, and the character dynamics between them are intriguing in concept, but, in execution, the relationship is lackluster in energy. Furthermore, the treatment of Ngoc, a persecuted activist by the government, is dealt with in a patronized manner by Payne. The dazzling universe created by Payne is impressive for a non-genre filmmaker. Considering that he abandons his sci-fi elements, the world takes on a superficial purpose.

On the contrary, transforming the downsized world into one that mirrors reality is an argument that Paul cannot escape his issues of trust, no matter what universe he belongs to. In context to the woes of Ngoc, his traumas pale in comparison, which is a sobering act of reflection on Payne’s part. At the very least, it is hard to deny the inherent wonder and mystery of the opening section of “Downsizing.”

5. Nebraska (2013)

Nebraska, the state of origin for Alexander Payne, has been a fabric of Payne’s work in the past. His fondness for its milieu of working-class folk and the open vistas along the countryside served as the heart of his 2013 film, “Nebraska.” At perhaps the apex of his critical and awards acclaim, Payne continued to operate in familiar territory but directed the story of a road trip between a father and son with just enough pathos and inscrutable character motivations to make it stand out and express the director’s voice as an auteur.

“Nebraska” tracks an elderly, booze-addled father, Woody Grant (Bruce Dern), who embarks on a cross-country trip with his estranged son, David (Will Forte) to claim a million-dollar Mega Sweepstakes Marketing prize, and to settle some differences in his titular home state. Following the more saccharine turn in “The Descendants,” Payne reclaimed his acidic edge in his third film to be nominated for Best Picture.

The black-and-white photography appeals to this tonal decision. Beyond the defined visual aesthetic, the cinematography adds a discernable emotional resonance that suggests an aimlessness involving the complex relationship between Woody and David. Not only are the two entering an unknown void in this journey, they are venturing into a world that is lost to the past. Woody’s return to his hometown to settle lost scores is both an act of desperation and a cleansing of the soul. Payne relishes in the uncertainty in “Nebraska,” as the film presents some of the director’s finest practices of ambiguity. For the viewer, the alluring charm between Woody and David, gorgeous photography, and intimate character studies take them along for the ride regardless of the unclear motivations.

Payne’s unique tone, one that perfectly infuses expressive comedy with a downbeat meditation on purpose and aging, is exquisitely realized in “Nebraska.” There is a dual complex to his equal parts admiration and ridicule of the extended Grant family. Despite the film being penned by someone else, Bob Nelson, “Nebraska” is pure Payne, even if it radiates as a reductive work in instances.

More so than any of his other films, his 2013 film closely examines how men of differing generations and attitudes can relate to each other through their past failures and regrets. David can see himself morphing into Woody, the absentee father who could never bond with his son, but by enabling his father’s indulgent fantasy of winning a phony promotional giveaway, he slowly discovers that life can still contain a vigorous spirit in one’s later years. “Nebraska” is a fitting inflection point in Payne’s career. His cynicism has waned–sensing some merit in the idea of redemption. However, one can only grow through matters of cumbersome self-reflection.

The 1970s is a revered period in the canon of cinema. It is an era defined by auteurs having complete control of their artistic craft. ‘70s cinema, often cited as New Hollywood, shaped the collective consciousness of the power and role of a film director.

Not only are there undeniable works of art across the decade, countless films remain classics today watched by a mass audience. Under the shadow of the titanic crowning achievements is a plethora of underrated gems by prominent voices featuring the staples of New Hollywood text.

1. Brewster McCloud (1971)

In the same year as M*A*S*H, Robert Altman established himself as a maverick filmmaking voice that could be equally populous and creatively ambitious. In a bizarre pivot, Altman directed a film that is a little bit of everything but manages to act as a unique whole piece. The director flexed his off-beat sensibilities even further with Brewster McCloud, a film undefinable and eternally curious, but an essential text to the director’s style.

The 1971 film follows timid loner Brewster (Bud Cort) living inside the Astrodome who plans to develop a pair of wings that will help him fly. Throughout his career, Altman viewed the plot as frivolous and focused his efforts on peculiar character studies and showing humanity at its most minimalist and overwhelming simultaneously, constantly blending realism and formalism. Brewster McCloud is quite comfortable in this sphere–appearing like a complete farce but supported by grounded and relatable emotions. The director is emphatic in his vision of his quirky titular character. This allows the elements of spontaneous screwball comedy to flourish, even if it is purposefully restrained through Altman’s methodical pacing.

The director is quite expressive with the camera, especially when it tracks the air travel of all breeds. The sprawling nature of Brewster McCloud could be a turn-off for some viewers, but its magnitude is certainly accessible. Similar to all Altman films, it is interested in subversion and lonely figures grappling with their plight. With this fascination comes the chance for a variety of sentiments about U.S. culture that Altman and the titular lead express: wonder, contempt, hope, and nihilism.

2. Carnal Knowledge (1971)

At the dawn of New Hollywood in the late ‘60s, Mike Nichols announced himself as a premiere voice of a new generation with the revolutionary and boundary-pushing coming-of-age film, The Graduate. The director could take any direction he desired thanks to the film’s success. He continued his path in engaging with the complexities of human relationships and the murky desires of individuals in Carnal Knowledge.

The film centers around the lifelong relationship between two men, Jonathan (Jack Nicholson) and Sandy (Art Garfunkel) who meet in college and their respective development in sexuality in romantic relationships. At opposite ends of the spectrum, the leads of Carnal Knowledge strive to alter their livelihood, for better or worse. The film is fascinated by empty people attempting to conform to societal norms, only to have their woes counter their efforts.

Presented as a benign drama about romance and friendship, Nichols’ film is perverse and daring but not gratuitous. Anxieties surrounding sexuality are omnipresent throughout the story, clashing primal and intellectual instincts. The cutting nature of the film exploits the unflinching reality of these complicated men. Nichols expanded upon his vision of The Graduate by exhibiting the idealistic masculine figure, particularly in Jonathan, as a ne’er-do-well whose inability to grow causes him to be a toxic figure. Carnal Knowledge is pure ‘70s text, but Nichols’ direction is restrained and devoid of athletic filmmaking to fit the mold of classically gripping character dramas.

3. The Candidate (1972)

One of the premiere movie stars of the decade, Robert Redford, was certainly aided by his picturesque appearance. However, he was always subverting his beauty by tackling challenging and daring projects. His bids to be taken seriously were just as contemplative as his films driven by him as a matinee idol. An underrated star vehicle for him, The Candidate, is the ultimate Redford movie and performance of his.

In this political dramedy by ‘70s journeyman director Michael Ritchie, an idealist, liberal lawyer, Bill McKay (Redford) is recruited by campaign managers to run for U.S. Senate in California against a Republican favorite. Unlike most films of today concerning political satire, there is no sense of overwrought handwringing about the issue at hand. The Candidate is humble and nuanced in its dissection of the machinations behind political campaigning and government bureaucracy. Ritchie was a sturdy hand throughout the decade–always extracting great performances and layered his films with just enough weight to elevate the drama and levity to cement a groundedness.

The comedy in the film derives from the bizarre, yet plausible circumstances of gaming the political system. Viewers are designed to simultaneously root for McKay and be weary of his naivety. This is why the role is perfect for Redford, as the wunderkind senator candidate is playing off of good looks and hoping to prove himself as a smart and component political maverick. The Candidate is in-tone with New Hollywood’s evergrowing panic surrounding the political system and domestic state of affairs–effectively colliding this apprehensiveness with the remaining strands of hope in the American government complex. In McKay’s case, power can be a wonderful prospect, but the system stands as the definitive suppressor of the American spirit.

4. Phantom of the Paradise (1974)

Of the core of the New Hollywood pack of filmmakers, Brian De Palma is perhaps the most visually intuitive and daring director. While never receiving the same reverence and populous recognition as his counterparts such as Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and George Lucas, De Palma was an expert mechanical and emotionally vibrant storyteller, constantly bending genre and formal expectations. Nowhere is this more indicative than in Phantom of the Paradise.

In this twisted riff on the legendary theater production, Phantom of the Opera, the film follows a disfigured composer, Winslow (William Finley), who sells his soul for the woman he loves so that in return, she performs his music, while greedy record tycoon, Swan (Paul Williams) betrays him by stealing his music to open a rock palace, which ensues the composer to terrorize the establishment. The weighty pathos of Phantom of the Paradise naturally lends itself to a postmodern operatic text, but De Palma’s frenzy direction of farce and black humor spins the film into an uncontainable scope.

The film is maximalist in every sense of the word. The director is unafraid to play for laughs in the most perverse settings and feed into the melodramatic tragedy of the story, all in all, executing an impressive juggling act of tone. Stylistically, Phantom of the Paradise is pure De Palma. The slick production design, camera work, and editing are a perfect symphony to the grand scale of the dramatic arc. De Palma’s fixation on manipulating the medium of film and its potential is at its proudest on this bizarre and entrancing stage. The film is a mesmerizing interpretation of a rock opera envisioned on the big screen helmed by a distinct filmmaking voice.

5. Lenny (1974)

In the world of theater and choreography, Bob Fosse is an incredibly influential figure. He also has quite the foothold in cinema–telling stories of disconcerting artists under the mold of subverted Hollywood films. Fosse, a deeply cynical artist, infused his downbeat attitude into the rudimentary celebrity biopic, Lenny.

Based on the rise and fall of maverick stand-up comedian Lenny Bruce (Dustin Hoffman), the film depicts his evolution from a hacky joke-teller to a social critic, elevating him to the status of a cult-like hero. Fosse’s portrayal of a comedian is telling that Hoffman’s performance as Bruce is stripped of any traditional humor. From the beginning, the comic is emotionally bruised and disgruntled at the world. The director sympathizes with him as an outcast, even when viewers are inclined to think the comedian’s self-destruction bears more guilt than his persecution. The film’s black-and-white photography is purposeful, but it effectively conveys a somber tone.

Lenny is committed to validating the subject’s role as a catalyst to the social upheaval that would arise at the time of the film’s release in 1974. The post-mortem dissection of Bruce in the film glorifies his impact from one perspective, but it simultaneously adds to the unknowable quality that Fosse depicts surrounding him. While his passion is applaudable, his enforcement of Bruce as an important man to the fabric of American counterculture is didactic. The director’s lack of interest in allowing Bruce to be funny on stage restricts the characterization to show his importance, rather than Fosse outright pushing for his recognition. Nonetheless, the bleak tone is captivating, especially when Lenny operates as a text of societal hypocrisy and extreme moral uprightness.

The Western is one of the most formative genres in the canon of cinema. The American Frontier is the ideal setting for a film that examines the past, the present, and the future.

Through its location, characters, and concepts, Westerns, in gracious and scathing fashions, dissects American history and culture. While an archaic genre today, Westerns were run-of-the-mill in the greater history of Hollywood, leading to countless underrated gems in the field throughout Hollywood history.

1. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949)

When it comes to Westerns, John Ford is the embodiment of the collective iconography of the genre and how the public interprets its films. Perhaps the greatest American director in history, the history of the nation, Western mythology, and the plight of America as a whole can be consumed through the vast and poetic filmography of Ford. His most underrated Western, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, shows the director at his most vibrant, painterly, and majestic.

In the second film in Ford’s spiritual Cavalry trilogy, Captain Nathan Brittles (John Wayne), on the eve of retirement, commands one last patrol to prevent an impending Native American attack on a village while he and his crew are enchanted by Olivia Dandridge (Joanne Dru), the niece of the commanding officer who must be evacuated. Never has the old West been captured on film with such beauty and romanticism as in She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Every image that Ford paints through Technicolor is a riveting tale on its own, through in the most maximalist ways through vistas or the more subtle fashions, such as how Wayne is positioned with the horizon or how the spiritualism of Dandridge through her ambiguous titular ribbon.

While, through a contemporary lens, the film’s politics are disreputable, Ford’s overwhelming graciousness and poetry with his characters and the cavalry’s role in the development of the New Frontier is too magnetic to dismiss. While She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is not revisionist at heart, especially when compared to Ford’s future pictures, there is an unmistakable pathos. The Captain reckons with the value of combat, the battalion is war-torn and emotionally fragile, and the juxtaposition of gorgeous painterly vistas with the doubts and trepidations of the mission fully realizes Ford’s vision. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon’s blend of melancholy and fleeting patriotism represents Ford at his most sentimental.

2. Ride Lonesome (1959)

Despite being severely overlooked by mainstream audiences, Budd Boetticher is certainly one of the premiere voices of Western filmmaking. His imagery of the Old West is indebted to its classic iconography and a groundbreaking postmodern vision that was ahead of its time. The director’s finest achievement, Ride Lonesome, is a lean, propulsive, powerful Western that endlessly entertains and provokes audience sensibilities.

In Ride Lonesome, a bounty hunter, Ben Brigade (Randolph Scott), captures a murderer, Billy John (James Best), and enlists the help of two outlaws to protect themselves against an onslaught of attacks from Native American tribes, only to have the outlaw’s brother (Lee Van Cleef) right on the bounty hunter’s tail. The narrative rigidly follows a refreshing point-A-to-point-B structure. While Boetticher is invested in the machinations of Western folklore and the history of combat and crime in this environment, he is never distracted by the inherent visceral narrative at hand.

Regardless of the brief runtime, Ride Lonesome is supported by brisk, economical storytelling that operates cohesively while simultaneously accepting the audience as well-informed and sophisticated viewers, especially concerning Western ideology. Boetticher embraces the genre aspects of Westerns as passionately, if not more, than any of the directing icons in this field. His film puts the notion that tropes and genre norms are detrimental to rest. Western tropes become familiar for a reason–it’s because they allow for compelling filmmaking and rich characterization.

Altogether, the film constantly bursts off the screen with every shoot-out and Western vista. Ride Lonesome, in a similar spirit to Leone, is an engrossing convergence of the imaginative Western with the exuberance of the most satisfying B-movies.

3. Duck, You Sucker! (1971)

Even with such a limited filmography, Sergio Leone’s impact on the Western genre is historic. His elevation of the Spaghetti Western matched the American painterly and poetic realization of the New Frontier. In Leone’s case, despite his sophistication, he was not afraid to make the genre grimy, and in turn, demystify Western iconography most aggressively. This is most evident with his post-Dollars trilogy gem, Duck, You Sucker!

Leone’s Western centers around a bandit, Juan Miranda (Rod Steiger), and an I.R.A. explosives expert, John H. Mallory (James Coburn), who teams up to rebel against the government and lead a Mexican revolution. Duck, You Sucker is a dynamic blend of low-brow and high-brow sentiments.

From the title alone, the film relishes pulpy visual language and dialogue. Steiger and Coburn are quite theatrical in their performance but are undeniably captivating, supported by Leone’s sense of black comedy. It appears as though the historical and political backdrop is unwarranted in this depiction of two disgraced individuals. However, Leone’s epic scope that he cemented with The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Once Upon a Time in the West is carried over in his 1971 film.

In typical fashion for the director, the “heroes” of Duck, You Sucker are notably unglamorous. They hardly stray from their roots as bandits. Most of their benevolent deeds are manifested by accident and fortunate circumstances. Leone’s revisionism is in full force, signaling that the triumphant moments in the fight for liberty are supported by the efforts of unsatisfactory rebels who conflict with each other. Duck, You Sucker examines violence with consequential and justified stakes, but still ponders the dignity of the matters overall.

4. Jeremiah Johnson (1972)

Throughout his impressive career, Robert Redford refused to coast on the laurels of his movie stardom and status as a matinee idol. He was sophisticated and curious about exploring various facets of genre and American history. Amid a fruitful collaboration with Sydney Pollack, Redford cemented himself into Western iconography in Jeremiah Johnson, a subversive New Hollywood take on the genre and his stardom.

In the film, Redford plays the titular role of a mountain man who vows to live the life of a hermit, and unwillingly becomes a target of vendetta by a Native American tribe. The actor is convincing as an alienated outcast in a post-Mexican War environment attempting to discover something more profound in life. What enriches Jeremiah Johnson is the film’s comfort with ambiguity. It is ultimately unclear why Johnson seeks out this plight, but Redford’s weighty performance is all the audience needs to follow this harrowing journey into the snowy mountains, the film’s stand-in for the old West. The majestic aurora compels viewers to be in awe of this world and Johnson’s reckless adventure. If anything, the dissection of Western text is left slightly undercooked in the film.

The film is passive in its engagement with the character as a false Western hero in his bouts with the local tribe and protection of an abandoned mother and her young son. The character’s pathos is infused with that bleak, ‘70s lingering doubt and cynicism. Without any forced characterization, the decay of the American spirit and desperate retreat to an idealistic American forefront is conveyed through Pollack’s immersive direction. However, Jeremiah Johnson skews from the tired angst of “we live in a society” sentiments, as Pollack is a naturalist at heart.

5. Bronco Billy (1980)

For cinephiles, there is no comfort and standard of excellence quite like Clint Eastwood in the Western genre. His iconography of the outlaw matches John Wayne’s embodiment of the sturdy lawman. However, as both an actor and director, he strived to push the envelope on revisionist perspectives of the genre–even more so than John Ford. In one of his more minor outputs, Bronco Billy shows Eastwood as a cowboy figure in an unprecedented setting, but ideal for the star and director’s sensibilities.

Bronco Billy centers around the titular modern-day cowboy (Eastwood) struggling to keep his Wild West show afloat during hardship. Despite his image as the quintessential masculine icon, Eastwood has always been interested in entertainers in show business, as seen in his films Honkytonk Man and Bird. This effectively balances the artifice of the Western backdrop through literal artistry.

Combining this fascination with the Western backdrop creates a film that unconventionally demystifies the genre’s lore–a phenomenon that cemented Eastwood’s legacy. When Billy develops a relationship with Antoinette (Sondra Locke), she realizes that these figures in the circus are not as idealist as the Western folklore they represent. The traveling show is outdated and deeply unromantic.

Throughout Bronco Billy, the modernized West mirrors a vision of the frontier that is compromised by a distorted vision of its creators. The Antoinette character, a typical damsel in Westerns, is most affected by the group’s inflated mystification. The characters reckon with themselves rather than an enemy force. Bronco Billy evokes the pathos further realized in Eastwood’s finest films—the kind that soberingly reflects on the decay of the West from the eye of the beholder.

When Al Pacino first emerged onto the big screen in the 1970s, acting was never the same. His unmistakable presence and energy opened a window to a whole new style of performance.

Through his vulnerability and unique blend of internal angst and volatile expressiveness, Pacino became an anti-Hollywood star. He has starred in many modern classics, but he has excelled equally in a handful of under-the-radar films.

1. The Panic in Needle Park (1971)

The performance that caught the eye of Francis Ford Coppola during the casting process of The Godfather, Al Pacino’s debut as a leading man set the template for what the actor would bless the big screen with for 50 years. An essential text to decrypting what New Hollywood’s style and message was about in the decade, The Panic in Needle Park is an unpleasant and harrowing viewing experience but is inherently mesmerizing in its blunt display of raw anguish and decay.

The Panic in Needle Park, a film by Jerry Schatzberg, is a loose portrayal of heroin addicts in New York City and the disturbing love story between Bobby (Pacino) and Helen (Kitty Winn). Schatzberg’s neorealism can be grating for some viewers, with his camera constantly moving and inevitably settling into a suffocating close-up shot. At times, the film leans too heavily into misery and poverty porn, which undermines the rebellious tendencies of the story.

The Panic in Needle Park is working best when it is walking the line between documentary-like portrayals of an underbelly in America and grimy exploitation. In either mold, Pacino excels as Bobby. Despite him playing someone in a completely different sociological bracket, his performance planted the seeds for Michael Corleone. He can be sweet in one instance and haunted and menacing in another. Even though, in retrospect, his presence stands out in a cast of minor actors, Pacino is fully immersed in the film’s setting and Schatzberg’s hazy direction. The history of Al Pacino cannot be told without the impact of The Panic in Needle Park.

2. Scarecrow (1973)

Reuniting with Panic in Needle Park director Jerry Schatzberg, Al Pacino found glory in a film he starred with another screen legend and slightly older contemporary, Gene Hackman. In 1973, Scarecrow was awarded the coveted Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. The film, which is off-kilter, downbeat, and meditative in the most New Hollywood fashion, enlightens viewers about the kind of quiet and reserved performance that Pacino is capable of.

Staying true to Schatzberg’s free-flowing vision of lost souls, Scarecrow follows the journey of an ex-con drifter, Max (Hackman), and a homeless ex-sailor, Lion (Pacino), traveling east so that the latter can see his newborn child for the first time. The plot is more or less superfluous, as the film is concerned about the livelihood and relationship between Max and Lion. Just like all character studies about complex figures in the ‘70s, Scarecrow does not insist upon finding hard solutions and definitive verdicts on these characters. Audiences are not entirely sure if Max and Lion, despite their exchanged wisdom, learn anything from each other.

On the surface, Schatzberg captures the open road with a picturesque ambiance, but the grainy visual look of the film signals the downbeat American mindset of the time. The film is gloomy about the state of humanity and society without insisting upon itself. Pacino’s performance is top-notch, brilliantly subverting the bombastic persona that would define his screen image in the future. His easy-going innocence, expertly juxtaposed with Max’s cynical eye, serves to make the inevitability of his personal failures harsher. Pacino is so dialed into his performance that he seems to only be capable of existing in this universe, but in the same breath, is the ideal archetype of the lonely man longing for a beautiful friendship that Scarecrow realizes.

3. Cruising (1980)

The collaboration between Al Pacino and director William Friedkin had the potential to be glorious. By the time they convened in 1980, both had accomplished their finest work, and the industry had altered dramatically. However, this did not prevent the creation of Cruising, a bizarre film that is equally enjoyable and sluggish. It is one of those “one needs to see it in order to believe it” kind of films.

In this sleazy detective story, a police detective, Steve Burns (Pacino), goes undercover to catch a serial killer preying on gay men in the underground S&M culture in New York City. Even though it is comfortable as a genre piece, Cruising is at its worst when it is dedicated to being a police procedural. Nothing flashes from the screen in these instances, including Pacino’s performance. When Friedkin is allowed to flourish his depravity and kickstart his signature unnerving tension, the film is quite undeniable. Some of its views on homosexuality are understandably dated, but for a studio film in 1980, the film expresses surprising nuance.

Altogether, Cruising is effective as a film with unmistakable grimy vibes. Friedkin’s direction and visual palette are unappealing from the outside, but it gets viewers sucked in fast and it never ceases to relent. Pacino is dialed into Friedkin’s frantic energy. The actor supplies the screen with his reliable sweat-fueled paranoia and chaos. As his career moved into the valleys of the ‘80s, and through his comeback in the ‘90s, Pacino gradually took less risky projects like Cruising, which is a shame for all film fans, despite all of its imperfections.

4. Sea of Love (1989)

Following his rise to stardom and universal acclaim as one of America’s great actors, Al Pacino disappeared from the limelight in the 1980s. The industry altered dramatically, as the kind of films made for the actor were being produced at a less frequent rate. In this downtime, he was heavily invested in theater production. In 1989, he returned to his usual glory with Sea of Love, a mystery thriller/perverse romance.

The film centers around a detective, Frank Keller (Pacino) investigating a series of murders who inevitably falls in love with a woman, Helen (Ellen Barkin), who may be the culprit. Sea of Love, directed by Harold Becker, despite its genre template, is an adult drama at its heart, concerning itself with adult issues and anxieties like aging. The tone of the film is a curious cross of classic film noir and the underground sleaze of the ‘80s, acting as a true companion piece to Cruising. The forbidden romance between Frank and Helen is undeniably intriguing, even when it purposefully feels unnatural.

While directed firmly, the film could be elevated to a whole new level with a filmmaker with a defined slickness and grit. Pacino is as solid as ever in his comeback picture, raising the stakes of every beat of the story with his sense of dramatism. At a meta-level, Pacino’s absence is beneficial to the weight of the film. Through appearance alone, he has aged considerably since his heyday in the ‘70s. His exhausted facial expressions and body language add to the particular vibe of Sea of Love.

5. Dick Tracy (1990)

In one of the strangest career decisions in recent Hollywood history, megastar Warren Beatty decided to adapt a series of comic strips into a film, but stay so devoted to its pulpy origins that it amounted to a film that looks like nothing that ever came before it. Dick Tracy appeared to be way above the curious intrigue of Beatty, but the mysterious alluring quality of the property created a flawed, but endlessly enjoyable and fascinating film filled with a murderer’s row of great actors, including an unleashed turn by Al Pacino.

Dick Tracy follows the titular detective’s (Beatty) twisted romance with Breathless Mahoney (Madonna) and his battle with the mob led by Big Boy Caprice (Pacino). Plotting and the functional narrative flow are laughably superfluous in Beatty’s film. Truthfully, this is not a problem, because the film unabashedly favors style over substance. Fortunately, Dick Tracy is highly stylized, with every shot and artificial set looking like a masterpiece. Between the comedic banter, chaotic gun fights, and musical numbers, Beatty is having the time of his life directing this film.

While Beatty’s performance is purposefully stiff, everyone else around him is giving their 100%, accompanied by flashy suits and highly expressive makeup, and prosthetic work. If only every film based upon comic books and IP had an ounce of Dick Tracy’s style. At the heart of the film’s unflinching mania in a supporting role is Pacino, who earned an Oscar nomination for his work. His portrayal of a cartoonish, but vicious mobster is a fitting twist on his iconic role as Michael Corleone. Caprice is charismatic even amid the freakish makeup and prosthetics. Gracefulness might not be the selling point of Dick Tracy, nor the entirety of Pacino’s performance, but in some cases, giving one’s all is part of the charm of cinema.

Based on longevity, box office, critical success, the formative influence on the Western, and general iconography, Clint Eastwood has had one of the finest careers in Hollywood history as an actor and director.

A populist favorite who pushed the artistic envelope, Eastwood’s notable works and his hidden gems are captivating pieces of entertainment and integral texts surrounding masculinity, violence, and redemption. With such a vast filmography, one is certain to have missed a handful of great films that he has put his name to.

1. Where Eagles Dare (1968)

The late 1960s is when Clint Eastwood emerged from television and firmly announced himself as a premiere movie star. In an unusual dynamic for the actor, he played second fiddle to Richard Burton in this sturdy man-on-a-mission caper. Where Eagles Dare laid the groundwork for the kinds of projects that Eastwood would be attracted to and subsequently elevate on his part.

The film, directed by Brian G. Hutton, follows a journey of Allied agents who plan a daring raid on a castle where Nazi soldiers are holding an American general hostage. During this time in Hollywood, movies were prone to glamorize combat set in World War II. It was used as escapism amid a time of social and political upheaval in the ‘60s.

In Where Eagles Dare, the gritty and precarious situation of the story keeps the viewers on edge. The slickness in Hutton’s direction satisfies the expected elements in a wartime adventure film, but thanks primarily to Eastwood’s presence, the film carries itself with menace. Eastwood, who plays Lieutenant Schaffer, an American who is skeptical of the mission, is the audience avatar. However, his stern demeanor resembles him closer to The Terminator than anything played following.

As is the case with every instance where he stood in front of the camera, Eastwood’s presence is unmistakable, and the driving power of a film that is often dragged by the plot mechanics. When the rubber meets the road, the impressive action set pieces in Where Eagles Dare makes the entire narrative feel worthwhile. Amid the grand scope of the Allies vs. the Nazis, Eastwood proves himself as a titanic figure.

2. The Beguiled (1971)

1971 was a monumental year for Clint Eastwood. Considering it featured his directorial debut, Play Misty for Me, and the inaugural portrayal as Harry Callahan of Dirty Harry, the year confirmed that Eastwood would be a prominent star and visionary in Hollywood for years to come. Off to the side this year, he also collaborated with Dirty Harry director Don Siegel to make The Beguiled, one of Eastwood’s most complex and daunting pictures to date.

Based on the novel by Thomas Cullinan, The Beguiled centers around a Confederate girls’ boarding school during the Civil War that houses a gravely wounded Union soldier, John McBurney (Eastwood). The soldier grows to seduce the hearts of the inhabitants of the school, which causes betrayal and turmoil between the girls and eventually McBurney. The film utilizes Eastwood’s stardom and image richly. Even though he is an enemy, these Confederate girls can only help but offer him hospitality. While the audience suspects that McBurney is in control of the situation, Siegel unravels the dynamic by revealing him to be imprisoned by the unhealthy desire for affection on the girls’ part.

The film is effective as a psychological thriller, with Siegel’s visual language of a disturbed gothic romance brilliantly deconstructing Eastwood’s star persona. By making McBurney vulnerable, it simultaneously characterizes the boarding school instructors and students as deeply wounded spirits. Both parties are stricken with temptations and trepidations–allowing the story to be refreshingly ambiguous thematically. The Beguiled, as a domestic drama, crystalizes the undermining horror of the Civil War and a fractured America. Don Siegel was a master genre filmmaker, so even with the greater narrative implications aside, the film is paced with such a riveting momentum and energy. The Beguiled signaled the revisionist takes on revered American heroes that Eastwood would desire to tackle as an actor and director.

3. High Plains Drifter (1973)

Decades before his magnum opus, Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood laid the groundwork for the revisionist Western envisioned by John Ford in his later years. Ironically, it was Ford’s frequent collaborator, Western icon John Wayne, who notoriously despised High Plains Drifter and vowed to never work with Eastwood after receiving an offer to star together. Wayne’s reaction to the film’s unsavory, unromanticized depiction of cowboys and the American frontier is precisely why it is brilliant.

In Eastwood’s second bid as director, High Plains Drifter depicts a brutal, nameless vigilante Stranger (Eastwood) who is hired by a small town to rally its folks together to defend against an attack from three outlaws. This is Eastwood’s closest manifestation of the Devil and the harshest depiction of the old west as a hellscape. The artifice of the local settlement’s neighborhood disguises the true wickedness of the violent undertones of vigilantism.

High Plains Drifter is as if the palatable revisionist Western was inverted to display the ugly facets of the American mythos that the respective films tried to maintain. The Stranger is a vicious figure who commits sexual assault and murders at will. There is nothing redeemable about him even in his supposed righteous cause, but the townspeople have no choice but to accept his guardianship.

High Plains Drifter relishes in the bleakness of a world resigned to nihilism as a means of justice. The Stranger tears down the glamor of Western iconography by painting it red and eventually burning it all to the ground. From such an early point in his filmmaking career, Eastwood’s haunted reckoning with the American West as a vehicle for violence and immorality among fabled guardian angels was profound.

4. Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (1974)

Before reaching the artistic heights of The Deer Hunter and permanently altering the fabric of the movie industry with the fiasco of Heaven’s Gate, Michael Cimino gave Clint Eastwood a fascinating star vehicle. Paired with a rising star, Jeff Bridges, Eastwood could play off the energy of a new radiant voice in Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. The buddy road trip movie boded well for the star, but Hollywood was misguided by the success and stuck him with an orangutan in a film of the same orbit in Every Which Way but Loose.

In Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, a seasoned bank robber, Thunderbolt (Eastwood), along with his newly acquainted troubled sidekick, Lightfoot (Bridges), decides to reunite with his former partners in crime to organize a new heist. As Cimino is rooted in his time, the film is ingrained with the style and tone of a New Hollywood character study but is classical in its storytelling and structure. If not for a compelling dynamic between the titular characters, the film would have collapsed under itself.

Fortunately, Eastwood and Bridges share electric chemistry. They give similar enough performances to not devolve the story into a watered-down odd-couple story of bickering counterparts. The road trip feels like a piece of a lost Americana that Eastwood has spent his career trying to reckon with as a director. Cimino’s fixation on the genre elements and beats of the greater plot distracts from the real charm at the heart of Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. The film is better off stripped down of its intrigue with the heist and focused on the relationship between the two. Either way, the 1974 film makes one wish that Eastwood matched himself with an up-and-coming star more often to serve as his foil.

5. Escape from Alcatraz (1979)

Few actor-director duos have a higher standard of consistent excellence than Clint Eastwood and Don Siegel. When together, audiences are assured to experience a tightly-paced, star-driven, expertly crafted film. Escape from Alcatraz, while not the most thematically provocative film, is the kind of engaging thriller that would be welcomed immensely today. The 1979 film is a confirmation that, when Eastwood is on screen, a film will have everyone’s attention.

Based on a true story, Escape from Alcatraz follows bank robber Frank Morris’ (Eastwood) master plan to break out of the seemingly impenetrable federal penitentiary. It’s such a simple premise, but it is wholly satisfying. Siegel’s meticulous pacing heightens every move made by the characters toward the climax. The characters’ motives are employed through the patient pacing of the respective staging. Siegel’s commitment to the interconnectivity of escape coordination builds natural tension. In general, there are few narratives inherently more enjoyable in movies than heist setups and/or escape plans, and the film knows this.

Escape from Alcatraz is refreshing in its choice to curb forced character ethos in the writing–solely focusing on the outcome of the dungeon-like prison to elevate the fatalistic implications of the story. Eastwood is as captivating as always. He is charismatic enough to hold attention but is restrained to reality and the repressive nature of prison life. The lack of tiresome melodrama in the film helps define its working-man characteristic that is right in the wheelhouse of Siegel and Eastwood. Just as much as his future films aggressively reflect his image, Escape from Alcatraz’ straightforward thrills and payoffs embody Eastwood.

In more ways than none, Steven Spielberg is synonymous with the art of film directing. Not only is his commercial success unparalleled, but he is also responsible for some of the most iconic films, characters, images, and thematic ideas of Hollywood history.

In essence, Spielberg is the ideal filmmaker, equally populous and crowd-pleasing as he is intelligent, groundbreaking, and artistically sound. Everyone knows the classics, but Spielberg, who has directed over 30 films throughout his illustrious career, has underseen and overlooked gems in his reservoir.

1. Duel (1971)

Watching a significant director’s debut film in retrospect of the current context is always fascinating, especially when the seeds of their artistry were intact. While merely a T.V. movie, Duel is the definitive blueprint to Jaws, as well as the masterful staging and viscerally accessible entertainment that Steven Spielberg perfected. The film has become an object of cult fascination over the years, and it is the Rosetta Stone for how Spielberg emerged as the populous voice of a generation.

Duel follows a business executive, David (Dennis Weaver), who commutes to an appointment with a client when an ominous truck driver terrorizes him during his trip. The truck continues to chase after him on the road, and David is forced to drive for his life. Plot-wise, Duel mirrors the crux of Jaws. Other stylistic and thematic elements, such as the elevation of trashy B-movie material and the fear of the enemy being the dramatic device rather than the entity itself, lends the 1971 TV movie as the true predecessor to the summer blockbuster. The truck driver, and even the truck itself, remains a faceless figure lacking any tangible motivation throughout, which only heightens the treacherous stakes.

Once the frantic cat-and-mouse game between David and the truck ignites, Spielberg never figuratively lets his foot off the gas. The accelerated momentum of Duel is too rampant for the small screen. On a textual level, the film utilizes the desert setting to, perhaps implicitly, exploit the dynamic of a white-collar, suburb-dweller trekking out to the frontier and confronting the danger of the wild west. Whether or not this is designed to comment on a sociological phenomenon, this juxtaposition further adds to the thrills and cinematic bliss of Duel.

2. The Sugarland Express (1974)

His arrival on the big screen, this early work is not as omnipresent with the traditional Steven Spielberg DNA. Indebted to New Hollywood films about outlaws on the run, The Sugarland Express is a downbeat spin on the director’s exploration of family and adventure, and the integration of classic Hollywood figures and ideas into a modern world. While Spielberg pivoted in a different direction, films of this limited scope could have boded well for his artistic craft.

In The Sugarland Express, Lou-Jean (Goldie Hawn) and her husband Clovis (William Atherton), who recently escaped from prison, are on the run from the law after taking a police officer hostage in their attempt to kidnap their child from foster parents. The film may remind audiences of counterculture road movies like Bonnie and Clyde and Easy Rider on the surface, but Spielberg’s formative expressive camera movements and explosive action set pieces offer something slightly more palatable.

If anything, The Sugarland Express demands more attention to the psychology of broken people. Spielberg is perhaps too committed to testing his abilities as a director of spectacle. Because of this, however, he proactively discovers ingenious ways to shoot the most rudimentary sequences. Every angle, shot length, and framing device is employed by Spielberg.

His admiration for Westerns and the filmography of John Ford is evident in the casting of Ben Johnson and the characterization of powerful lawmen at the end of the line. If The Fabelmans reminded Spielberg and his audience anything, a shot comprised of a horizon in the middle of the screen is, described by David Lynch’s portrayal of Ford, “boring as shit.” The Sugarland Express laid the groundwork for Spielberg as a wondrous visionary.

3. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)

For some baffling reason, Temple of Doom has been subjugated as part of the “bad Indiana Jones” films alongside Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. While the 2008 Indy comeback film is ripe with flaws, the 1984 sequel pushed the envelope for franchise filmmaking and the MPAA rating board. Spielberg uses a bankable franchise and beloved character to vault towards deranged filmmaking that he never aspired to before.

The Temple of Doom is set before the events of Raiders of the Lost Ark, following Indy’s (Harrison Ford) quest to reclaim a rock stolen by a secret cult lurking beneath the catacombs of an ancient palace. It is refreshing to watch a prequel that isn’t relentlessly bogged down in expanded universe lore, or panders to fanbases regarding a favorable portrait of the central character. Furthermore, the plot of the film is superfluous. Spielberg is focused on incredible spectacles and dazzling set pieces. Temple of Doom has an escalation and momentum that boosts tension and the livewire character dynamic between Indy, Short Round (Ke-Huy Quan), and Willie (Kate Capshaw).

The film mimics its own minecart chase, never slowing down until the closing credits. Spielberg sees no creative boundaries with his film, as he gleefully leans into both horror and slapstick comedy, with the former of the two being so pronounced that the PG-13 rating was implemented thanks to the movie. The film’s depiction of Southeast Asian people is slightly problematic, to say the least, but all of these indelible facets of Temple of Doom highlight how bold and daring Spielberg was at the time. He easily could have phoned in an Indy sequel just for the paycheck, but he chose to up the ante by giving the character a gonzo treatment.

4. Empire of the Sun (1987)

The mid-late 1980s saw Steven Spielberg, perhaps at the height of his popularity and commercial success, chasing after an Academy Award by tackling serious “adult” stories. The films of this time, including The Color Purple and Empire of the Sun, are still embedded with his sense of wonder and hopefulness in the face of danger. With his latter film in 1987, Spielberg got his first taste of a historical epic about the immense gravity of political turmoil, all through the perspective of a child, in Spielberg fashion.

Empire of the Sun centers around a young English boy, Jim (Christian Bale), who struggles to survive under the Japanese occupation of China during World War II. An expert in directing child actors, a young Bale is a perfect match for Spielberg. He has a delicate touch regarding elevating children to make them sympathetic and relatable to adults. Following this story with lofty stakes from young Jim’s eyes is seamless. Despite being a film about wonder and sentimentality amid a national crisis, Spielberg displays a remarkable amount of restraint from his typical wonder and sentimentality. In this case, Empire of the Sun relies on natural emotional manipulation.

For better or worse, the film is usually leveled and doesn’t give into monumental payoffs, especially in the first half. The section before entering the internment camp contains some of the most harrowing sequences and imagery of the director’s filmography, as the despair of war-torn China correlates with the inherent danger of shattered innocence. Empire of the Sun operates as a transition phase for Spielberg, as he juggles the wholesome quest for hope against a dire historical context later seen in Schindler’s List and Lincoln.

5. A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)

In 2001, Steven Spielberg was handed the impossible task of completing an unfinished project by the recently passed Stanley Kubrick. Two directors with seemingly counterintuitive artistic and thematic styles would converge to produce A.I. Artificial Intelligence, a science fiction riff on Pinocchio. What was criticized at the time for muddling the cynical outlook of Kubrick as a result of Spielberg’s hopefulness is in actuality one of the soulful and sobering depictions of humanity of all time.

In a dystopian future, where A.I. is set, a highly advanced robotic boy, David, (Haley Joel Osment) vows to become real to inspire the love of his human mother (Frances O’Connor). Kubrick’s imprint on the narrative is inseparable, but make no mistake, this is Spielberg’s alluring vision. The film’s distinct three-act structure gives it a sprawling scope. Some cite this as messy storytelling, but Spielberg’s exploration into how advanced technology only suppresses the hearts of broken natural and artificial life forms across various walks of life is magnetic. A.I. expertly walks a fine line between the bleak distortion of artificial life and longing for human affection remarkably.

There is an unnerving dreamscape to A.I. that mirrors the moral quandary of the future of artificial intelligence that lingers today. The characters, environment, and feelings are all familiar, but they are ultimately impenetrable. Basic human core values, love, companionship, and trust, all are muddied in this universe. The paradox surrounding the manufacturing of affection is met with an inevitable reality of David, a programmed robot, doing whatever it takes to satisfy its coded definition of becoming a real boy. On the surface, the film’s ending is a tiring illustration of Spielberg’s sappiness, but only in a subversive reading does it conclude that artificiality clouded as blissful reality is the cruelest form of closure.

Without question, Martin Scorsese is one of the most beloved and influential filmmakers of all time. His consistency of excellence throughout six decades of directing is impeccable. Because of his preservation and advocacy of the film medium, Scorsese has maintained a high status of relevancy unparalleled for filmmakers. Across 40 narrative and documentary feature films, he has made undisputed classics, but he also has under-the-radar gems in his resume.

1. Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974)

Martin Scorsese has faced criticism over the years for his lack of female representation and stories centered around women. While he is certainly a filmmaker interested in stories from a male perspective surrounding issues of masculinity, the idea that he doesn’t care about women, or that he isn’t responsible for riveting female characters is fraught. If anything, the director is always interested in learning more about personal blindspots, which is exactly why he decided to accept an offer from star Ellen Burstyn to direct Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.

Scorsese’s film about a single mother, Alice (Burstyn), who travels cross country searching for a fresh start in life after her husband dies is one of his most human and grounded portrayals of a conflicted protagonist. Thanks to Burstyn’s incredible Oscar-winning performance, the film ceases to operate on a black-or-white basis. Alice longs for independence, but simultaneously, she can’t help but be tempted by life with a new husband. Staying true to the grain and moral complexity of New Hollywood ‘70s cinema, Alice is not afraid of confrontation, awkward emotions, and ambiguity.

The film manages to carry the same weight as Raging Bull or Goodfellas without overcompensating the protagonist’s plight. Scorsese’s underground rock-and-roll filmmaking established in Mean Streets is quite prevalent. The director walked the thin line between employing his natural artistry and adapting to a new story and environment. His sympathy and admiration for the titular Alice is palpable. Scorsese making more films like Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore would be welcomed greatly, especially to demonstrate his nuance and versatility.

2. New York, New York (1977)

Following the critical acclaim of Taxi Driver, Martin Scorsese was set to continue his inversion of cinematic ideals. With the divisive revisionist musical, New York, New York, the director took a big swing. While many find the film disjointed, and it certainly whiffs on many of its power swings on occasion, it is an endlessly fascinating text to analyze. The 1977 film and its subsequent audience disappointment led the director to question his motives and place in Hollywood.

New York, New York, a manifestation of New Hollywood sensibilities integrated into MGM classic musicals, follows an egotistical saxophone player, Jimmy Doyle (Robert De Niro), and the rocky personal and professional relationship with lounge singer Francine Evans (Liza Minnelli). Scorsese’s decision to place a downbeat love story against the backdrop of post-war Americana is quite interesting. The uncanny style of the film, featuring a set resembling an old studio backlot, is essential in creating the unglamorous vision of Scorsese’s tale of two dedicated artists who can’t express healthy love for each other.

The director’s admiration for the genre is evident, but he never holds back from crafting a grainy depiction of what usually is a home of jubilated movie magic. The Jimmy Doyle character is actively unlikeable–turning off many viewers, but the film’s unflinching characterization parallels the gloomy mindset of Scorsese at the time. New York, New York engages in an often convoluted juggling act with its themes, and it tends to grow weary and dull. This is the only instance in Scorsese’s career where his ambition got to the better of him. Major flaws aside, Scorsese’s musical, with its intersection of Hollywood history and ‘70s social turmoil, is worthy of a viewing.

3. The Last Waltz (1978)

Unbeknownst to casual observers, Martin Scorsese is an active documentary filmmaker. He is also an avid fan of classic rock and roll. The use of rock in his films is prevalent and widely celebrated, as his curation of pop music beautifully meshed with his stories. These passions converged to create The Last Waltz, the director’s concert documentary tributing The Band in its final performance. A soulful and touching depiction of a swan song, Scorsese’s heart is all over the stage as much as the rockstars.

Cross-cutting between The Band’s concert on Thanksgiving 1976 and behind-the-scenes interviews with band members, the 1978 film explores the interactions the music generates on stage and focuses deeply on the nature of friendship and harmony channeled through their music. Scorsese assembled a collection of the finest cinematographers and camera operators working at the time, including Michael Chapman, Vilmos Zsigmond, and Laszlo Kovacs, to precisely capture the most finite details–by proxy enhancing the beauty of rock and roll.

From the “this film should be played loud” title card to the intimate setting created by the camera on and off stage, The Last Waltz is rock and roll transformed into film. Each sound and patiently-drawn images are magnetic. Scorsese employs the iconography of famous guest performers at the concert, such as Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters, Van Morrison, Eric Clapton, Neil Young, and Joni Mitchell, to an honorable degree. The film reckons with nostalgia, legacy, and authorship. The candid interviews between members of The Band stay true to the director’s grounded authenticity. One of the most brilliant artistic choices of Scorsese’s career is restricting the camera to only capture the stage, and never showing the audience, leaving The Band on an island like mythical beings.

4. The King of Comedy (1983)

Recently a major influence on a franchise blockbuster in Joker, Martin Scorsese’s overlooked at the time, but recently reclaimed satire, The King of Comedy, ranks among the finest of his work. A downbeat film from 1983, a cinematic period ruled by populous entertainment, this is a continuation of the director’s exploration of the souls of broken people, and what depths they submerge to for the purpose of redeeming themselves. With this film, Scorsese has something biting to say about society and was more prescient than anyone could have imagined.

The story of The King of Comedy centers around Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro), a wannabe stand-up comic who stalks famous late-night host Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis) and eventually kidnaps him in pursuit of claiming overnight fame. What makes Scorsese’s film so brilliant is that it is just as bleak and cynical as Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, but the film just pretends it isn’t. The hallucinogenic and operatic visual language of his previous films is stripped away. In The King of Comedy, there is a sense of the ordinary. Rupert Pupkin exists in everyday life.

While still composed of intuitive cinematography and shot selection, Scorsese is purposefully non-flashy in its style. Whereas Travis Bickle and Jake LaMotta are reprehensible tragic figures, Rupert is likable. His showman quality draws the viewer to root for his quest to become a stand-up comic. This is where Scorsese pulls the rug out from viewers as his quiet sociopathic tendencies slowly unravel. The fact that he never breaks from his benevolent personality only heightens the psychotic nature of the protagonist. Ultimately, The King of Comedy dishes out harsh commentary on celebrity obsession and society’s glorification of crime. Rupert, an average-at-best talent who makes it big, is never punished for his crimes, but rather, he is celebrated by culture. In an age dominated by reality T.V. and exploitive true crime, this idea certainly packs a punch today.

5. After Hours (1985)

After the box office calamity of The King of Comedy and the cancelation of The Last Temptation of Christ, Martin Scorsese needed to hit the reset button. He needed to truncate his filmmaking back to his indie roots. Luckily enough, a clever script came into his sights, and was able to reinvigorate his style and thematic devices, creating the gonzo After Hours in 1985. With a simple premise rounded out by a cast of under-the-radar stars, this film ranks among Scorsese’s finest work, backed by incredible visual storytelling and subtle integration of the director’s frequent themes.

In this Kafkaesque nightmare, yuppie word processor Paul Hackett (Griffin Dunne), travels out to the neighborhood of SoHo for a night out, and through a string of misunderstandings and mishaps, he is unable to return home. From the eerie portrait of New York to the fear of unknowability, the film closely resembles a nightmare. Paul is like a rat trapped in a maze–all because he wanted to spice up his life by going into this trendy neighborhood for a date.

On the page, After Hours is played straightforwardly thematically. In actuality, Scorsese dissects man’s subconscious concerning sex. His draw towards various blonde women that he encounters on his terrible night rather than making his escape from the neighborhood indicates such feelings. Additionally, there is a reading on the film that centers around sadomasochism. This punishment handed out by the SoHo community is what Paul desired all along. After Hours has a personal connotation with the director, as the manic depiction of a person stuck in a never-ending cycle of misfortune had to have hit home for Scorsese when The Last Temptation of Christ was taken away from him. Even when the film is operating like a screwball comedy, the typical despair commonly found in Scorsese’s filmography is omnipresent here.

One of the most time-tested genres, science fiction, never fails to captivate audiences. Films of the genre have inspired the most passionate fan bases and curious forms of film criticism.

Science fiction is provocative due to its ability to comment on present-day sociology despite taking place hundreds or thousands of years in the future or in a completely fictional universe entirely. The great Sci-Fi films stand tall, but there are plenty of overlooked gems that are worth checking out for any dedicated cinephile.

1. Solaris (2002)

After a string of successes with Traffic, Erin Brockovich, and Ocean’s Eleven, Steven Soderbergh took a big swing by remaking one of the most audacious Sci-Fi classics in international cinema. As common with the director, this film was “one for him” after the healthy box office gross of “one for them.” in Ocean’s. Reuniting with frequent collaborator George Clooney, the director’s take on Solaris, originally a 1972 film by Andrei Tarkovsky, had big shoes to fill. Instead of competing with the novel and film, Soderbergh shifted his film in a different direction that was unnerving to audiences at the time but has only proven to be something close to transcendent.

Set on a space station orbiting the planet Solaris, the film is a meditative psychological drama about the purpose of a space mission led by Dr. Chris Kelvin (Clooney) and the painful memories that linger in his mind surrounding his late wife, Rheya (Natascha McElhone). Soderbergh juxtaposes the cold and clinical nature of the advanced space odyssey with the emotional vulnerability of a widower in his desire for a second chance.

The plot is secondary compared to the psychological journey that Kelvin undergoes. Solaris seamlessly weaves the character’s contemplation as a tone-setter for the film. It creates a chilling atmosphere more so than the eerie nature of outer space. Space is the perfect vessel to explore the human condition as it aimlessly grapples with grief, guilt, and the perception of memories. Solaris shows that human recreation of ideas is more influential than reality itself.

2. Strange Days (1995)

For a film as ambitious and sprawling as Strange Days, it was only inevitable that it would be misunderstood upon release. Riding the wave of her crowd-pleasing success in Point Break, Kathryn Bigelow had something profound to say about the state of America at the turn of the century. Her fears surrounding the boom of digital technology and abuse of power in law enforcement collided together in 1995 with Strange Days, a prescient dystopian science fiction examination of the country.

The film is set in a near-future Los Angeles, where a former cop turned street hustler, Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes) is entangled in a conspiracy involving the police and a music mogul. At the time, critics knocked Strange Days for its messy narrative. In retrospect, this gives the film a complexity of various genres, including thriller, detective story, political drama, and science fiction. The world-building is rich. Bigelow has a clear sense of using the dystopian L.A setting as a fitting backdrop to the harrowing conspiracy at hand. It walks the fine line between a fantastical world and something awfully familiar to the present.

The director’s keen awareness of exciting action filmmaking is still alive and well amid the stark sociological commentary. Between the depictions of police brutality, corporate stronghold over government, and the preferences towards technology that inspire fantasy, Strange Days is eerily prophetic. The turn of the century is sending humanity down the wrong path, and it requires the courage of stray figures to make any difference.

3. Deja Vu (2006)

The late Tony Scott specialized in genre exceptionalism throughout his career. Not just an architect of flashy popcorn entertainment, his films are presented with real heart, and cares about his protagonists. His music video aesthetic, while disparaged at the time, gives his films a fascinating edge, and he was always looking to push the boundaries of even the most mundane shots. Big-budgeted action flicks are desperate for half of his style. The pinnacle of Scott’s abilities came in this twisted, Hitchcockian Sci-Fi thriller, Deja Vu in 2006.

Deja Vu tracks the investigation of a ferry bombing led by A.T.F. special agent Doug Carlin (Denzel Washington), who uses experimental surveillance technology to identify the bomber, but gradually becomes obsessed with one of the victims. The film is an unexpected collision of post-9/11 criminal justice and Vertigo. Scott uses the exploration of groundbreaking scientific technology to enhance the rich character work of a man with sprawling obsessions. For as slick and chaotic as Scott’s visual style is, he is highly concerned with the human beats of this story, and the fast-paced cutting of the film matches the psychological state of Carlin.

While propagated as a fun blockbuster, the film is unsettling and narratively ambiguous in its end result. Deja Vu is a special case of science fiction set in the present day, visually tied to the current moment, and speaking upon contemporary issues such as terrorism and government surveillance. Aspects that the public considers “science fiction” are well within arms reach. With a thought-provoking examination into the romanticism of technology to satisfy one’s desires, Deja Vu is worth mass reconsideration among the film community.

4. The Abyss (1989)

Since The Terminator, everything that James Cameron touched turned to gold. He’s never seen a film that he couldn’t turn into a box office sensation. The one outlier in his career, The Abyss, failed to reach the same financial and critical heights as his other work. Noted for its tumultuous production behind the scenes, his 1989 film is a more thoughtful piece of science fiction, removed of bells and whistles, but evident of Cameron’s fascination with underwater expeditions. The film is a grower, and its reevaluation in the public eye is a manifestation of that.

In The Abyss, a civilian diving team is enlisted to search for a lost nuclear submarine and encounters a dangerous alien aquatic species in the process. This film feels like Cameron’s most personal text, as it relates to mechanical blue-collar grunt workers pushing the limits to deep sea exploration. Ironically, the film works best before the arrival of sci-fi elements. This is because the moments of intensity as the crew submerges into the water are heartstopping. Macabre as it is, one can sense Cameron’s irresponsible filmmaking on the screen. The sincere humanism between the characters in their expedition fills in the romanticism that is often apparent in Cameron’s films.

The film’s depiction of adventure as awe-inspiring has caused many to cite this as Cameron’s attempt at making a Spielberg film. This is not inaccurate, especially when the director’s integration of advanced tech and science fiction is essential to the soul of the film. The Abyss even evokes the warmth and looseness of a hangout movie. This film will last in the public consciousness for a while, as its depth creates so much to unpack.

5. Darkman (1990)

From the get-go, Sam Raimi has been one of the most idiosyncratic visionaries in cinema. His twisted spin on genre entertainment is nearly impossible to replicate. The director furthered his rollicking pulpy sensibilities in the superhero genre. Today, cape stories are synonymous with bland, corporate content designed to be indistinguishable, but Raimi showed with Darkman, his response to the superhero pulp trend kicked off by Tim Burton’s Batman, that the genre can be fresh and exciting.

The film, which is an original story, not adapted by any comics but rather an homage to the classic Universal horror monsters, Dr. Peyton Wilder (Liam Neeson) is physically and psychologically scarred by a crime boss, and as a result, takes on the alter ego of Darkman to exact revenge on his enemies. Raimi carries over his same zany, screwball black comedy mixed with sci-fi/horror elements in Darkman.

The film is unabashed in its free-wheeling tone, holding itself to zero restrictions as to how to execute a scene. Darkman is pure unbridled pulp entertainment with an unmistakable slickness in its production design, costuming, editing, and acting. All parties are aware of the vibe that the film is striving for. Despite the cognizant zaniness of the film, there is nothing ironic or winking about the film. There is a sincere operatic quality to the downfall of the Darkman character. Darkman serves as a clear blueprint for Raimi’s style and should have silenced any doubters of his ability to helm a Spider-Man movie.

The thriller is one of the most compatible and accessible genres in the medium of film. It complements films of all genres, including non-genre films, but they also work proficiently on their own. A plot can be extraneous when put through the wringer of a captivating thriller.

When done right, thrillers strike the perfect balance between thoughtful and engaging art and sheer entertainment. The idea of a thrill is inherent to the power of cinema. Many of the great films of the past and present contain thrilling elements, but there are so many hidden gems in the genre that inject viewers with adrenaline and conjure meditations on the human spirit.

1. Marnie (1964)

In the word association game, Alfred Hitchcock is paired alongside thrillers. The Master of Suspense pushed the boundaries of cinematic thrills for decades. His genius was through the psychological manipulation of the audience, constantly leaving them on ice. In 1964, what is now recognized as the end of a golden age for Hitchcock starting in the ‘50s, he directed Marnie, one of his most overlooked films and mentally taxing thrillers of his filmography.

In a familiar Hitchcock story, the titular Marnie (Tippi Hedren) experiences immense psychological traumas, and her husband Mark (Sean Connery) attempts to resolve her issues, even though his wife is a habitual thief. In terms of plotting, the film has a light grasp. Audiences are left to ride the waves of this tumultuous relationship. In the usual brilliant Hitchcock fashion, he maintains a strong viewer perspective on the various mental crises taken on by Marnie. The intense visual language of Hitchcock’s directing to exhibit her mental anguish is the closest the director has gotten to horror, even more so than Psycho or The Birds.

With this thriller, Hitchcock let loose his rigid structuring and allowed the trauma to guide the story along. Because of the emotional violence behind the suppression of trauma, Marnie is perhaps the director’s most harrowing work ever. The film represents Hitchcock at his most confrontational with his sexual perversions and examinations of the darkness of one’s soul. Connery’s character is a revisionist take on a Hitchcock protagonist, as his supposed heroism is immediately undermined by an inherent sense of paranoia. No MacGuffin or set piece is required, as psychological turmoil is thrilling enough as a dramatic device. All in all, Marnie is worthy of being placed highly in the Hitchcock canon.

2. Snake Eyes (1998)

Commonly labeled, sometimes dinged for it, as the heir apparent to Alfred Hitchcock, Brian De Palma was New Hollywood’s master of sexually perverse, voyeuristic thrillers. His mechanical efficiency made his cinematic style feel lively and original even when his stories appeared to be redundant. After a decade of dabbling in new genres, De Palma returned to his roots in 1998 with Snake Eyes, a voyeuristic Hitchcock homage that is De Palma at his most maximalist.

A murder mystery set in Atlantic City, Snake Eyes depicts a shady detective, Rick Santoro (Nicolas Cage), who witnesses a political assassination at a boxing match and seeks to find the missing pieces and loopholes to the investigation of the perpetrator and greater conspiracy at large. Beyond the Hitchcock allusions, including a disillusioned individual inadvertently entangled with a murder case, the film is indebted to Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, which uses a similar dramatic device that centers the narrative around the differing perspectives of the assassination from various characters.

De Palma, more than any of his contemporaries, understands the filmmaker’s role as a manipulator, and this device allows him to flourish this concept. Observing each perspective of the assassination is fresh and fascinating, leaving the viewer uncertain of the truth. For just a trashy thriller on the exterior, it is daunting how far De Palma goes to assert his athletic filmmaking prowess, with the crowning achievement being an unbroken take of Cage walking through the casino floor. The camera does things that shouldn’t be possible for a camera to execute, but De Palma strives to operate it ingeniously with every film. No shot is left boring. While Snake Eyes is purely a stylistic narrative, it does feature commentary on the artifice in film. It is quite self-aware of its trickery, and yet De Palma never fails to play his audience like a fiddle.

3. Play Misty for Me (1971)

1971 was a noteworthy year for Clint Eastwood. He portrayed the iconic Harry Callahan on screen for the first time, and made his assured directorial debut, to the likes of which are not expected for actors. Under the guidance of his mentor and Dirty Harry director, Don Siegel, Eastwood split duties as the star and filmmaker of Play Misty for Me. In surprising fashion, he did not begin his illustrious directing career with a western or cop film, but instead, pivoted into the direction of a psychological thriller. The genre was suited to display Eastwood’s chop behind the camera.

The film centers around a popular radio disc jockey, Dave (Eastwood), and the obsessive fan, Evelyn (Jessica Walter), who sends his life into a free fall. Viewers are never fully informed as to how or why Evelyn is drawn to Dave to an unhealthy degree, but this sentiment resonates with the power of Eastwood’s charm. While having one’s debut film be relating to fame and prominence seems quite vain, Eastwood has a graceful touch in examining himself and his stardom and has practiced doing so for the next 50 years. As a thriller, Play Misty for Me checks all the right boxes that are expected and coveted–to the point that Eastwood perhaps relies too heavily on genre formalities.

Additionally, the film lacks the meditative quality that would be the driving force of his future films. Eastwood leaves compelling character work on the table. The genre elements are effective enough to elevate a broad script, and the director has an eye for sharp imagery that complements the sleazy nature of the story. It was a bold move for Eastwood to delve into a thriller engaging with provocative sentiments, as Play Misty for Me preceded future landmark erotic thrillers such as Fatal Attraction and Basic Instinct. From the start, Eastwood showed his abilities as a filmmaking chameleon.

4. Three Days of the Condor (1975)

In response to the political turmoil at the time, paranoid conspiracy thrillers were a mainstay in the 1970s. No entity was more sinister than the domestic government. A year before All the President’s Men, Robert Redford starred in one of the most entertaining political thrillers of the time. With his frequent collaborator Sydney Pollack directing, Three Days of the Condor showed that downbeat thrillers about life or death in the face of superior powers were elevated popcorn entertainment in the ‘70s.

In the film, a Manhattan CIA researcher, Turner’s (Redford), co-workers are killed and are forced to evade the assassins out to get him as he discovers the truth behind this conspiracy. More populous and less weighty and the political thrillers of Alan Pakula, Three Days of the Condor works on impressive spectacle. Pollack’s directing of energetic chase sequences and suspenseful standoffs is stellar. As a film set in New York in the ‘70s, the film has an aesthetic edge over the competition. The screen presence of Redford and Faye Dunaway grabs the attention of the audience, even if they are unclear of the exact machinations of the plot.

In many ways, the film is a melting pot of collected thematic devices of ‘70s American cinema. Sometimes, Pollack tries to tackle everything without the proper sophistication. Certain plots, especially regarding the overarching plot of the Max Von Sydow character, are left better when not explicitly stated. It does not say as much about America as the film thinks it does. Either way, Three Days of the Condor is a worthwhile text due to its craft and precise tone. This is the perfect middle-brow film that mainstream audiences crave today.

5. Sorcerer (1977)

William Friedkin was one of the hot directors of the 1970s, cementing himself as an auteur with The French Connection and The Exorcist. His relentless kinetic energy behind the screen and innovative and daring visual language made him an automatic point of interest in the film community. For his follow-up to his smash-hit horror sensation, Friedkin went big with his rendition of The Wages of Fear. By going big, it meant that Sorcerer would feature one of the most disastrous behind-the-scenes film productions of all time–to the point of recklessness. Overlooked at the time, the 1977 film stands as one of the most impressive feats of filmmaking and thrilling cinematic joyrides ever.

Sorcerer tracks four separate criminals on the run from the law who conjoin in a small South American town and are offered $10,000 and legal citizenship if they transport a shipment of dangerously unstable nitroglycerin to an oil well 200 miles away. Friedkin maintains a thrilling momentum to the narrative even when the action and dramatic tension stall. The run-and-gun, handheld cinematography made famous from The French Connection is alive and well in this film. As the show-stopping driving sequences demonstrate, there is a level of slickness that prevents the filmmaking from being amateurish. Although viewers are purposefully restricted from learning much about the four main characters, Friedkin brings enough pathos to them that makes the already weighty stakes of the story feel overwhelming.

As a thriller, the genre does not excel much further than Sorcerer. A nihilistic decay of humanity preys upon the characters as they hold on for dear life in a run-down truck in the hope that the supply of nitroglycerin doesn’t eviscerate them. The prospect of money and citizenship tempts them with salvation, but the trucks used for transportation are merely a vehicle for their death.

During a point in his career when he was the punchline of jokes, Ben Affleck turned his career and public perception around when he showed audiences that he had the prowess to be a director. The actor was commonly stained with a reputation as an empty-headed leading man, especially in comparison to his close friend and frequent collaborator, Matt Damon.

However, in the last 15 years, Affleck has demonstrated a keen understanding of storytelling and genre construction with his direction. His five films are pleasurable, undeniably solid middle-brow entertainment, with a proficient execution of visual language, screen performances, and employment of familiar genres and stories.

5. Live by Night (2016)

For his follow-up to winning Best Picture, Ben Affleck sought to think outside the box and sink his teeth into something more ambitious. In another adaptation of a Dennis Lehane novel, Live by Night had the potential to be an artistic ascension for the director, even more so than his critically acclaimed fare of the past. With a continued influence from Michael Mann and a touch of Martin Scorsese and classic Warner Bros gangster films, the film should have been great. Unfortunately, it is hardly even passable, certifying it as Affleck’s only miss of his directorial career. The critical disappointment and financial calamity of the film likely left the star to reconsider the future of his career, especially in the midst of a rapidly changing industry.

In Live by Night, Affleck plays a Boston bootlegger, Joe Coughlin, who migrates to Florida to pursue the life of a gangster and faces off against the Ku Klux Klan and other competitors. Affleck’s directorial filmography to this point was driven by the collection of captivating supporting performances, notably the Oscar-nominated work of Amy Ryan, Jeremy Renner, and Alan Arkin. This film is short on spark-plug performances, and the lack of them startlingly highlights Affleck’s miscasting in the part of Joe Coughlin. Numerous actors could have killed it, including his closest collaborators such as Matt Damon and his brother Casey, but Ben gives some of his flattest work as a screen presence.

Tonally, the film is wildly disjointed. Affleck is unsure whether to lean into the pulpy nature of the source material or elevate it into a prestigious treatment of the rise and fall in America. Under strong directing and sturdy writing, this conflict could work in conjunction, but instead, Affleck’s film operates on a soggy middle ground that fails to satisfy any sentiment of a viewing experience. To put it short, Live by Night needed to be either smarter or dumber–in the sense of adhering to popcorn entertainment.

Under the guidance of accomplished cinematographer Robert Richardson, Live by Night is visually sharp, making the Boston and Tampa locations lively. In this case, Affleck’s vision is quite focused. Additionally, the climactic set piece in which Coughlin’s crew engages in a shootout with the rival gang is exquisitely staged and crafted. Affleck’s seamless direction in this scene will make unsuspecting viewers think he is a seasoned action filmmaker. Other than these sporadic bright spots, the film does not work on a cohesive level. Credit to Affleck for the ambition, as this was the kind of film that most audiences would love to embrace, but Live by Night was a redundancy of the director’s tastes on a bloated scale.

4. Air (2023)

Recently released to theaters in April 2023, Air is a classical return to the form of a brand of cinema that was threatened to be lost to time amid the congestion of franchise installments. A quintessential dad movie upon arrival, the film seemed destined to fade into streaming obscurity, but recent studio enlightenment to put films back in theaters allowed Air to capture an ignored audience. Ben Affleck’s direction and screen presence was a favorable return to charming entertainment after spending years trapped in the DC universe.

Based on a true story, Air tracks Sonny Vaccaro (Matt Damon) and Nike’s quest to sign an endorsement deal with Michael Jordan. The film operates as a glorified TV movie, but that should not discredit Affleck’s ability to keep the film engaging and running at a healthy pace. Visually, the film is nothing to ride home about, but his sense of where to place the camera emphasizes the sporadic moments of humor and dramatic tension. While backhanding to a degree, Air is best to be enjoyed when not thinking too hard about the ideology of its text.

The film likes to position itself as an inspiring underdog story–a fraught proposition considering the protagonist is a multi-billion dollar corporation. If there is anything that has gotten stale in popular media, it would be the romanticism and glorification of ‘80s culture. Problems arise when Affleck succumbs to cheap needle drops and an oversimplification of the story at hand.

It doesn’t take long to realize that Air is more interested in executing a compelling adult office drama about people who are good at their jobs rather than a deep examination of the politics of corporate America. It is relieving knowing that these kinds of movies can still be resonant. Watching captivating screen presences in Damon, Affleck, Jason Bateman, Chris Messina, and Chris Tucker argue over revenue and shoe designs. Viola Davis, who is quite overqualified to play a supporting role as Jordan’s mother, kills it, per usual. Every actor is dialed in and having a blast.

Despite the eye-roll-worthy ‘80s nostalgia that is flooded in the film’s imagery and soundtrack, there is enough winking from Affleck’s direction to make it signal that the film is in on the joke. In fact, the period setting would vastly set this apart from the same film set in contemporary times. Watching business executives yell over landline phones and documenting their work with paper is far more cinematic than communicating via digital technology. Affleck has the simple touches as a director to elevate this rudimentary docu-drama into a potential favorite in the rewatchable club.