The 100 Best Performances of the Century

This list has covered a plethora of incredible, deep and authentic performances that cover every nook and cranny of human existence. However, few capture humanity as raw and unfiltered as Isabelle Huppert’s breathtaking work in The Piano Teacher. Playing a sexually repressed woman in an unflinchingly perverse film opens up to so much prudent and instinctive controversial discussion, but Huppert could care less about these inevitable reactions and nevertheless embodies all of the charged, intense material on the screen. She creates an unforgettable character in her portrayal of Erika, one the audience struggles to take their eyes off whether they are amazed or horrified by what they’re seeing. For such an iconic pillar of European cinema, this is perhaps the only correct choice to sum up the magic Huppert has when cameras are rolling in front of her. In The Piano Teacher, she and director Michael Haneke ensure you fear, pity, and stand in awe of the character that leads the film. Her work in this film is unforgettable as she masterfully leads an iconic cornerstone of perverse and unsettling cinema, and Huppert without a doubt deserves recognition for giving the best performance of the century so far.  [Ben Langford]

Every so often, a generational actor is matched with a generational role. It is the rarest of things for us film fans. We sit through so many miscastings, so many false note performances, and so many actors who we feel like have all the potential in the world and just need that one great role. Cate Blanchett is an actor who we all knew was special before TÁR. She had won two Oscars and starred in many iconic films already. However, this is the performance that made her status amongst the all time greats indisputable. This is her masterpiece. Every moment of TÁR is centered on her. She becomes Lydia Tár in a way very few actors have ever become their characters. She makes this character feel so lived-in that several people asked if this was a true story about a real woman after seeing it. I could rattle off scenes that demonstrate her brilliance, but there are honestly too many to mention. Every time she delivers a monologue, it is like witnessing Mozart return to life and play a new symphony. As her character slowly begins to lose control of her life and sanity, Blanchett’s performance reaches new levels. She never once comes across as trying too hard, as each second has us witnessing a master in complete control of her craft. With her performance in TÁR, her status in the canon of cinematic history has been cemented. This is likely one of the five greatest performances any of us will ever see in our lifetime. Witnessing her masterwork in theaters was like watching LeBron in the 2016 Finals or Brady as he came back from a 28-3 deficit in the Super Bowl. What she accomplishes here is what legends are made of. [Zach Ruggiero]

Wong Kar-wai's films feel like worlds anyone would want to live in. He romanticizes the ideal of living life, even when his characters go through intense emotional and psychological pain. In In the Mood for Love, he creates two of the most devastating characters in his career in Su Li-Zhen (a character reprised by Maggie Cheung from Days of Being Wild) and Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung), two neighbours who discover their spouses are cheating on them with each other. Chow is a lonely journalist, often spending long hours at his workplace, unfulfilled with the love he has at home, while Su settles down and becomes a dutiful housewife for her often-absent husband. Though the two exchange many devastating lines of heartache, Leung's performance thrives on his subtle physicality that matches Wong's languorous tone. A common motif in In the Mood for Love is the use of stairs, and Leung, along with Wong's penchant for step-printing, create an immaculate visual of quiet elegance and composure while mulling and ruminating on the betrayal of his wife and the disintegration of his relationship. There's a slight disconnect between the audience's perception of him and his reality, which always leaves him at arms' length from the viewer. After all, we are unable to truly understand the devastation that comes from intimate treachery. His oft-subtle gestures–lighting a cigarette, brushing past Cheung in a hallway, retracing the path of his wife's extra-marital affair–carry the weight of intense longing and loss, a dearth for a loveless marriage predicated on the inability to move back to a happier past or move forward to a hollow future. In In the Mood for Love, Leung doesn't just portray a man in love. Rather, he embodies the feeling of love withheld, of regret, of opportunities that slip so quickly before they can ever fully form. His minimalistic performance is poetry on film, and there has never been pain on film captured quite like this. [Hagen Seah]

I can’t imagine how intimidating it must feel when an actor gets a role like this, when the entire film rests on a single twist that is wholly dependent on your performance. One false note from Rosamund Pike, and the entire foundation of Gone Girl falls apart, resulting in a generational misfire. But Pike is too studied for that. Instead, she translates a character from novel to screen so flawlessly that it became the role that is still synonymous with her as an actress. Amy Dunne is so many different women in this film, with Pike’s chameleon performance expertly reflecting the unwieldy expectations people have for Amy. She must be the “perfect” Amy that she crafts in her diary entries that we see in flashbacks. One of the brilliant things about those scenes is how Pike speaks like a classic femme fatale film character in those scenes: too witty to be a real person, too good to be true. She must also be the vindictive Amy, a woman who is fed up with being wronged by her husband and decides to enact her revenge. The “cool girl” monologue she delivers as this version of Amy is one that will live on in film history. She plays a different character when she meets her trailer trash friends, and dons yet another persona when she is with Neil Patrick Harris’s character. Pike’s performance is breathtaking because she capitalizes on our shifting perceptions of who Amy Dunne truly is. Whether you see her as the villain or the hero of Gone Girl, one thing is for certain: Pike gives one of the most complex performances we have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. [Zach Ruggiero]

Daniel Day-Lewis is one of the greatest living actors and boasts a plethora of legendary performances (3 of which are Oscar-winning!). Yet his magnum opus has to be his turn as perfectionist fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock. Reynolds is oddly charming, revered by his clients as a creative genius. While working for a high priority client, he wanders to a restaurant and is immediately entranced by the waitress there, Alma Elson (Vicky Krieps). Shrewdly, Day-Lewis conveys his obsession with fashion similarly to his obsession with Alma, who he invites to dinner, falls in love with, and makes his muse. Reynolds and Alma’s relationship continues to develop as they spend time together, and Alma begins to see things that are “off” about him. She learns that Reynolds thinks his dead mother visits him while he is trying to sleep and puts messages in the dresses he designs. With this revelation, both Alma and the audience get to see Reynolds more vulnerable with his grief as Day-Lewis gives his best performance to date. He is quite irritable in most of the movie, even to the people he loves; his gradual annoyance at Alma is built up excellently thanks to Day-Lewis’s subtle mannerisms. In the masterful dinner scene where they’re arguing, Reynolds finally snaps at her after Alma suspects that he did not like her dinner. In this initially trivial argument, Day-Lewis imbues Reynolds with a both subdued and cathartic manner of speaking: not shouting directly but talking with an excessive raspy voice. We see this fight affect him later, and Day-Lewis demonstrates this brilliantly with his physicality during a scene of him passing out during work. Day-Lewis shows Reynolds’s love through how he looks at people and how he talks to them; his words may be harsh at times, but there is a subtle fondness he brings to every single scene with those he cares about. Ultimately, there is no better portrait of Day-Lewis’s style of acting than Phantom Thread: his obsession and perfectionism with his acting clearly parallels Reynolds. Though he studied sewing for a year to prepare for this role and felt hated by the crew because of his constant method acting, the results are undeniable. This role being the swan song of Day-Lewis’s acting career is more than fitting, and there is truly no better way to end his storied career. [Faruk Çetiner]

How can an artist shock the world? Adam Sandler is one of the biggest actors in the United States thanks to his comedy work, gaining massive fame thanks to his slapstick flicks like Happy Gilmore, Billy Madison and The Waterboy. So when he signed up for a Paul Thomas Anderson movie, it understandably raised the eyebrows of many filmgoers. After accepting the script for Punch-Drunk Love, he watched Magnolia and started to doubt his abilities as an actor. He begged Anderson to find a replacement, but Anderson refused. We’re lucky he did, because Sandler proceeded to give one of the most vulnerable and heartbreaking performances of the century. Barry Egan is a socially inept, severely anxious romantic: desperate for love but unable to look for it because of internal and external psychological limitations. His seven sisters tormented him when they were children with the guise of sibling banter, and we can tell how this upbringing affected Barry’s social capabilities. Sandler captures this all perfectly in a role he somehow feels born to play—and in fact, Punch-Drunk Love was specifically written for Sandler! Even his insecurities about this role are reflected in the performance. Barry certainly tries to hide the loneliness, the nervousness, the simultaneous desire and inability to connect with people, but it’s all present on his face. In an attempt to cope with loneliness and satisfy his social needs, Barry calls a phone sex hotline. Sandler captures the sadness and the need to be loved perfectly in this scene with his delivery and jittery physicality. The next day, one of his sisters tries to introduce him to a coworker, Lena Leonard (Emily Watson), to arrange a date but Barry acts busy and refuses due to the embarrassment his sister’s presence gives him. But when Lena comes back and asks Barry on a date on her own, he accepts. After Lena leaves again, we see Barry allow a subtle smile that reveals heartwarming amounts of relief and ecstasy. These two scenes encapsulate everything you need to know about Barry. He is lonely and has social issues, but the hope of companionship enlivens him and (in his own words) “makes [him] stronger than anything you can imagine”. In this deeply layered role, Sandler defies the audience's perception of him and transforms into a serious artist. [Faruk Çetiner]

Almost entirely capturing the lifelong burden of existing that many feel may seem impossible when given merely two hours to present your thesis. However, Phillip Seymour Hoffman is an actor that takes impossible burdens and grounds them with humanity and ease. As Caden, Hoffman plays a theater director who spends his entire life trying to put on a play that reflects every aspect of existence, only to be consumed by this never-ending play. There’s an extreme desperation to the role that is incredibly nuanced and empathetic, which Hoffman brings to life in ways that are hard to put into words. The performance is massive in its scale but also so subdued, so insular and one of a kind yet grounded to reality. While he had won his first and only Oscar a few years before for his turn in Capote, it feels like Synecdoche, New York is the more complete representation of his range and skill as a performer. Hoffman’s talent is sorely missed in the years since his passing, but he has more than left his mark in cinematic history. [Ben Langford]

A Lee Chang-dong performance is always going to be a subtle, futile battle against the crushing weight of the sheer cruelty of society. After all, Lee has noted his creative process as being “one of utter despair.” Even the most talented of actors are unable to fill the helpless, desperate shoes of a Lee protagonist, and yet Jeon Do-yeon does so with aplomb, delivering in Secret Sunshine one of the unequivocal best performances of the century. This pertains to both Jeon’s performance and the overall filmmaking, but Secret Sunshine could easily dissolve into cloying, manipulative trauma porn in less adept hands. Thankfully, Lee and Jeon work in tandem to deliver something incredibly lived in and honest. As unspeakable tragedy befalls Jeon’s Shin-ae, our central lead displays immense grief with unflinching honesty. Moments of peace and abject despair intermingle from moment to moment, but Jeon maintains the full spectrum of emotion under her thumb as if it’s some trivial plaything. Rarely do human emotions feel so genuine yet fine-tuned in a performance. She’s completely erratic, yet so controlled: a perfectly manufactured cacophony of poignant grief. And as Lee inevitably provides more social commentary with the progression of the plot and the story morphs into something more sinister, Jeon’s performance seamlessly shifts with it. Many people around Shin-ae begin to view this incredibly vulnerable woman searching for solace as someone they can mold in their own image, the ideal conduit for their purportedly altruistic but ultimately selfish social goals. But Shin-ae is an autonomous woman, not a pawn for someone else’s movement. She accepts their graces at first, but as her wellbeing becomes their second priority, Jeon’s performance takes on a new power, going from helpless to vindictive. In a state of shattered betrayal, she goes on a cathartic, incredibly raw crusade against those who used her, heartbreaking and astonishing in her reclamation of power. Lee has always been transfixed by the power of the powerless, the resilience of the vulnerable, and Jeon Do-yeon’s fully human performance stands as the prime example of that duality. [Skyler Powers]

For those unfamiliar with the greatness that is Laura Dern in Inland Empire, her performance is the prototype for every raved 21st century female lead horror performance, setting a precedent for the spiral that has never quite been topped. Dern plays Nikki Grace, an up-and-coming actress working on a mysterious film that begins to test her sanity. But rather than be a straightforward, explosive tale of “a woman in trouble,” Inland Empire rapidly evolves into something enigmatic, ambitious, and almost incomprehensible, and Dern is completely up for the challenge. As reality, fiction, and fantasy blend together, the film doesn’t hesitate to throw us into a maddening nightmare world where everything feels just beyond grasp yet wholly indicative of something deeper. As such, Dern is at once helpless, confrontational, and downright unhinged as she embodies multiple personas. What’s real and what’s not, what’s true to Nikki as an individual and what’s not, quickly becomes irrelevant as the film and Dern sets their sights on something utterly transcendent. A major part of Inland Empire’s brilliance is its inexplicability, so deeply analyzing it feels counterproductive. However, in the most desperate, elusive sense, the film seems an all-encompassing odyssey through womanhood throughout time and place and explores the unfortunate, evil forces that so often seek to exploit women. Whether it’s an actress being used by her producers for profit, a Polish sex worker defending herself against predatory men, or a homeless woman on the side of Hollywood Boulevard invisible to all, the powers at play in society always seek to suppress women. Inland Empire grapples with the horror of that while shattering reality altogether, finding some sense of metaphysical, global, time-breaking female solidarity. As such, Dern feels as if she’s tasked with possessing the entire breadth of womanhood within her personal reality, and you somehow believe every second. The level of commitment and payoff in this performance is insurmountable. When Chaka Khan sang “I’m every woman,” she was surely embodying her inner Laura Dern in Inland Empire. [Skyler Powers]

In Poor Things, Emma Stone brings to life one of the great characters of the 21st century: Bella Baxter. As a woman with the rapidly-progressing brain of a baby, her performance could easily have become a caricature with exaggerated expressions and unnatural mannerisms. Bella could have felt like an object of ridicule rather than the idealistic, determined protagonist she is. But though Stone certainly goes above and beyond to capture the physicality and speech patterns of a toddler for the first section of the movie, she instills a clear humanity and personality in the midst of her babbling and stumbling. Bella is loving, willful, and does not always think her decisions through, and the fact that these core traits are readily apparent while Stone is throwing a tantrum or saying a string of tangentially related words is a feat of its own. However, it is when Bella matures and learns more about the world that the might of Stone’s performance really shines through. She goes through life with wide eyes and rose-colored glasses, finding beauty and meaning in every situation she is in. It’s no wonder the men around her are so drawn to her; Stone gives this character a magnetism that makes her impossible to take your eyes off of. And in Bella’s journey of self-determination and self-discovery, Stone makes it so easy to be immersed in every emotion the character feels. Whether she’s traumatized by how the other half lives or thrilled by the pleasures of intercourse, we are with her character every step of the way. As the film progresses, so does Bella, and so does Stone’s performance. She gradually but deftly adapts her style of walking and pattern of speaking, to the point where the composed, fully realized woman we meet at the end of Poor Things is still clearly recognizable as the infant-brained Bella we were introduced to. Stone’s work in Poor Things is the embodiment of a transformational performance, and we are sincerely lucky that such a wonderful character in-text is brought to life in such an astounding way. [Amy Kim]

Mean Girls is one of the greatest cinematic comedies of the 21st century and deserves to be considered a modern classic. Dozens of iconic quotes aside, it served as a launching pad for 2 of our greatest modern actors: Amanda Seyfried and Rachel McAdams. McAdams especially shines in this film, as she brings Regina George to life and turns her into one of the most iconic movie villains in recent memory. In the hands of another actor, Regina could feel like a one-note bully “mean girl” character, but McAdams makes sure that is not the case. She is pure teenage evil, but also so funny that you cannot help but love her. McAdams’s line delivery is theatrical, brilliant, and pure comedy gold. Read the lines “Boo, you whore”, “God, Karen, you are so stupid”, and “Do not trust her, she is a fugly slut” without immediately hearing her voice. I dare you. We will always love to hate Regina, and for that she will always be one of the great comedic characters on film. McAdams holds nothing back and dives headfirst into the absurdity and outrageousness of her lines, and for that, she has broken the mold of phoned-in teen movie performances and redefined the whole genre for a generation. [Tom Brinson]

Many of the best performances on this list are here because the actors wear their characters’ hearts on their sleeves and every emotion is externally perceptible. This is not the case with Hidetoshi Nishijima, who plays Yusuke Kafuku, a playwright mourning the death of his wife internally and presenting a somber front to the world. Nishijima reins every emotion in, as Kafuku does his very best to seem professional and unmoved by the events that led up to his wife’s untimely passing. Yet, there are cracks in his stoic façade that deepen in conversations with his wife’s lover Takatsuki and his new driver Watari. It’s in sharpened glances and twinges of resentment, in reluctant vulnerability and softened gazes, that the complex tragedy Kafuku has been carrying with him these past two years is more keenly unveiled. A master of subtlety, Nishijima never overdoes these moments, but the quiet nature of his intermingled grief and scorn makes them all the more believable. The climax of his entire arc of slow acceptance of his own feelings– the moment he finally gives his emotions space to exist– arrives when he is forced to play the part of Uncle Vanya at the last minute. Finding purpose in the feelings he had locked up, Kafuku delivers a heartbreaking performance that surely serves as his catharsis. He is largely reacting to “Sonia”’s words, but Nishijima plays this guarded man on the verge of tears in such a way that we are grateful Kafuku is able to hear them anyways. In a world where men shouting furious monologues dominate compilations of the best performances of all time, Nishijima’s restrained performance in Drive My Car is a testament to the power that doing less in acting can have. [Amy Kim]

Perhaps the revelation of the 2010s came in sun-soaked colors and tiny shorts, when relatively unknown 21-year-old actor Timothée Chalamet blew us all away with his sensitivity in Call Me By Your Name. Chalamet had been in a few minor roles before: an almost entirely cut role in Nolan’s Interstellar and a supporting one in the endlessly underrated Miss Stevens, but his breakout didn't come until Luca Guadagnino’s masterpiece Call Me By Your Name. When Luca and Chalamet first met, Timothée was only 17 (the age of his character Elio), but Luca knew instantly that no other actor could bring this character to life. What drew Luca to Timothée was “the ambition, the intelligence, the sensitivity, and the naivety” needed to play Elio Perlman. Chalamet’s work asks him to portray a young boy understanding true desire for the same time, but with the maturity needed to give nuance to the character. His Elio is a smart, soft boy who believes he understands the complexities of human relations but realizes his own inexperience when he falls in love for the first time with the older Oliver, forcing him to confront his own sexuality. It’s through Timothée's facial expressions and physicality that you understand how the boy goes from quiet yet standoffish to someone full of so much passionate love. Elio loves with his entire heart, and it’s only noticeable because of how much Chalamet puts into every scene. When Elio has his romance with Oliver, you can feel the simultaneous intense adoration and deep shame he holds in his heart. When Oliver inevitably leaves Elio heartbroken, it’s up to Timothée to convey the earth-shattering sadness he feels, even though his words suggest otherwise. It all leads to that final scene of Chalamet silently staring into the camera alone, with tears rolling down his face, as Elio processes that he wasn’t anything more than a summer fling to who he thought was the love of his life. Timothée Chalamet as Elio Perlman is such a heartbreakingly accurate depiction of queer youth and one of the most emotionally impactful performances of the 21st century.  [Aaron Isenstein]

Much is said about the opening of Brady Corbet’s ambitious masterpiece, The Brutalist, from the amazing use of VistaVision to capture an inverted Statue of Liberty to Daniel Blumberg’s roaring score as we see the gates of the ship open. But once this beautiful beginning settles in, the film soars with emotions as our protagonist arrives at his new life. As László’s face breaks down in tears after hearing that his dear Erzsébet is alive, Adrien Brody eagerly takes the wheel and ultimately steers this film, conveying the false hope of the American dream with a reluctant yet palpable excitement that comes with starting fresh. László is given the chance to rebuild his life in America, clinging onto the dream of prospering in the so-called land of opportunity, and Brody lets you almost buy into this ideal with his grounded but soul-stirring performance in the first half. But as we enter the second half of the film, everything destabilizes, including Brody’s performance. The semblance of hope that he starts the film with dissolves into a chaotic obsession that consumes our protagonist. His guarded but optimistic smile morphs into an exhausted and hopeless scowl. Brody’s increasingly fatigued physicality further showcases how the country and the environment he finds himself in constantly eats away at him. In his portrayal of hopelessness, Brody’s performance constantly evolves as his character gradually becomes aware of the nightmarish horrors lurking at the edges of this American dream. It is a raw, intense interpretation that ensures László is both a compelling character and a heart-wrenching vessel for this film’s messages about America. In a film as ambitious as The Brutalist, Brody’s performance as László stands out as towering, heartbreaking, and beautiful. [Mariano Venegas]

Put simply, Oscar Isaac in Inside Llewyn Davis is the epitome of the power understated acting holds. The titular Llewyn Davis is a talented folk singer by all accounts, but he’s haunted. His best friends and professional partner is dead, sending his personal life and career into utter shambles. He’s depressed, resentful, and incessantly obnoxious, constantly driving anyone away who shows him grace or sympathy. Llewyn Davis is a struggling artist, and as such, Isaac disappears into the role completely, shedding his movie star image from a scruffy, rugged, worn mid-century folk artist. But on a deeper, fundamental level, his journey in this film is a sobering, realistic depiction of depression. Many might expect scenes of sobbing and overt wallowing in despair and pity, but Isaac and the Coens forgo this. On the contrary, Isaac’s portrayal is cold and distant by design. He’s closed off, and any genuine attempts at helping him are met with defensiveness. Yet the entire performance is built off a detached iciness that implies the exact opposite: a man in immense pain unsure how to continue on. In the film’s grand idea of a conclusion, he quietly, pitifully gives up. He’s finally worn down by the world, but, more notably, his own unhappiness and isolation. “I’m tired,” he says bluntly, saying in the plainest of terms what we’ve known all along. A lesser actor might make such a depiction feel lifeless or so detached as to be unreachable, but every scene Isaac delivers makes the truth incredibly perceptible. It’s rare to see so much real, palpable pain held at such a constant, subtly simmering level. It’s a sadness so pervasive that it seeks to snuff out emotion altogether. The horror of depression isn’t the presence of sadness, but the total lack of any real feeling: a perpetual numbness, a life akin to the void. Llewyn Davis is a man on the cusp of the void with no intention of stepping back, and Isaac delivers every moment in stunning, quiet tragedy. [Skyler Powers]

There is perhaps no greater pain than watching a loved one experience dementia. Someone who was so pivotal to your life, who made so many memories with you, who showed you unconditional love when you most needed it, is left unable to take care of themself, remember your name, or even recognize you. Plenty of films have capitalized on this tragedy, taking the perspective of an exhausted relative who cannot bear to witness this mental deterioration. But The Father takes the perspective of the person going through dementia, putting you in the shoes of someone unable to understand the reality unfolding all around them. In perhaps his greatest performance to date, Anthony Hopkins plays Anthony, a patriarch unwilling to accept the fact that he needs help. As anyone who has had a loved one suffer through dementia knows, their stubbornness about their own well-being is difficult to stomach. It can even be annoying at times, as guilty as one may feel for feeling frustrated at something uncontrollable. Hopkins understands this perfectly, and imbues Anthony with an obstinance that both makes complete sense from his point of view and understandably destroys his daughter Anne (Olivia Colman) on the inside. In the beginning of the film, he even plays Anthony with strength; his dominating voice and self-assured physicality makes us want to believe he is as competent as he says. But over time, as Anthony’s mental condition gets worse, Hopkins’s performance becomes more fragile. His visible confusion as the flat he has lived in for years changes before his eyes feels completely earned, with the film’s disorienting direction becoming far more than a gimmick because of the emotional investment his expressions add to it. And in the film’s heartbreaking ending, this elderly man devastatingly appears to us as a child: lost, bewildered, and crying out for his mother. In this unflinching portrait of dementia, Hopkins makes us empathize with his character deeply before we are put through the emotional ringer of the mind’s rapid decline. [Amy Kim]

How does one direct a famous actor to be believable as their character? To chameleon into a role, you must subsume your own identity and be the character, but if you’re too famous, this sublimation can feel performative and wholly unnatural. Then, there is the question of how to deal with the portrayal of sensitive topics without coming off as exploitative or manipulative. These two questions are key to understanding the heart of Todd Haynes's most recent masterpiece, May December. Based on the infamous Mary Kay debacle in the 1990s, the film follows actress Elizabeth Berry (Natalie Portman), who is set to play Gracie Atherton-Yoo (Julianne Moore), who raped her son’s friend Joe Yoo (Charles Melton) when he was thirteen. Power imbalance is a key focus of the film, not merely between Gracie and Joe and her subsequent manipulation of their relationship, but also with Elizabeth as an influential starlet who can control the narrative of their portrayal at her will. The film begins with Elizabeth entering their home to begin her research, but morphs as she quickly learns about the delicate balance of the relationship between Gracie and Joe and the fragility of all personas as they maintain the false pretence of normalcy. However, there is a very fine line between respectful and distasteful when it comes to the portrayal of traumatic events that both Haynes and Portman are well aware of. As such, Portman leans into the darkly humorous aspects of actors "taking it too far" as we witness Elizabeth constantly mimicking Gracie's movements when she's with her, all to culminate in that finale. It's a twisted tale of moral superiority, and Elizabeth's (and by extension, Portman’s) complex involvement with the couple is why Haynes's work is so effective. [Hagen Seah]

Modern queer films are often trapped in one of two extremes: distant period pieces concerned with abject discrimination or uplifting modern depictions meant to inspire hope and acceptance. That’s all well and good, but All of Us Strangers strikes a wholly unique chord with its depiction of the unglamorous, subtle, and incredibly ordinary sadnesses of modern queerness. Queerness can be beautiful and liberating, to be sure, but the other side of the coin is subtle alienation and isolation, often simply from those who are supportive but can never truly understand. Haigh hones in on a singular melancholy, and Andrew Scott’s Adam feels the totality of it. Playing a slightly older single gay man, Adam lives a comfortable life with supportive friends but struggles with intimacy. He feels much unresolved self-doubt, which stems from his fragile relationship with his parents that passed away when he was young. When Adam begins seeing the younger, damaged Harry (Paul Mescal) and the ghosts of his parents (Claire Foy and Jamie Bell) magically reappear in his life, there is hope that he might finally find love and catharsis, but such is the irony of Haigh’s script. Neat personal catharses are nothing in the face of systemic, generational queer trauma that continues to pervade the community with a sense of loneliness and worthlessness. Society may be tolerant, but decades of learned self-hatred are still reinforced. Scott is at the forefront of this paradox, displaying astonishing levels of personal vulnerability and long pent-up pain as he finally lets his countless walls down. But once he does, he becomes blatantly aware of the existential terrors that still threaten him and his dear Harry. Scott imbues every frame with sentiment and honest catharsis, but underpins that with a sense of helpless despair that threatens to consume everything from within. The only thing darker than society’s hatred is the hatred we afford ourselves, and Scott bears this in a way very few have. No actor can capture generations of pain quite like Andrew Scott. [Skyler Powers]

Gregg Araki’s nausea-inducing masterpiece Mysterious Skin was, like almost every Araki project, not recognized upon release. If it would've been recognized, if someone would've seen it as other than the controversial NC-17 rated movie about childhood sexual abuse, Joseph Gordon-Levitt would've received something more than people on the street stopping him to tell him how phenomenal he was in the film. His turn in Mysterious Skin is potentially the most harrowing, emotionally impactful performance of the 21st century. Gordon-Levitt’s Neil McCormick is not the character that most actors who had just starred in a romcom classic like 10 Things I Hate About You would've played. In fact, most actors in general wouldn't dare to play a teenage sex worker suffering from the long-term effects of being sexually abused as a kid. Both Neil and his counterpart Brian (Bradey Corbet) have been seen by psychologists as two of the most accurate depictions of sexual abuse in cinema, and while Brian can't remember the crimes, Neil remembers them all. Neil is described as having an empty black hole instead of a heart and copes with his own silent trauma by selling his body to older men who leave him feeling emptier. He is stuck in a cycle of letting himself get abused just to temporarily cope with the pain. This could've easily become trauma porn or insensitive, but Gordon-Levitt gives the character so much depth and delicateness. Gordon-Levitt ensures that there is a quiet pain and vulnerability to the way he acts so confident in the most disgusting acts a person can go through. Thus, when it all finally gets to him, when he finally breaks, every year of silent trauma is displayed on Gordon-Levitt’s face. When Neil cries, we all can't help but cry with him. That's what makes Joseph Gordon Levitt in Mysterious Skin a generationally daring yet incredibly tender depiction of a boy trying to make his way through the pain in a world that just wants to cause him more pain. [Aaron Isenstein]

David Lynch has always been interested in the dynamism of female performances. Ever since Blue Velvet, Lynch has always spotlighted the female experience in his films and given them a diversity of roles that few male directors could compare. In his surrealist neo-noir mystery and magnum opus Mulholland Drive, Naomi Watts gives a stunning, career-defining performance. She first plays Betty Elms, an aspiring actress full of hope, entering Los Angeles to fulfil her dreams of becoming an actress. For Lynch, this is an unexpectedly positive tone for his films, but Mulholland Drive soon unravels the façade and reveals a bifurcated blur between fiction and reality. Watts transforms into Diane Selwyn—a bitter, tormented, and heartbroken woman haunted by the jealousy of her most successful partner. The shift is not marked by any explicit change, though Lynch being Lynch, there are markers of change within the narrative itself. However, the blend of Betty and Diane in Watts's performance can be felt with every frame, and every rewatch blesses you with new details of the characters and how each informs the other in their scenes. The dual identity Watts crafts actively shows the collapse of psyche Diane is facing, and the ability to make the fragmented narrative feel mostly under control is a testament to her ability to merge the stories in her performance subduedly. In the role that defines her career, one that demands unpredictability, vulnerability and total commitment, Watts doesn't just rise to the occasion—she shatters expectations and embodies Lynch's vision. [Skyler Powers]

There are few actors who have transcended generations as actively and seamlessly as Willem Dafoe. The man can do it all! Any actor should feel envy when seeing such a versatile body of work that the actor has solidified from the 80's to the present day. However, it was in 2019 when he delivered what would turn out to be the best performance of an already transcendent career. His portrayal of Thomas Wake, an isolated madman who succumbs to the darkness and gives into the temptations of the sea, is unforgettable. Dafoe conveys this descent in a terrifying, utterly visceral manner. As the film slowly progresses into chaos, so does he. Thomas’s body and sick mind is completely exposed to the audience, and we are only left with a horrifying image of him by the end. But what I find so amazing about this iconic performance is not only how insanity is displayed, but how many layers the actor adds to it. In fact, many of his scenes are overtly funny, with Dafoe executing Eggers’s dark comedy perfectly. His fart jokes are ones that we still talk about to this day. His masterful line delivery also adds to the film, as he makes Thomas’s dialogue alien-like and his intonation axe-like. If there is one scene that best stands as a testament to Dafoe’s greatness in this film, it has to be the monologue where a drunken Thomas Wake explodes in front of his partner (Robert Pattinson). There is so much fervor in this performance, and I am left shaken every time I watch it. Dafoe’s acting in this film lingers with me for eternity. It is a role for the ages given to an actor for the ages. [Mariano Venegas]

The standout of underground internetcore satire Actors could easily be Peter Vack in his genderbending, villainous role as Peter/Petra, who serves as the main character's worst nightmare and Vack’s audition for the American Psycho remake. But there’s no beating Bestey Brown as the fictionalized version of herself in the film she wrote and directed. Actors was born out of her deepest insecurities and moments of self-hatred, the times in her life where she feared that her internet edgelord-turned-filmmaker brother Peter and his cult following would take over any chance she ever had at a career in film. Betsey’s performance reflects a human vulnerability that hasn’t truly been seen in a film since Chantal Akerman in Je Tu Il Elle as she depicts the worst versions of herself in a way that feels so unfamiliarly brilliant. Her character speaks to her boyfriend in obnoxious baby talk, modeled after her own worst habit that she wishes to change. She confronts the real life conversations she wants to have with her brother but has become too afraid of. “Betsey” has a child just to appease her boyfriend and to make content out of it. Most of all, she allows herself the total breakdowns she wishes she was able to have in real life but just can’t. This heartbreaking honesty culminates in the moments of quiet, like when she touches cheeks with Petra in front of a mirror and they discuss their physical similarities while she cries due to their previous lack of physical closeness. In fact, she wrote this scene because she thought it would heal their relationship in real life. It’s an honest performance that is unlike anything else in the film world, combining fiction, modern technology, and reality. In this jaw-dropping performance, Betsey Brown shows a type of vulnerability that most artists would be afraid of writing, let alone starring in.  [Aaron Isenstein]

Physical performances are always spellbinding. There is something about the morphing of the body, even in the tiniest of mannerisms, that shocks and empties us with the introspection. Joaquin Phoenix is an actor that plays masterfully with this idea. Joker was a solid introduction of this talent to the general audiences and the one that granted it the biggest spotlight, but it is in The Master that his physical abilities are used in a truly frightening and unsettling manner. Phoenix plays Freddie Quell, an emotionally disturbed and unstable veteran who is sent back to a society where he no longer is part of. He is sexually motivated, with anyone around him being nothing more than a body to him. There is something primitive and animal in his presence, which is ultimately where Phoenix sells the role most. His whole body adapts to this challenging character and has a radical transformation throughout the film. His posture becomes curved, while his movements are unpredictable. The gestures, the nervous ticks, the sudden moves, and most of all, the eyes that showcase a fragmented soul disconnected from the real world, add so much to this performance. What is most frightening about Quell is how real he feels. This alienating character gets thrown into the real world, where characters like Lancaster Dodd serve as a contrast to his perverted and disturbed brain. Phoenix dominates with his expression of rawness and viscerality, and his performance in The Master cemented him as one of the best to ever do it. [Mariano Venegas]

We all make mistakes in our lives, but few have made any as instantaneously regrettable as Lisa Cohen (Anna Paquin) in Margaret. What started out as a simple compliment to a bus driver's headgear cascades into a traffic accident, and she finds herself watching someone stuck in the crossroads of life and death. Unable to overcome the guilt of being so closely linked to the fatality of a random stranger, she begins to both distance herself from those around her and pull herself further into the pursuit of justice for the victim. Having won her first Academy Award at the age of eleven for her turn as the insolent daughter in The Piano, Paquin escapes the lingering cuffs of adolescence in arguably her first adult role, straddling the lines of teenage rebellion and maturing inclinations. The endeavor of dealing with guilt for an accident one indirectly caused is unwieldy and complex, so it's no wonder that Lonergan spent over six years whittling the film down for theatrical release. Yet for all of his trimming, the film is at its best when it prattles on endlessly about ancillary details, with the extended cut showing the fullest extent of Paquin's capabilities as Lisa descends into madness. The iconic shot where Lisa walks along the same stretch of road days after the incident epitomises her strengths as a performer, internally and externally portraying the pre-occupancy of her mind in the aftermath. It is insanely impressive to so accurately capture the psychological turmoil of regret and shame that ripples into everyday life, culminating in verbal lashings that at once feel overtly and unnecessarily aggressive while combusting into emotional breakdowns the very next scene. It's this versatility that makes Paquin so desirable for directors, and Margaret is a perfect showcase of her strengths as an actress. [Hagen Seah]

If someone had to choose Ethan Hawke's most memorable role, Tape would be nowhere near the top of the list. Yet his turn in the film is him as his most explosive, his most chaotic and sporadic. Unlike his more measured takes on a wide range of character types, Tape holds the title of his bravest performance. He lays everything bare in his eighty-seven minutes as Vince, going from an initial scene of him ostensibly doing his daily routine, to the tango of emotional turmoil and blackmail with Robert Sean Leonard, and ending with the ultimate climax of toxic masculinity and emotional duress with the inclusion of its final cast member, Uma Thurman. Robert Sean Leonard previously co-starred with Hawke, while Uma Thurman was Hawke’s partner at the time, and their connections to him actually bind the film together. A searing indictment of the forms of masculinity manifesting in the forms of both timid (Leonard) and overbearing (Hawke), Tape toys with the ideas posited by the existence of Thurman's character in relation to both men. This push-pull relationship only works because Hawke's dominance allows both Leonard to push against his aggressive persona and Thurman to bounce off his willingness to bolster his self-confidence through exaggerated acts of grandeur. Even the minutiae that is established in the beginning sets the tone for the film's exploration of the symbiosis of masculinity presented here. The sheer effectiveness of Tape lies squarely on the shoulders of Hawke, and he does not disappoint. [Hagen Seah]

Portraying depression in film is something that can be very hard to get right. Overplay it, and you risk coming off cheesy. Underplay it, and you can come off as robotic and lose your connection with the audience. Thankfully, Kenneth Lonergan is a filmmaker who has always understood the nuance of depression, and in his magnum opus Manchester by the Sea, he chose the perfect star to lead his heartbreaking script. Casey Affleck may have seemed like an unconventional choice for this role; after all, he was probably best known for his comedic relief roles in Good Will Hunting and the Ocean’s movies or for being Ben Affleck’s brother. But those who saw The Assasination of Jesse James knew he had serious dramatic chops that should not be underestimated. His character is a broken man, and due to the way the film unfolds, you don’t entirely know why until the halfway point. He conveys this pain so convincingly that you truly believe he went through this traumatic event. When he speaks to his ex-wife in a climactic scene and tells her “There’s nothing there anymore”, it is impossible for your heart to not break into a million pieces. You spend the whole film empathizing with him, hoping he can find a way to live some semblance of a normal life. But in that moment, with just one line, Affleck shows you he never will be able to. It may not be an uplifting performance, but it is an essential one.  [Zach Ruggiero]

Few actors are as fully committed to the craft of acting as Adam Driver. He can lead big blockbusters as well as consistently collaborate with some of the greatest auteurs working today: a balance that speaks volumes of his versatility and range. His talent radiates with every one of his performances, but his portrayal of Charlie in Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story stands out as his most powerful and poignant work. The film’s wonderful performances are what makes it so emotionally devastating, and Driver is the linchpin. Driver plays a father and theater director in the midst of a painful divorce, delivering one of the most convincing portrayals of someone navigating a deeply personal upheaval. He bounces from love to frustration to confusion to the most heartbreaking pain without ever seeming fake. There is a natural beauty in how consistently authentic he is, in how fluidly he blends those emotions, and in how deeply human he makes Charlie feel. His discussion with Nicole is so memorable not only because of the dialogue but because of Driver’s physical and emotional precision. He embodies both rage and vulnerability at once, in the same realm and body. Driver’s performance is a masterpiece of restraint, vulnerability, and emotional depth. It is pure honesty and it never falls into excess. It is one of the most human works we’ve seen in contemporary cinema, and a reminder of why we love the art of acting. [Mariano Venegas]

One of an actor’s greatest assets has to be their ability to take up space and effortlessly dominate a room. Few actors have ever displayed their on-screen presence quite like J.K. Simmons in Whiplash.  From the very first moment that he is in front of the camera in Chazelle’s masterpiece, the force of his presence is daunting. His posture, his voice, and his energy is intimidating. As the lessons progress, his performance freezes our blood further. Simmons is very violent in the sense that his take on the “strict teacher” breaks this archetype. In between all the shouting, yelling, and music lies a man who is consumed with his own ideal of a musical genius. He is capable of taking anyone to the next level to confirm his own beliefs about what true musicians are, and it is nothing short of terrifying. Fletcher’s pressure seeps its way into every aspect of Andrew’s life because he is portrayed by a precise and determined actor. Simmons is explosive, but the radius of his impact is precisely handled by him. He orchestrates his verbal violence with elegance. It is his energy that marks the emotional tempo of the film. This performance is so impressive because it doesn’t need long scenes or dialogues to be effective. Each of his gestures and words count, which is what makes him so intimidating. Simmons’s work in Whiplash is staggering, unforgettable, and tragic all at once. His screams and line readings are ones that, to this day, are so quoted. This performance is one that will be studied for years to come as a masterclass of building an unforgettable screen presence. [Mariano Venegas]

There are few modern actors like Robert Pattinson. He has that unshakable movie star quality that’s as palpable as it is mysterious, and yet maintains the uncanny ability to dissolve his entire being into a character whose only physical difference is his bleached blonde mop of hair. And thus enters Connie Nikas of Good Time. He’s loud, he’s obnoxious, and he’s a complete and utter sociopath. He has some sort of allegiance to his cognitively vulnerable brother (Benny Safdie), but not enough to not be the direct cause of his arrest. He sees fit to use, abuse, and discard anyone else in his path in the hopes of correcting his original grievous, selfish error. Connie Nikas is a monster, human slime personified, and Pattinson slips into his skin to the point that you never second guess his status as a morally depraved serial criminal Brooklynite. Much has been said about Pattinson’s seamless Brooklyn accent and uncouth exterior, but the charade goes deeper than that. He lives and breathes the mannerisms and personality of this terrible person, using his natural charisma to believably lure in unwitting victims while never letting you once remember that you are watching a generational movie star. One’s star has never been more optional than with Robert Pattinson. He has a long and growing career of totally chameleon work, and it is truly special to behold. His addicting allure mixed with the ability to morph it into something else entirely without losing his grip on that fundamental magnetism is a rare talent, with Good Time being the height of this prowess. Pattinson takes us on a nosedive into the depths of human cruelty, and we believe every second of it. [Skyler Powers]

In her stunning performance in frequent collaborator Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy, Michelle Williams (alongside her furry costar as the other titular character) serves as an infinite pool of empathy. So much of this is due to Williams’s tour de force as the wandering Wendy, a drifter through the American Northwest who is merely doing her best to get by. Wendy and Lucy is a micro-budget film shot on location with a cast of unknown actors save for Williams, which is a testament to how well the famous performer sinks into the naturalism Reichardt soaks the film in. Wendy’s most frequent scene partner is her dog Lucy, and with Williams’s tender but strained performance you can feel the years of love and hardship they two have shared. We don’t learn a lot in the text about who Wendy is, but Williams layers the character with so much heart and humanity that we truly know her by the film’s end. [Ben Langford]

What does evil look like? How does it behave? These are questions that filmmaker Quentin Tarantino pondered when writing Hans Landa for his 7th film Inglourious Basterds. Villains have existed in film since the medium’s inception, but few are quite as chilling as Christoph Waltz’s sheer embodiment of evil. Landa is introduced to us in a thrilling opening, where Waltz makes magic with his eyes and body language. His performance is threatening even when he says nothing at all because of the menace and hatred that radiates off of him. Rather than let Landa be a caricature, Waltz turns him into a rich and intriguing yet frightening beast. Each one of his moves and actions have a purpose. Despite being menacing, his performance finds the right amount of subtlety. He’s outwardly charming and well-mannered, but it is always evident that he is the man in control. Each one of his scenes is an interrogation where he toys with his victims as if he was in a play. Landa is performative in the sense that he uses his charm to get information from the other “actors” in each scenario. This could not have been achieved without the expertise of Waltz, whose littlest mannerisms are imbued with intention. The opening alone is a masterclass in how to use subtlety to simultaneously spellbind and corner the audience. Waltz’s character has been referred to as one of the greatest villains in contemporary filmmaking, and for a good reason. The chills that his performance still produces in us are unmatched to this day. [Mariano Venegas]

Jean Dominique-Bauby was a French magazine editor who got Locked-in syndrome seemingly at random, and as a result, he could not speak, walk, or even move any of his muscles except for his left eye. Mathieu Amalric plays him in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in one of the most challenging performances ever put on film. Apart from a few flashback scenes, he is completely still, unable to talk or move any part of his face aside from his left eye, and that makes his performance all the more remarkable. With the emotional voice-overs and Julian Schnabel’s exceptional direction, Amalric conveys so much emotion with his longing, desperate eye. His tone in the voice-overs evolves from frustration to defeat as he forces himself to accept that his former way of living is nothing more than a distant memory that he can never go back to. There is a scene in the beach where Jean-Do is with his girlfriend and kids and Amalric demonstrates this longing perfectly. All Jean-Do wants is to be free from his situation and return to his life with his kids again. Yet as depressing as his situation is, Amalric never lets go of his conviction and belief in himself. It is a difficult, breathtaking performance that I doubt any other actor could possibly pull off. [Faruk Çetiner]

Léa Seydoux has been an actor I have loved watching over the last decade, but her performance in last year’s The Beast has to be her finest work yet and sticks out as one of the greatest performances of this century. Her role of Gabrielle is incredibly demanding, as she must play three different versions of the same woman from three different eras: the early 1900s, the 2010s, and the far distant future. Though these characters are variations of one woman, Seydoux gives each Gabrielle distinctly unique qualities that reflect the time period they hail from. There are moments of love and warmth within Gabrielle, but she is nonetheless constantly facing nightmarish situations that consume her life. Seydoux plays this sense of horror and coldness so brilliantly, making every moment she is on-screen feel mystifying and immersive. It’s not often that a performance seizes your attention to such an extent that you feel what the character feels, yet Seydoux does it flawlessly and seamlessly. What I respect about her nearly as much as her raw performances is her commitment to choosing interesting projects, and The Beast is no exception. But no matter how small or strange her roles may be, Seydoux brings her all into every single one, making every moment she is on-screen completely captivating. [Tom Brinson]

Lupita Nyong’o has consistently been one of the greatest actors to emerge this century. After winning an Oscar for her heartbreaking and fearless performance in 12 Years a Slave, she proceeded to shine in every film she is in, no matter the genre. However, the crowning achievement of her career is her tour de force in Jordan Peele’s Us. She has the difficult task of playing two women, one a seemingly psychotic doppelganger and the other a seemingly ordinary mother doing whatever it takes to protect her family. The film is so consistently riveting because of Nyong’o’s astounding ability to emote the true terror of what is happening to her in a moment’s notice while doing so in a much more nuanced way than most actors would play it. Every single moment of the film, she draws you into her constantly evolving, unpredictable story. The way she works with Peele to bring Adelaide and Red to life is breathtaking, as each character feels distinct and lived-in despite the core concept. Lupita Nyong’o is an absolute marvel, and it is still baffling that the Academy managed to overlook this one-of-a-kind performance. [Tom Brinson]

It is impossible to discuss this performance without acknowledging the spectre of loss that has hung over it since the film premiered. Heath Ledger was one of the greatest talents of his generation, and his death was a tragic, devastating one that shook the entire film world to its core. In this movie, he delivered what has become the definitive take on one of the most instantly recognizable characters in all of fiction. His casting at the time was questioned by some despite delivering amazing performances in films like Brokeback Mountain, but these doubts were silenced for good the moment the first teaser dropped. His Joker is often the first name mentioned when you ask someone what the best villain performances in cinematic history are, and rightfully so. There is a reason every comic book movie that came out after this one wanted to be The Dark Knight and every actor cast as a comic book villain wanted to be the Joker. His ferocity is unmatched in this film, completely transforming himself into this deranged villain. Yet Ledger also utilizes his immense charisma to make his Joker impossible to look away from. For my money, he is the biggest reason the film became one that changed the genre and shaped a generation of movie fans. Rest in peace, Heath Ledger. Your work will live on forever. [Zach Ruggiero]

The angsty teenager is a trope that has been present in film since the beginning of the artform and will likely never go away. But there's a reason Saoirse Ronan’s turn as Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson is far and away one of the most lauded, even resulting in an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe win. That reason, of course, is honesty. In Lady Bird, Ronan is playing an authentic depiction of writer/director Greta Gerwig in her teen years. For someone inspired by a legend like Gerwig, Lady Bird is a normal teenage girl: she fights with her mother and lusts after boys in her school and struggles with big dreams that no one else understands. It is critical that this performance is relatable, that Saoirse Ronan succumbs to the mundane humanity that makes this character so meaningful to so many. Truly, what Lady Bird longs for is to be understood by someone, to have that one person that wants her to meet the goals she has for herself. She desires this connection from her mom, but when her mom only knows how to push her buttons, she can't help but react strongly back. She wants a boyfriend in her life to feel like a normal girl, but she only attracts gays and assholes. And she wants to fit in with the girls at her school, but she’s too ashamed to even give her address. There are many iconic moments in Lady Bird, from the scene where she throws herself out of a car, to her never-ending lust for Timothée Chalamet, to her declaration in support of abortion, to the ending phone call where she reconciles with her own issues and finally reaches out to her mother. But it's the scene where she asks her mom if she genuinely likes her as a person, not just loves her, that sums up the honesty and deep rooted insecurity that not only makes Lady Bird an incomprehensibly relatable character, but has made the film so life-changing to so many. [Aaron Isenstein]

Pedro Almodóvar is a filmmaker who needs no introduction, much like his quasi-stand-in, Pain and Glory’s Salvador Mallo (Antonio Banderas). Mallo is a veteran filmmaker with a long, glowing legacy and all the material success he could hope for, but his health is failing and he is perpetually lonely. Haunted by the missed opportunities and lost loves of his past, he is obsessed with making amends and solidifying his legacy with the time he has left. Almodóvar is surely addressing his own anxieties with this film, and the conversations contained herein are eloquent, rich dwellings on love, loss, mortality, and art as a means of catharsis, connection, and immortality. Such a film (and lead performance) could easily get bogged down in soapy, didactic monologuing, but there is a scene in here where Banderas’ Mallo proclaims the best actor is the one who fights emotion rather than lets it flow freely. In the most meta way, this is critical to the film’s and Banderas’ success. Banderas’ delivery is always calm, wise, and refined, yet underpinned with a pervasive melancholy and aching sense of regret. He almost never yells and barely sheds a tear, but we feel the entire breadth of his pain and fear. Each conversation digs deeper into the emotion of his character, moving past his artistic musings and catty talk with old friends and collaborators into his desire for intimacy and the reparation of old romantic and familial relationships. The film forgoes easy answers and neat conclusions, instead meeting the characters where they’re at and letting them have organic discussions. Through this, we see Mallo come to terms with his life and his relationships in the imperfection of it all. Banderas conveys so much humanity, heart, and healing through a subtle opening up to emotional honesty and quiet, earnest acceptance. Pain and Glory is a longing ode to love, life, and art, and Banderas fills every frame with an unadulterated authenticity. [Skyler Powers]

If you were to portray an abortionist in a contemporary film, you would already be faced with many challenges on how to approach the role due to the controversy and baggage surrounding it. To play one set in the 1950’s, when the subject was even more taboo, opens a whole new treasure trove of conflicts for the performer to take into account. Imelda Staunton does so in Vera Drake, and as you’d expect from an actor of her caliber, compiles the compassion and the conflict necessary for the performance to perfectly embody a woman shamed for her kindness. Vera Drake—a respected woman in town who does under the table abortions out of the goodness of her heart—is quickly disavowed by those close-minded people who once loved her when they learn of her “horrible” actions. The suffering she endures to this vitriol is juxtaposed with her underlying goodness, creating a fully realized person that we weep for and root for. With a filmmaker like Mike Leigh at the helm, an extreme degree of nuance and realism is injected into any character he writes. Out of everyone in his filmography, Staunton rises to the occasion the most and elevates the material to perhaps his best work. As her career’s magnum opus, this is a performance that is seared into my brain. [Ben Langford]

Devon Bostick in Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules is the quintessential comedy performance of the 2010s. The film was one of my childhood favorites, yes, but it honestly still holds up to this day. The core of what makes this film as delightful and witty as it is has to be Devon Bostick as Rodrick Heffley. He has so many incredible quotes; it goes to show that a perfect marriage of hilarious screenwriting and impeccable delivery leads to lines like “Whatever you thought, I already thinked it!”, “Does he know about the D.O.R.E.? The Door?!”, and “That’s not me!” being stuck in my head years later. He might not be the main character of the film, but the story revolves around the relationship Rodrick has with his brother Greg. For the most part, Bostick plays Rodrick as this insane, larger-than-life, alternative partyboy who loves messing with Greg and embarrassing him. Their dynamic is fascinating because Greg cares so much about what other people think of him to the point where he resorts to being an asshole 99% of the time, while Rodrick could not care less about what anyone thinks of him to the point where he does whatever he wants to at any given moment. However, when Rodrick and Greg have to cover up a secret party, they begin bonding and their brotherhood becomes something genuinely endearing. While Bostick is notable in this film for his comedic chops, he also nails Rodrick’s surprising pathos. In the third act of the film, when his parents find out about the party, you can feel how heartbroken he is not being able to perform at the talent show. The stakes in this film are low, but Bostick endears you so much to this character that you can’t help but care every step of the way. He just has such a brilliant way of immersing himself in whatever crazy hijinks Rodrick gets into while also humanizing him in a way other actors never would. Bostick deserves far more leading roles than he gets considering his immense charisma and commitment to every character, but nonetheless, it is always a delight every time he gets a role to sink his teeth into like this one. [Tom Brinson]

Playing against type can either be something that irreparably taints your image as an actor or completely changes the way the audience views you going forward. When comedic icon Jim Carrey turned to a heartbreaking dramatic performance, it completely changed how the world judged his body of work. While he has been great in films like The Truman Show, Man on the Moon, and some of his pure comedies before, nothing hits as deep and as human as his work as Joel Barish. A heartbroken cynic who learns his last love erased him from his mind chooses to do the same, discovering more about their relationship, himself, love and memory in the process of his own erasure. While many have done these sorts of hopeless romantic roles, they tend to frustrate with their self-pity and self-centeredness. Carrey, on the other hand, is so inherently likable with how bashful and introverted his Joel is that we can never hate him despite his flaws as a boyfriend and as a person. He portrays this character with a remarkable empathy, making his desire to remove these memories and therefore this heartbreak from his brain incredibly relatable despite its absurdity. For a career as ingrained in absurdity and energy as Carrey’s is, his choice to slow down, hold on every moment, and take us along this human journey with him makes the tragedy of the film hit that much harder. [Ben Langford]

Penélope Cruz may be a superstar now, but no role has dug for her complexity quite like Raimunda in Volver. In each of her many collaborations with Pedro Almodóvar, he provides her with a deftly woven script and the role of a richly developed character with internal machinations that could drive most insane. Split between the cities of Madrid and La Mancha, Volver follows the generational misfortunes of the women in and around Raimunda’s life, often under the actions of the solipsistic men who command the authority in this world. Raimunda is played effortlessly by Cruz, who internalises the pain and trauma that past generations have bestowed upon her without revealing the truths hiding beneath the surface until Almodóvar's screenplay warrants so. Even when the catalyst of the actions and mysteries get uncovered, she works together with the women in the town to solve their issues as a community. Her sense of community is bonded by the power of feminine womanhood, not by an over-reliance on her male counterparts. It's in this sense of interdependent feminism—which Raimunda anchors—that threads all of the characters together in this story and drives them to progress. It is the beating heart of the film, and Cruz's performance displays both this core theme and her own acting prowess excellently. It's no wonder that she got her first of many Oscar nominations for this performance, a feat so enormous and generationally defining that few could ignore. [Hagen Seah]

Amidst Lynne Ramsay’s small but unendingly complex repertoire, Morvern Callar might be her most complicated film to ponder. Samantha Morton plays the titular lead: a woman who, after her boyfriend commits suicide, passes his writing off as her own and uses the initial payment she receives to take a vacation to Spain with her best friend. Morally reprehensible, undoubtedly, but Ramsay immediately opens the door for the most compelling analyses of her career. Morvern Callar is ultimately a beguiling, discomforting meditation on very universal human truths. Morton blends a cold, calculating, borderline sociopathic nature—where her feelings often seem distant with the vulnerability of someone working through grief—and the desire for escape and reinvention that stems from that. At a certain point, it can feel like your grief defines you and like you fail to be a real person who can interact with the world freely, so it mustn't hurt to become someone else entirely. Morton fully understands the humanity behind the most objectionable actions. She wants to be someone she likes, someone other people like, someone free of pain and doubt, and someone who can completely reject the need for intimacy. Vulnerability only causes pain, so evolve to the next stage of being. Of course, this is an impossible, destructive standard to aspire to, and Morton and Ramsay understand this, eventually collapsing back down to the most emotionally honest of realities. Morton portrays the paradox of it all brilliantly. We see her calculate every action in a state of prescribed despondency, yet we also see her grapple with her loss and actions in a very real way. Ultimately, she wants nothing more than to escape everything that hurts her and a society (men, especially) who can’t meet her where she’s at emotionally or truly understand her. Morton seeks to obliterate vulnerability, the patriarchy, and her being entirely. It’s ultimately hopeless, but she’ll be damned if it isn’t utterly compelling. [Skyler Powers]

Perfect Days is a relatively unassuming film about the day-to-day life of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho), a toilet cleaner in Tokyo with a simple routine that allows him to enjoy the small pleasures the world has to offer him. For most of the film, we are merely accompanying Hirayama in his appreciation of the mundanity of every single day, from the beauty in the trees he sits underneath to the serenity the books he reads provide. Very little happens plot-wise, but the film is silently gripping nonetheless due to our complete investment in this character’s journey. This is largely thanks to Yakusho’s brilliant performance, which manages to summate Hirayama’s entire existence in a handful of content glances, relieved sighs, and very choice words of wisdom. The script does not feel the need to explain him entirely to us, nor does it even give him much dialogue to cement an immediate personality. Nearly everything we need to know about this character is told to us through visual storytelling, and Yakusho is as much of an author of this character as Wim Wenders and Takuma Takasaki. But as the film’s plot gradually unravels, so does Yakusho’s performance. It is in interactions with the people around him that Yakusho’s subdued performance begins hitting us right in the chest. Hirayama has chosen this wonderful simplicity, but there are moments where he is presented with the truth that his treasured routine has its limitations. Yet in the film’s stunning conclusion, Yakusho conveys a staggering acceptance of his life with one unforgettable facial expression. Joy, melancholy, memory, and uncertainty are intertwined in this moment of catharsis, and Yakusho simultaneously captures each emotion like no other in this snapshot of humanity. [Amy Kim]

When one thinks of shapeshifting performers, most people will think of Tilda Swinton or Cate Blanchett. And yes, while their gender-bending turns in Orlando or I'm Not There respectively are fairly impressive, I think there is a case to be made for Denis Lavant having the single most extravagant display of versatility in one film. Here, in Holy Motors, he begins his day as an ordinary family man before entering a cartoonishly long limousine, just spacious enough to conduct his daily duties. And what are those duties, you might ask? Shapeshifting for the most insane assignments known to mankind, of course. Beginning with him exiting his vehicle at the Pont Alexandre III as a hobbling elderly beggar, Carax kicks into motion a series of absolutely bizarre events strung loosely together by Lavant's sheer capabilities as an actor. It's almost impossible to quantify the sheer magnitude of his performance due to the range of roles he is given, and even attempting to do so in three hundred words is counter-productive to Carax's end goal here. The film begins with a languorous trip to the cinema and shifts midway through to Lavant's violent and schizophrenic beggar waltzing through a cemetery dedicated to the death of internet links on the way to kidnapping a model to dress her in a burqa and niqab to sing lullabies to. That previous sentence doesn't even scratch the surface of insane lengths that the film goes to. And while absurdity is at the forefront of Carax and Lavant's minds (who have been close collaborators for close to forty years now), there is a real melancholy behind the performances, as the actors occasionally acknowledge the Brechtian situation they have stumbled into and the endless drive to perform even when there is no audience. The true blend of insanity and heartbreak is the intersection of the film's working space and the heart of its brilliance, and Lavant is the sole captain of this rocky ship. [Hagen Seah]

Few actors are as capable of creating a raw, lustful performance that is rooted in a desire for human connection as Tilda Swinton. And for that alone, her casting in I Am Love is exquisite. Swinton plays Emma Recchi, a Russian woman who married into an Italian aristocratic family. For this role, Swinton learned Russian, Italian, and Italian with a Russian accent. The first time we see Swinton, she is preparing a birthday party for the patriarch of the family Edoardo Sr. During the event, however, he unexpectedly announces that Emma’s husband Tancredi and son Edoardo Jr. will be the successors of the family company. This news should make Emma happy, but she seems indifferent about it. At the end of this party, Edoardo Jr. introduced his mother to his chef friend Antonio. A timid Antonio shows off the cake he brought, impressing Emma despite her attempted nonchalance. As Antonio leaves, Swinton imbues Emma with a gaze that mixes curiosity and longing. Some months later, Emma goes to Antonio’s restaurant with a couple friends and eats the dish he prepares with exquisite passion and arousal. It is as if an isolated light is shining into Swinton’s face as she perfectly embodies the craving Emma feels for her life. She is adventurous and wild but held back by the stature of the family she married into. After the lunch, she chats with Antonio again and yet again she’s calm and collected, refusing to express the passion building inside of her. After a while, Emma visits San Remo to surprise her daughter. But all of a sudden, after seeing Antonio from afar, she pursues him and is excited by the spontaneity once their eyes meet. Antonio invites her to his home and upon arrival, they finally make love. All the build up and the resistance from Emma finally bursts into a great amount of passion. Swinton’s nuanced performance comes to light, as Emma can at last express her repressed passion. [Faruk Çetiner]

Hafsia Herzi won the César Award for Best Actress for her role in Borgo, triumphing over both leading actresses from the much-hyped Emilia Pérez. After watching several of her lead performances, I was struck by her calm self-possession. She is never flashy or forced. Rather, she restrains herself while commanding the screen with ease and power, often single-handedly elevating each film she is in. Herzi often plays characters who are, in one way or another, professional liars. In nearly every role, she is lying, and the precision and skill with which she does it are utterly marvellous. She brings lying to an art form: natural, convincing, and flawlessly executed. She can speak the most complex and layered lies with a perfectly calm expression, which I admire so much. This is especially present in Borgo, where she portrays a prison guard reassigned to a new and unfamiliar environment. She navigates this moral gray zone and emotional abyss in a particularly unforgettable light, as her understated brilliance shines in this understated, tense role. [Jinwei Li]

Without a doubt, I Saw the TV Glow is one of the finest films of last year. It brilliantly dissects 90s culture, infusing nostalgia with existential dread and beautifully crafting this incredibly meaningful trans story. Justice Smith is phenomenal in the lead role, but Jack Haven is the beating heart of the film. Their performance is so raw yet restrained, becoming an elusive driving force for Owen on their journey. Every line reading feels so melancholic and carefully refined by Haven to draw the viewer into their character. When the rising action of the film hits and The Pink Opaque is becoming the reality the characters inhabit, their performance soars. After we hit the planetarium scene, Haven lets out all of the pain their character has been repressing in a grueling and gut-wrenching 10-minute monologue. It is in this scene that Haven proves they are a face to pay attention to and cements themself in cinema history. The arc they embody in I Saw the TV Glow is unlike anything I have ever seen before in cinema, bringing their character’s journey to life in such a palpable, relatable way. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal. This isn’t how life is supposed to feel.” [Tom Brinson]

The first scene in Sofia Coppola’s unsung masterpiece Somewhere shows Stephen Dorff’s Johnny Marco drunk, walking to his room at the Chateau Marmont. He gets to bed and silently watches two bleach blonde strippers pole dance for him as Foo Fighters’s “My Hero” blares on the radio. It's a popular song, but the lyrics aren’t accidental; it celebrates ordinary heroes, but as a famous but troubled actor, Johnny is anything but. Johnny is asked by a reporter “who is Johnny Marco?”. He doesn’t know. He knows he's an actor, and he knows how actors are supposed to behave. He knows he’s a father, but he doesn't know how fathers are supposed to behave. So he stutters, and we cut to another party. Somewhere has Sofia Coppola’s patented quiet, which gives us time to soak in the loneliness within Johnny as he tries to connect with Cleo (Elle Fanning). He’s a hotshot actor who spends his days wallowing and going through the motions of what he expects an actor to do. But he doesn't care about anything and can’t connect to anyone—especially women. For much of the movie, he can’t even care about Cleo, though her childlike innocence and sheer love for him eventually break through. Only then can he finally admit how unhappy he is, and it is Cleo that makes him happy. When we first meet Johnny, Dorff embodies his apathy to life. But by the end of the film, we can see a slight softness in Dorff, even if it is overtaken by Johnny’s intense, overbearing loneliness. He has found something worth trying for: Cleo. [Aaron Isenstein]

(While not everyone knows the pain of going through an addiction or dealing with the addiction of a loved one, everyone has been to family events where they feel isolated. In Rachel Getting Married, Anne Hathaway’s Kym returns from a rehab center to attend her sister’s wedding. The film deals with a lot of residual history slowly unfolding that we don’t get to see all of, yet it all feels so visceral due to the rawness of Hathaway’s performance. The antisocial Kym has pained so many of the characters she interacts with, and she not only carries guilt with her but also resentment for the family she thinks owes her forgiveness and sympathy. Anne Hathaway offers us a full meal of humanity in an earlier performance for the eventual Oscar winner, proving her bona fide talent. Though the film takes place over a brief weekend, we have such a total understanding of Kym by the end simply from the inflections Hathaway offers in each interaction with her parents, her sister Rachel, and the other minor characters she has exchanges with. Playing an addict isn’t easy, playing such an antisocial character isn’t easy, so doing both while making the audience understand how much pain she’s inflicted on others and ensuring we remain empathetic to her struggles shows how skilled Hathaway is at capturing the human experience. [Ben Langford]

Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn is one of those rare casting miracles where actor and character merge completely. There’s a weight to him, a sense of history behind his eyes. He never strives to be a hero, he simply is. That calm and graceful gravity, paired with his dedicated physical commitment to the role, is what makes him unforgettable and so beloved. What I’ve always found amazing is how balanced his performance is. On one hand, he’s this rugged, sword-wielding warrior with the grit and courage of a classic epic hero. On the other, he brings introspection, kindness, and a certain stillness that grounds the entire trilogy. His interactions with Frodo and other team members, especially in the quieter moments, are filled with warmth, valiant and reliable leadership. You feel Aragorn’s reluctance to accept power, the burden of his lineage, and most importantly, his evolution from ranger to king. Mortensen gave Aragorn soul, depth, and a concrete dignity. It’s rare to find a performance that feels so grounded yet so legendary. For me, Aragorn wouldn’t have worked with anyone else in the role. Viggo is the heart of Middle-earth. [Jinwei Li]

A movie that opens with a man attempting suicide probably should not be considered a comedy, but Castaway on the Moon manages to find both unexpected humor and life-affirming heart in the feeling of purposelessness. We follow Kim Seong-gun (Jung Jae-young) and Kim Jung-yeon (Jung Ryeo-won), two people isolated on their own private moons because they had nowhere else to go. Seong-hun’s is more literal—he washes ashore on a small island within Seoul after his suicide—while Jung-yeon is a shut-in too afraid of the outside world to bother leaving the online one she has created for herself. Nonetheless, the humanity of this film lies within their shared fear of what society has to offer them and their growing connection that proves they may not be as alone as they think. Castaway on the Moon works because of both Jung Jae-young and Jung Ryeo-won’s performances, but Jung Jae-young in particular masters the balance of slapstick and sincerity in his role. His antics on the island are endearingly entertaining, with Jung Jae-young’s physical comedy selling even the more childish jokes. But you’re also slowly watching Seong-gun rediscover his love of life thanks to the simple pleasures like a bowl of black noodles, and that gradual arc would not work without Jung Jae-young at the helm. As his eyes regain their sparkle, all we can wonder as audience members is if we too would be better off if we stopped our complete fixation with the hustle and bustle of everyday living. The practically childlike joy he displays as he becomes attuned to the small moments in life is an incredibly compelling argument. [Amy Kim]

Cold and cynical, Haluk Bilginer is a faux-intellectual as Aydın in Winter Sleep. He operates a hotel business in Cappadocia that he inherited from his father and also owns some properties there. He is rich, powerful, and feared both by the locals and his own family. Bilginer gives this character life with his stone cold and nihilistic acting; he is anti-social, yes, but also so desperate to be liked that you can’t help but feel sorry for him. With Winter Sleep being a 3-hour movie, it is impossible to pinpoint every scene where Bilginer shows off his skill, but there are two key scenes that showcases Bilginer’s acting. In one scene, after Levent—a friend of his much younger wife—invites him for a few drinks, the tipsy man accidentally confronts Aydın about an explorative business practice of his. Aydın is shocked, as this is the first time anyone apart from his wife has said anything to him about this, and Bilginer shows great range by starting the scene scared and stumbling over his words before elevating it by remembering their power dynamic and intimidating Levent. He convincingly conveys the dissonance of this character’s emotions while also acting drunk. But if that wasn’t enough, he has another masterful showcase in the scene where Aydın is writing a book in his office with his sister Necla sitting beside him. In an attempt to undermine his wife’s aid campaign work, Necla states that she never worked a real job in her life and simply married a rich guy off the bat. Aydın gets furious but tries to play it cool by subtly insulting his sister with a demeaning manner. It is this genuine, unfettered cockiness in Bilginer’s acting that makes it hard not to hate Aydın. His ability to craft such an unbearable character while making him entirely believable is an unparalleled one. [Faruk Çetiner]

It takes a truly special performance to be able to appear in only one act of the film and yet still be arguably the most memorable piece of it. It is an even more impressive feat to stand out so heavily when the movie is as masterful as Moonlight is. But somehow, Mahershala Ali manages this. When we first meet the character of Juan, we can see he is a drug dealer but one who seemingly has a heart of gold. He is kind and nurturing to Chiron when so few people in his world seem to be. While the “kind drug dealer” is a role that could have been cliché, Ali’s performance and the script elevate that. One scene in particular is the one that solidifies this performance with all time great status. When little Chiron asks Juan if he is a drug dealer and if his mother is a drug addict, Juan has no choice but to tell him the truth. The look of shame on Ali is heartbreaking. When he cannot even look at Chiron, we are seeing a man who, likely for the first time in his life, is reckoning with the decisions he has made and how they have hurt people. He could have played this over the top, crying and sobbing in an attempt to make his feelings obvious. Instead, the brilliant Ali finds a way to shatter everyone’s emotions even more effectively. It is a moment that has stuck with me like few others in this last century of film. [Zach Ruggiero]

There are so many layers to the greatness of Paul Giamatti’s performance in Alexander Payne’s modern Christmas classic, but there is one particular moment that highlights his magnificence. When Paul (the character) goes to a Christmas party hosted by a fellow teacher who he may have feelings for, he spends a long time talking to her. In this conversation, you can see real happiness in him for what feels like the first time in the whole movie. You even hope that this lovable curmudgeon has finally found something to smile about. But when she excuses herself from the conversation as her boyfriend arrives at the party, you see Paul’s face drop. Every emotion he is feeling is perfectly conveyed by Giamatti, and you immediately understand so much about this character. He may be brilliant, and he may put up the facade that he prefers to spend his time by himself, but this man is profoundly sad and lonely. For one brief fleeting conversation, he allowed himself to have hope for a human connection that had been absent in his life for God knows how long, and in an even briefer moment, that hope leaves him entirely. It is an excellent performance filled with other instant classic scenes brought to life by Giamatti, but none may be more heartbreaking and revealing than that simple, wordless expression. [Zach Ruggiero]

Picking a favorite Julianne Moore performance is as difficult as picking your favorite child. Throughout her celebrated career, she has played a variety of great roles both supporting and lead and displayed her talent in both indie and commercial spaces for three decades now. Her career highlight, however, would undoubtedly be one of her many performances with frequent collaborator Todd Haynes. Yet in an incredible lineup of defining turns, Far From Heaven stands out as the best. Portraying the tired trope of a lonely housewife, Moore brings so much life to a seemingly empty archetype. She not only captures the charm that the originators of such roles had, but finds a far deeper nuance to this stereotype that makes you reevaluate its entire perception. The loneliness that emanates from every frame she possesses sinks deep within your soul. Yet despite her character’s sadness, Moore brings so much warmth to her performance that it shines the brightest in her storied catalogue. [Ben Langford]

It is easy to dismiss Reese Witherspoon’s performance in Legally Blonde as a ditzy humorous one that’s not much of a feat compared to the more dramatic performances that populate this list. But to do so is to blatantly ignore the messaging of the film. Intelligent women in the media are rarely portrayed as feminine, as their aversion to “girliness” is part of what makes their competence understandable. It’s an outdated point of view, but we are nonetheless conditioned to see femininity as lesser-than. In Legally Blonde, Witherspoon is well aware of our perception of Elle Woods and is unafraid to cater to our expectations for an easy laugh (though Elle is crucially never the butt of the joke). For her comedic prowess and instantly iconic line readings alone, she would more than earn a spot on this list. Every inflection builds on a character that is one of the most recognizable of the century. However, behind Elle’s gleaming eyes and seeming naïveté is a deep desire to be taken seriously, and Witherspoon conveys this duality with ease. It is what makes the narrative crux of this film pay off; the ending would feel hollow if you didn’t initially brush off Elle as a romantic in over her head before slowly realizing how capable she truly is. Witherspoon has an absolute blast playing with our assumptions and subverting them delightfully in one of the great comedic performances of the century. [Amy Kim]

When Albert Serra's 2022 film, Pacifiction, premiered in Cannes, few could have expected the true subject underlying the deceptive premise. Helmed by Benoît Magimel as the seemingly composed French ambassador De Roller, whose duplicitous agreements and complex manoeuvrings across Tahiti defaults him as the most powerful official on the island, the film explores France's dynamic with colonialism through its shatteringly fragile protagonist. When rumblings of nuclear testing reach the shores of French Polynesia, De Roller is forced to assuage the locals while reckoning with the unsettling realities of the unknown himself. This worrisome detail begins to unravel De Roller’s self-imposed façade in the island, and his desperate attempts to solipsistically save face begin to control him mentally. Covered in the signature off-white suit, whose faded sheen serves as a motif of the French's loosening grip on control, Magimel continues to stun in his transformation into the French ambassador. His towering build and complexion visually contrasts with the native Tahitians, symbolically representing the film's themes of the fading but everlasting effects of European colonisation. The conceptual provocation coming at the culmination of Western white history and traditional indigenous cultures is so effective primarily because of Magimel's central role and his tightrope balance of illusory comfort and Hail Mary desperation. It is the crux of why the film is so effective in its evocation. [Hagen Seah]

There are so many ways to discuss a performance as bleak and devastating as Emmanuelle Riva in Amour that unpacking it in a mere paragraph seems futile. In her Oscar-nominated turn under the guidance of Michael Haneke, Riva plays an elderly woman who has a stroke and consequently, her health begins to rapidly decay. In classic Haneke fashion, the film is a brutal watch. However, unlike his other films, this intensity stems not from violence or perversion but from the raw depiction of everything mental and physical lost in this woman’s final days. It feels like a horror film at times in its grueling capture of the experience of aging and beginning your descent towards the end. And like the best horror films, the humanity of the direction and the core performances are what make it so effective. Yet Riva is so raw and plays each stage of her character’s descent so viscerally that Amour also manages to feel like a documentary. Neither the film nor Riva holds back, as the audience is forced to witness and empathize with her character’s pain throughout. Her performance is heartbreaking and at points horrifying, but always sincerely human, which makes the film’s ending hurt all that much more. [Ben Langford]

Lars Von Trier’s portrayal of female sex addiction, trauma, and the intense depression caused by it in Nymphomaniac could've easily become trauma porn. Honestly, it very nearly is, but the film is saved by the tenderness and humanity found within star and narrator Charlotte Gainsbourg. His two-parter film follows Joe (Gainsbourg) as she recounts her years of sex addiction to an older man named Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård), who takes her in after he finds her beaten and bloody. The film relies on the conversation between Joe and Seligman, as well as flashbacks of both older and younger Joe (Stacy Martin). The experiences of Joe almost reach exploitation status, nearly becoming too miserable to watch, but Gainsbourg and Martin treat the character like a regular human being. She is hurt by the events of her life, but they don't make her any less deserving of sympathy or any less of a human. Charlotte portrays Joe as promiscuous, of course, but also deeply confused, depressed, assertive, and even utterly deplorable! Yet she never loses sight of the humanity and the sympathy of the character. She inflicts violence upon herself, inflicts violence upon others in her former position, deals with pain that is truly never seen in film, and even has some great argument scenes with Seligman and the other various characters appearing on Joe’s road to society-inflicted self-destruction. There are many morally grey characters in cinema, but Charlotte Gainsbourg understands that while Joe may perform morally reprehensible actions, she is also a product of the deep misogyny and abuse of women within society. Watching Charlotte Gainsbourg in Nymphomaniac is deeply uncomfortable, but she never treats her character as a cautionary tale. Instead, Joe is a reminder of the darkest parts of existence that women rarely open up about… and of Gainsbourg’s consistent fearlessness as an actress. [Aaron Isenstein]

Kristen Wiig is a comedy legend. In Bridesmaids, she creates Annie, a chaotic, wildly insecure ex-baker whose life is held together by denial, sarcasm, and a stubborn refusal to accept that it’s all falling apart. She is not polished or poised. She is someone who crumbles when other people look effortlessly happy. Her jealousy is constant, her self-esteem barely functional, and her default mode to fake strength while quietly unraveling inside. Wiig gives Annie layers that are often left out of female-led comedies. She lets her be plain. She lets her be bitter. She lets her spiral when faced with someone like Helen, who represents everything Annie fears she is not. Annie tries to compete, knowing full well she has already lost, and the result is a series of public humiliations that sting because they feel so familiar. She lashes out when she should stay quiet. She rejects love out of fear, convinced that if she reaches for it, it will disappear. Every poor choice comes from a place of fear and pride, and Wiig captures that with unsettling precision. The brilliance of the performance lives in her physical comedy. The airplane meltdown, the bridal shop body fluid disaster, the increasingly unhinged engagement party toast… Her 97.5% fake Spanish alone belongs in a museum. Wiig commits fully, letting Annie spiral with glazed eyes and manic energy until the comedy starts to ache a little. Whenever I feel low, I rewatch Bridesmaids. It has become my faithful emotional stabilizer, and so much of that is thanks to Wiig’s gut-bustingly hilarious performance. I laugh and cry with Annie, and together we take the first step forward again. [Jinwei Li]

Doctor Sleep is a film that deserves a lot more appreciation, and years later, it is finally emerging as a cult classic. It truly is one of the most fearless horror films of the 21st century, potentially even topping Kubrick's original The Shining. None of it would work quite as well as it does though without Rebecca Ferguson as the villain Rose the Hat. Ferguson makes this character so endearing, and it is clear from her performance why people are so drawn into her cult. She is incredibly charismatic and beautiful, but at her core, Ferguson evokes sheer terror as her character seeks to destroy everything in her path until she has total control. She chews up every second of screen-time she has, to the point where Doctor Sleep is undeniably her film. It is a true movie star performance that has left me incredibly enthralled by everything she does as an actor. [Tom Brinson]

I am convinced this role should have been an impossible task. Any actor in their right mind should have refused it. The character of Mikey Davies, or Mikey Saber if you prefer, is a truly reprehensible man. He is a selfish narcissist who charms those around him into letting him into their lives before absolutely ruining them for his own gain. The central plotline of this movie is him convincing a 17-year-old girl to follow him to LA and start a career in the porn industry. How is this a comedy again? But somehow, it works! And while some of that is credit to how well Sean Baker controls tone, most of the pressure is on Simon Rex’s performance here. He embodies this character so well that the audience is charmed into being able to laugh at his broad comedic actions in the first half. His fast-talking, down on his luck, conman schtick is one we have all seen before, but Rex energizes it and makes it his own. He then sells this persona just as well when his character’s actions grow more and more deplorable and the full depth of his depravity is put on display. Not one bit of this should be watchable, yet Red Rocket is somehow one of the funniest, most uncomfortably brilliant comedies of the whole decade. It is not a film or performance for everyone, but if you can stomach this behavior from a protagonist in a comedic film—while recognizing that his behavior is of course not being endorsed—you will come away with an appreciation for the impossibly difficult task pulled off by the star. [Zach Ruggiero]

Many horror films use the tired trope where the protagonist sees the danger in a situation but contemplates it rather than run away, only to die from it moments later. Ari Aster’s Hereditary is not an ordinary horror film, though, and ultimately sets itself apart thanks to its subversion of this trope. Well, thanks to that and the work of its lead Toni Collette, an actress who amazes with a performance that could not be more visceral. She plays Annie Graham, a mother who recently lost her child but is given an opportunity to see her one more time that is somehow more nefarious than you would expect from a horror film. There is no word that better encapsulates this performance than devastating. The howl she lets out as soon as she learns about the tragedy is disturbingly haunting. Afterwards, there is a 2-minute sequence that solely consists of her crying that exemplifies the gravity of this performance. She goes to many emotional transitions that are radical yet painfully believable. She goes from reason to madness without losing her verisimilitude. It is difficult to watch her go through the many emotions that a loss of this magnitude implicates. Her deterioration is evident, yet her actions stay true to her character. When she is faced with this one chance of temporary regression, it is completely understandable that she contemplates it. Not only is the “too dumb to live” trope subverted, but it effectively generates agony and horror thanks to Collette’s magnificent performance that has to be one of the best we’ve seen in this genre. [Mariano Venegas]

A character struggling through illness is one of the hardest roles someone can take on. There is a whole new mindset and physical pattern that one adopts when their life is changed by sickness. But the condition Magaly Solier’s Fausta suffers through in The Milk of Sorrow is perhaps the most complicated one for an actor to portray; her sickness is not only fictional but more of a metaphorical condition, a spiritual illness that sits deeply in her practically wordless performance. Fausta has the titular Milk of Sorrow sickness, a condition in Peru passed from the breast milk of a woman who had been raped or abused during the war in Peru. Fausta is left with a crippling fear of men and being violated, leading her to place a potato in her genitals just to scare them away. Fausta serves as a representation of both her own generational trauma and of an entire generation traumatized in response to never ending sexual violence. While Solier may not be given the most to say, her performance carries an incredibly powerful internal pain. She is grieving her mother while attempting to support herself and her family and living in constant fear. Her work is a haunting reminder of the lasting impacts of sexual violence, done so in a miraculously sensitive way. [Aaron Isenstein]

There’s a fruit-like cycle to love where it grows and ripens, but with the wrong and sometimes even the right people, that spark can rot as quickly as it appeared. In Richard Linklater’s The Before Trilogy we follow that trajectory of love between Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (the magnetic Julie Delpy). In the second installment, Before Sunset, the feelings are at their heart-breaking and pulse-pounding peak, and Delpy matches with the single best performance in this masterpiece of a trilogy. This middle chapter follows these two reconnecting after their chance meeting nine years before. The two are older and more experienced yet yearn to go back to the young puppy love they shared in the previous film. While picking between Hawke and Delpy’s performances in the film is akin to picking between one’s children, Delpy brings an excitement that puts us in the conflicted shoes of the more apathetic Hawke. By the end of the film, with Delpy’s incredibly simple final line, it sinks in that this once brief and fleeting connection is one that is inescapable. The inevitability of their connection is propelled by the charm, depth and intellect Delpy brings to Celine, which makes both Hawke and the audience not want their love to end. [Ben Langford]

In La Chimera, Josh O’Connor plays Arthur, a man who can sense the presence of ancient tombs buried beneath the Etruscan earth. He travels with a gang of grave robbers, each driven by greed or thrill. But Arthur moves differently. He’s searching not for treasure, but for traces of a lost love. O’Connor is perfectly cast. His quiet, crumpled elegance fits this world of dust and dreams. His performance is physical, delicate, and weighted with memory. He speaks little, but every silence glows with meaning. There’s a reverence in the way he walks through ruins, as if chasing divinity in the dirt. O’Connor anchors it with restraint and grace. His Arthur is a thief with the soul of a poet, a man shaped by longing. The film itself is a miracle. Alice Rohrwacher crafts a timeless, transcendent journey that feels both folkloric and immediate. Her vision of Italy in the eyes of Arthur has that sun-soaked, cracked, mysterious quality. It’s a love letter to the land, to myth, to all the things that remain just out of reach. And I fell head over heels thanks to the one-two punch of Rohrwacher’s mesmerizing direction and O’Connor’s anchoring performance. [Jinwei Li]

The term "Quo vadis", which has its roots in the story of Saint Peter denying his affiliation with Jesus, is often used to signify the questioning of one's purpose moving forward in a particular situation. Although these words are left unspoken, this is the primary idea driving Aida’s (Jasna Đuričić) journey in the film Quo vadis, Aida?. Focused on the Srebrenica genocide, Jasmila Žbanić's film centres its narrative around Aida, a former teacher turned U.N. translator who trapped in the centre of the most devastating and preventable conflict in Eastern Europe. Here, she is the mouthpiece for both the U.N. forces deployed to de-escalate the situation and the helpless officials on Bosnian territory who are searching for an end to the violent Bosnian war. Aida herself is in a conflict of her own: though she is protected by the officials due to her status as one of few translators, she must fight these U.N. officials who are unwilling to extend their protection to her family. Žbanić portrays the situation without blaming either side of the war, instead targeting the sheer incompetence and inefficiency of the United Nations, who failed to protect the citizens they were deployed to help. The silent anger at the organisation can be deeply felt due to Đuričić's powerful performance, where she pleads with all her might to save her family. Her eyes do a lot of the conversing, watering and staring hopelessly into an abyss of war and tragedy, while her words are forced to the complete opposite as she translates false hope down to the Bosnian individuals in the safety zone. It is a powerhouse performance by a woman who knows the tragedy too well to think she can make a serious difference. In a war, no one wins, not even those who survive. [Hagen Seah]

Octavia Spencer’s performance in Ma is a ferocious fever dream that explodes with chaotic brilliance in an instant camp classic. As the lead character, Sue Ann, she comes to life with her deliciously deranged charisma. Every sinister grin and pointed glare is a masterclass in acting. Even Sue Ann’s battered car pulses with personality, surpassing the appeal of any flashy Mercedes, becoming a menacing yet oddly charming character itself. The sight of Spencer cruising through town in that vehicle, eyes glittering with unhinged intent, is an unmatched cinematic triumph. Yet beneath the layers of hilarious absurdity, Spencer offers an unexpected, unsettling depth, turning camp into twisted poignancy. Her portrayal balances madness with genuine melancholy and has you flipping between laughter and dread with every other line. It’s no wonder Ma has stood the test of time as perhaps the camp horror movie of the 21st century. What film could stand a chance against Spencer’s devilish line deliveries and instantly iconic facial expressions? [Jinwei Li]

On the A24 podcast, Julio Torres and Emma Stone once reminisced about the time Torres wrote an SNL skit inspired by Nicole Kidman in Birth. It was about a woman who has a slow-motion mental breakdown because she has an intense emotional connection to her fine silver and can hear its pain during a dinner party. Stone unfortunately didn’t “Nicole enough” and the skit was scrapped, but hey, we’ll always have Nicole Kidman in Birth. As Anna, Kidman boldly asks what an ostensibly modern, realistic human being who believes in the physical truths of the universe would do if presented with seemingly irrefutable proof their deceased husband had been reincarnated as a young boy and was now seeking their favor. The answer, understandably, is to go absolutely crazy. Birth makes plain the fragility of human reason, emotion, planning, and sweet pleasantries in the face of the profound mystery of the universe. We see Kidman go from complete rationality to wholehearted embrace of the mystical slowly and indefinitely. Yet the progression, in all of its fantastical insanity, can only be perceived as grounded and genuine. We, as humans, want nothing more than a true miracle. Morals go out the window, tangible human relationships risk being destroyed, and Anna nearly lets go of her sanity altogether in pursuit of this impossible, beautiful possibility of life and love undying. It’s too good to be true, but Kidman commits so deeply to this tonal magic trick. Arguably never before has a film been so firmly on the line between everyday human pragmatism and the completely and incomprehensibly divine. The tone is almost impossible to process. Is it cheesy? Is it profound? Likelier than not, it’s neither and a truly frank portrait of a woman in an impossible situation. Kidman is left in a perpetual state of moral confusion and existential disbelief, and every millisecond of her undying internal conflict is laid bare. She is completely untethered and adrift, not in the outward sense, but in the spiritual. The final moments of the film really bring home the stunning emotional tour de force of her performance. At once, every moment of impossibility collides, and we are left to pick up the pieces with her. [Skyler Powers]

The main character (Amira Casar) of notorious director Catherine Breillat’s Anatomy of Hell is not a character at all, to the point she is never given a name save for “The Woman”. Rather, she is the mouthpiece for what can read as a radical feminist manifesto. Her existence is meant to represent all women in an age-old philosophical debate. The plot of the film is deceptively simple: The Woman attempts to kill herself in a club before she’s stopped by “The Man” (adult film star Rocco Siffredi). She then asks him to spend a week in her house, purely to watch her when she’s “unwatchable”. The next 70 minutes are a push and pull of painful sexuality and conversations about misogyny. In her performance, Casar has to give politically charged monologues whilst simultaneously trying to convey the weight of every woman harmed by sexism ever. She must remain stoic whilst violating acts are performed on her body and violating words are spoken to her and about her gender. Her performance is incredibly enigmatic and hard to look away from because she alternates between being gleeful with her conversations and carrying the crushing weight of what she’s actually saying. She is conditioned to feel shame for her body’s functions rather than to feel disgust for the misogyny that The Man inflicts upon her both emotionally and physically. The sheer weight of Amira Casar’s performance makes it one of the most unique pieces of acting of the 21st century. She is representing all women and a massive political statement as one actress, and that alone cements her spot on this list. [Aaron Isenstein]

Close is one of the most tender yet devastating films of the 2020s, and it owes very little of that feat to its actual writing. A film that could easily be viewed as emotionally manipulative and even exploitative of queer pain is elevated greatly thanks to the strength of its lead. Eden Dambrine conveys so much with a look, capturing an entire lifetime of his character’s love, fear, and confusion in an angry glance. Crucial to this film is the dynamic between Leo and his best friend Remi: whether you interpret it as healthy male friendship or an innocent budding romance, it is vital that you care about their relationship enough to be enraged by the pressure to conform that society imposes on them. Thankfully, Dambrine has immense chemistry with the nearly as great Gustav de Waele, with every scene the two share feeling timeless but subtly heartbreaking. The ambiguity of his expressions truly make the film: Leo is made as curious about the nature of his relationship with Remi as the audience is, and his attempts at normalizing it in the eyes of his peers, and thus, in his own eyes are painfully understandable. None of this works if Dambrine cannot give some light to that conflict without giving it entirely away. Though the film dips too far into melodrama in its second half, his quiet depiction of guilt grounds the film and adds numerous layers to the story told on-screen. In the hands of a lesser actor, Close becomes nearly unwatchable with its blatant attempts at making the audience cry. But in Dambrine’s hands, it becomes a heartfelt and almost authentic exploration of the precious and fragile nature of youth friendships. [Amy Kim]

Tahar Rahim’s performance in Alpha is a rare convergence of physical extremity and philosophical depth. He offers himself as a vessel, embodying the slow corrosion of a soul in collapse. Emaciated, trembling, and translucent with pain, he becomes the human equivalent of a nervous system declining. Like in Infinite Jest, where addiction is both escape and trap, Rahim’s character exists in a state of suspended withdrawal from the meaning itself. He is caught in a kind of metaphysical detox, confronting the body as both his prison and his only remaining proof of existence. His portrayal isn’t merely about suffering; it’s about the unbearable awareness of suffering, the way consciousness clings to itself when it has nowhere left to go. Alpha mirrors this philosophical unease. Rahim reminds us that the most radical gesture is to remain fully present in agony, and to render that presence with nothing but truth. [Jinwei Li]

Comedic performances matter! While I wanted to write about both Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly in Stepbrothers (for my money, the pound-for-pound funniest film of the century), the powers that be told me I could only pick one. Both are unbelievably hilarious, but we already knew Ferrell could crush it as a comedic lead working with the great Adam McKay. However, Reilly’s ability to match Ferrell at his own game during the peak of his powers and even surpass him in a few scenes is the more impressive achievement. He has previously had humorous scene-stealing supporting performances, but Reilly’s ability to lead a film alongside one of this era’s titans of comedy and absolutely crush it was nothing short of inspiring. He not only matches Ferrell’s energy, but sometimes even exceeds it, though crucially never to the point where their performances are out of sync. Reilly’s comedic prowess in Stepbrothers is an incredibly satisfying feat to behold, especially for those of us who loved him in films like Boogie Nights and knew he had this in him. After all, when his performance features scenes where he raps and plays the drums on a song entitled “Boats and Hoes” and wrestles Will Ferrell to the ground for rubbing his testicles on his drum kit, there is no arguing that this is the defining role of his career. [Zach Ruggiero]

Wes Anderson struck gold with The Grand Budapest Hotel both awards-wise and acting-wise. His first collaboration with Ralph Fiennes gave the actor the opportunity to showcase his acting prowess in front of the whole world. Ralph steps into the shoes of Monsieur Gustave, a seemingly superficial and eccentric man. Initially, Fiennes plays into the archetype of a rich man with pointless concerns, but he subverts the trope meaningfully and poignantly with the help of Anderson’s trademark irreverent comedy. He has an impressive command of comedic timing, absurd delivery, and landing punch lines, making him perfectly suited to Wes Anderson's fast-paced style. His way of speaking is overly polite to the point of being comical but never loses its genuineness. Fiennes himself follows a precise composition; he acts like a period butler and follows precise movements that contrast and add more power to the absurdity of the story. Yet he adds an unexpected emotional charge: Gustave’s deep melancholy. He has lived a long time and seen so much but nonetheless sustains a depressing loneliness. He longs for a human connection that he finally finds with Zero. Though he may initially seem emotionally distant and out-of-touch, Fiennes characterizes him in such an endearing and relatable way that he enthralls us while making us die of laughter. [Mariano Venegas]

What does it mean to live a life? In Edward Yang's swan song, Yi Yi, he attempts to tackle this question in the development and exploration of a family in Taiwan whose matriarch is slowly deteriorating. Wu Nien-jen plays the father figure in the film, who rests as the solemn and internalised figure in contrast to his histrionic wife; he is the textbook East Asian dad who is out of touch with his emotions. Wu is primarily known as a screenwriter, and his most acclaimed work was actually A Borrowed Life, a film he directed in the 1990s named by Martin Scorsese as the best of the decade. Though not primarily known as an actor, he embodies the role seamlessly, encouraged by the minutia of ordinary mundane life whilst trying to deal with the difficulties of balancing family and work life. Scenes of him interacting with his colleagues during lunch can be felt through his occupied facial expressions, something clearly troubling his mind but austere enough to handle it by himself. There is no outburst on his end, but the slow accumulation of small inconsequential problems in his life pile up and build in the subtle expressions and body tics in his work. It is a juxtaposition of Western ideals where conflict builds to a climax; here, conflict is a naturally occurring element of everyday life. Wu Nien-jen's performance is an exemplary piece of the broader film, in that he unearths the spirit of life in accepting every difficulty as it happens to him, not in a filmic ideal of climax and resolution. For life is not just one big plot mountain, but a cycle of rebirth and death. [Hagen Seah]

Despite not being the protagonist, Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) is the embodiment of Almost Famous. Her entrance alone says it all. Aspiring music journalist William Miller (Patrick Fugit) bangs on the doors of the backstage, begging to be let in. An angelic voice from behind catches his attention, and we are introduced to the object of desire in Cameron Crowe's nostalgia-driven portrait of his youth. Following the lives of several drug-addled, party-driven musicians, Almost Famous thrives on its lack of specificity in the narrative details. Everything feels like a haze; Crowe desperately conjures up his memories of the past, and thus every character feels equally detailed and fuzzy. As the subject of Miller’s article, fictional band Stillwater, led by its lead singer Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup), inevitably brings about wild moments. However, behind every scene, Lane's omniscient presence anchors the film. Hudson's approach to the character may come off as flippant, but it's the exact opposite of her façade that makes her so enigmatic. Hudson's breakout role was a success, making her charisma obvious to anyone who saw the film. Despite Penny Lane ostensibly having no talent, talent flock to her not in lust, but in admiration. Her unknowable persona conceals a difficult past, but her charisma dissuades anyone from pursuing it further. She conjures the attention of everyone around her, and finds characters their resolutions without ever being an overbearing presence. Simply put, the film does not work without her, and the weight its emotional finale bears is thanks to her herculean effort. [Hagen Seah]

There is a silent pain in womanhood, in being penalized for your own biology and existence. Audrey Diwan’s Golden Lion winning drama Happening is set in 1963 France, where promising young student Anne (Anamaria Vartolomei) finds herself in an unspoken war with misogynistic, anti-abortion laws after she falls pregnant. Anne’s decision is impossible for most women of her era: either to give up her future and dreams of graduating from school to raise a child she doesn’t feel ready for, or to risk the 10 year prison sentence for an illegal abortion and the potentially fatal side effects of the procedure. For Anne, the decision is easy, and she asks for the abortion without hesitation. However, when she’s reminded of the legal consequences, it sends the girl down a spiral of mentally and physically traumatizing events. Thanks to Anamaria Vartolomei’s performance, Anne transforms from a political statement to a fully-fledged character. Anne is certainly no easy role to portray, as she endures extended scenes of graphic abortion procedure and miscarriage, but the scenes of Anne quietly suffering makes the performance easily sympathetic, like a real girl that we all could’ve known. Anne is mocked by her classmates for being promiscuous before she’s even pregnant, hurt by every man in her life that thinks they know what’s better for her body than herself, and forced to keep a potentially fatal secret from her parents that cannot understand her. Despite the loud, flinch-worthy pain Vartolomei shows in the two scenes of graphic violence, it’s the quiet weight of her own fate that hurts the most in the rest of the film. Ultimately, Anne has made her decision, and she is willing to face the consequences. Vartolomei carries herself with the crushing pain needed to be in such a dangerous situation whilst also creating a fully-fledged character with real depth and likability. Anne is not just a woman facing trauma, and she has Vartolomei’s stupendous performance and the film’s remarkable writing to thank for it. [Aaron Isenstein]

Paula Beer’s performance in Undine is quiet, clear, and mysteriously affecting. She plays a woman who lives between two states of being: an urban historian and a water spirit. From the very beginning, you can sense that her calm surface holds something much older and deeper underneath. Even when she’s giving a lecture about Berlin’s urban planning, her voice carries a strange intimacy, as if memory and emotion are bleeding into every street, bridge, and layer of history she describes. Her emotions rise and fall with a natural rhythm, giving the film a personal, urban, and ancient layer rich in interpretation. There’s something gently mythic about her presence: serene yet haunted, fragile but rooted in something immovable. Through her, the film becomes more than a modern fairy tale. She turns it into a quiet reflection on what it means to belong, to be forgotten, to lose, and to love briefly but completely. [Jinwei Li]

Tarantino is known as a filmmaker who brings the best out of his actors, and one can certainly argue Django Unchained as being his most impressive ensemble. Christoph Waltz won the Oscar, but many would argue there are at least two better performances than him, and that’s before even mentioning Jamie Foxx as the titular character. The two performances that seem to have lasting legacies are the villainous turns from DiCaprio and Samuel L Jackson. Either one would be a very respectable pick for a list like this, but with each viewing, Jackson’s work as Stephen stands out more and more as the most compelling of the bunch. The character may be a slave, but the audience quickly picks up that it is only in name and that he is the true brains of Calvin Candie’s operation. You do not learn a lot about his backstory, but Jackson’s performance tells you all you need to know about how this man got into this position. He loudly laughs at all of Candie’s jokes before turning and menacing the other slaves to keep them in line, and Jackson sells all of it perfectly. His mannerisms as he quickly sees through and tears down Django’s trickery of Candie are nothing short of terrifying. While DiCaprio’s villainy is all loud and external, Jackson is something even more frightening: a man who would sell anyone out in a second if it meant securing his position. When he gives that monologue to a captive Django, it is the pinnacle of Jackson’s storied career. [Zach Ruggiero]

From her vacant stare to her effortless suave, it is clear that Kim Ki-Jung (Park So-dam) is different from the rest of her family. As her brother Ki-woo puts it while in a drunken stupor: the extravagance of the Park family’s lifestyle actually suits her. For much of Parasite, Park So-dam carries Ki-jung with a confidence and poise that leaves us bewildered: how does someone so cunning and natural in the world of the wealthy nonetheless find herself living in a basement, forced to sit next to her toilet in order to get Wi-Fi access? Ki-jung’s act manages to convince even the audience that a life of luxury is one that she deserves. Yet, when the Kim family’s schemes catch up with them, and they’re met with a literal and metaphorical deluge of issues, Ki-jung’s cool demeanor is wiped away. Instead, we’re left with a girl who can’t conceive of a life without the comfort of a well-executed plan to keep her afloat. Park So-dam masters this transition with ease, setting the stage for her character’s ultimate fate. The duality of Ki-jung versus “Jessica” is conveyed expertly in that it is only in pivotal moments that you can see how much of both personas is an act. It is thanks to both Park So-dam’s masterful performance and Bong Joon-ho’s Oscar-winning script that Ki-jung manages to be such a compellingly standout character in a cast full of powerhouse performances. [Amy Kim]

Spiritual sensitivity and emotional honesty are the foundation of Adèle Exarchopoulos’s performance in The Five Devils. She plays a mother who holds a hidden past, and in the film, her story threads together the past and the future. Her character Joanne carries a quiet sense of solitude, and Adèle expresses this with restraint and control. The pain she shows is steady, delicately revealed in her stillness and the tension behind her eyes. What defines her performance is the natural rhythm of emotion. She allows feelings to emerge gradually, through glances, silences, and physical presence. The emotional weight she brings is calm yet intense. It grounds the more surreal elements of the film and adds a strong, mystical, human layer. Adèle lets the character exist as someone shaped by memory and regret with her intimate and precise portrayal. And in the magical way only she can, Adèle finds the nuances in between every line as she brings Joanne to life. [Jinwei Li]

Polish filmmaker Andrzej Żuławski has a reputation both for the typically deranged nature of his films and for the sheer quality of the work he got from his lead actresses using intense, borderline insane methods. But after 16 years of marriage and two collaborations together, Sophie Marceau and Żuławski made their last feature together directly before divorcing: Fidelity. The film reads as his most tender, his least focused on the demented and the unsettling. Instead, it is a simple drama about a woman named Cléia, the man she’s supposed to love, and the photographic voyeurism she practices as a coping mechanism. Sophie’s Clélia isn’t going through supernatural horrors like his other characters, but is instead a normal woman stuck in the crossroads between her truth as a sexually free woman and a promise she made to a man she does not love. There are moments of tenderness between Cléia and her dying mother, moments of intensity when Cléia breaks down from the constant torment of her life, and moments of freedom where she allows herself to give in to her desires despite her husband’s wishes. A good portion of the film revolves around Marceau and her camera, her lens of seeing the world, as she tries to make some sense of what she wants in her relationships. She breaks down in the street, asserts her dominance with the men in her workforce, and feels the highs and lows of a toxic relationship and the love of voyeurism. The ending scene in particular watches Cléia come to terms with her changing life, the fact that she also wasn't the only one with a camera, and the idea that her actions may not have been perceived well by others. Marceau expertly plays confident, sexual, distraught, but still fully human in every messy form of the word. The dynamic between Marceau and her camera feels strikingly similar to that between the actor and the filmmaker at hand. And even when Żuławaski leans into his own madness in the last act, Marceau remains utterly Cléia, a woman in control of her own body but not her own life. [Aaron Isenstein]

Portraying a vengeful monster without relying on clichés or removing any trace of humanity is an arduous task, yet Yoo Ji-tae is able to transform himself flawlessly nonetheless in Oldboy. After being kidnapped 15 years ago and getting released out of the blue, Oh Dae-su (Choi Min-sik) makes it his mission to find the man responsible for his suffering and exact his revenge. His captor is Lee Woo-jin (Yoo Ji-tae), who exudes sheer hatred from the moment he is introduced. But his hate is calculated; it wears the facade of calm while uncontrollable anger simmers underneath. When Dae-su puts a knife to his neck, he is understandably a bit frightened, but he has the comfort of his irresistible plan to torment Dae-su further. So he smiles, speaks softly, relaxes his face, and talks Dae-su into pursuing his ultimate demise. These simple actions manipulate Dae-su into playing right into Woo-jin’s hands while convincing the audience that he is sincerely unwell. Yet Yoo Ji-tae bottles the bulk of Woo-jin’s fury and depravity up for most of the film… until he delivers his explosive monologue that uncorks Woo-jin’s pent-up resentment and delusion. He demonstrates his acting range expertly, going from a subtle but eerie smile to a menacing scream with the flick of a switch. What Yoo Ji-tae understands so clearly is that what makes Woo-jin so terrifying is the fact that he has a heart. He cares so wholly about the events that happened in his past that he allows those negative emotions to consume him; he is so corrupted by his need for revenge that he becomes this disgustingly human and bloodcurdlingly vengeful monster. [Faruk Çetiner]

Playing an addict is perhaps one of the most challenging tightropes an actor can walk. While it is an archetype oft-used in film, it is so commonly used in an absurd and exaggerated way that is frankly offensive. This makes Anders Danielsen Lie’s performance in Oslo, August 31st all the more striking and memorable, positioning him squarely in the conversation for the best performances of this century. A frequent collaborator with the film’s director Joachim Trier, Lie takes up practically every frame of this film, capturing both the experience of an addict but also the mere experience of being human. He balances the darkness that understandably pushes people away with the sadness that keeps him empathetic so perfectly, keeping every turn the film takes very gripping and often hard to watch. Lie puts on a striking, earnest performance that is perhaps the highlight of Trier’s celebrated career. [Ben Langford]

The femme fatale has been a longstanding trope in cinema; this idea of a mysterious woman who shockingly has her own agenda is one that has honestly been done to death. But in Decision to Leave, Tang Wei is hypnotizing yet full of pathos as Song Seo-rae, a widow and murder suspect with a troubled past. Seo-rae is as initially inscrutable to us as she is to Detective Jang Hae-jun (Park Hae-il), the man investigating the murder case of her husband. Yet Tang Wei’s performance lures both you and Hae-jun in, as you can neither make sense of her motives nor look away from her for a moment. If she just played a femme fatale, Tang Wei could honestly still make this list with her complex gazes and subtle smiles. However, there is a tragedy to Seo-rae, a woman who has sought nothing but safety her entire life and has never found it. As easy as it is to be cynical about Seo-rae’s romance with Hae-jun, Tang Wei conveys a restrained euphoria with every scene they share, as if their connection is too good to be true. The pain her character has experienced in the past is implied by her refusal to play her love straight, and Tang Wei’s expressions give Seo-rae a history that the text intentionally keeps at arm’s length from us. By the end of the film, it is difficult to not get swept up in the tragedy that is Song Seo-rae and empathize deeply with a character that we initially see as a mere object of intrigue for the protagonist. Beyond a trope, beyond even a character depicted on screen, Tang Wei makes you feel for Seo-rae as a person despite her enigmatic personality. That is the power of her performance. [Amy Kim]

There is tremendous power in the voice. It can turn even the gloomiest stage into one full of life and emotion. Denzel Washington has always been renowned for the might of his voice, and he puts this on full display in Joel Coen's adaptation of The Tragedy of Macbeth. Shakespeare’s language can be inaccessible when adapted if the audience lacks proper understanding of the source material. Thankfully, not only does Coen convincingly bring this story to life, but his actors master the dialogue to a T. Out of this outstanding cast, though, it is Washington who lives and breathes Macbeth. His portrayal of this tyrant is precise yet unnerving as he crawls into the skin of this magnificent character driven by ambition and the pursuit of power. His desire for the throne is expressed swiftly thanks to Washington’s every mannerism and intonation. He delivers each line with power, imbuing the language with clear meaning despite its complexity. Washington's imposing and commanding voice adds so much emotion and fluidity to the dark, somber and minimalist approach to the classic legend. It makes Macbeth’s slow and tragic transition to madness all the more convincing. His performance is gradually unraveling yet constantly captivating. Shakespearean performances are always interesting to see how they unfold. It is the mastery of the source material and the vocal power that makes this not only one of the best Shakespearean performances, but one of the most impressive performances of the century. [Mariano Venegas]

Just by pure number of films, Jason Statham is one of the most prevalent action stars of our time. Yet no one ever truly considers him as a serious, talented actor due to the types of roles and films he is in. It is true that he tends to play the same character in every film, many of which are not particularly good, but Crank: High Voltage demonstrates that Jason Statham is one of the very best at what he does. It may not be a serious drama, but it takes the Statham action formula to the extreme to show just how committed he is. In the film, he plays a man who needs constant energy and electricity to survive. He does so many insane things throughout the film, whether it’s connecting electricity bolts to his tongue, having sex in the middle of a sports field, and lighting himself on fire. In the hands of any other actor, this might fall flat, but for Statham it’s a walk in the park. The way he commits so much to the bit is simply electric to watch, showcasing just how much Statham can shine when given an intense, no holds barred role. [Tom Brinson]

The “biopic” performance is one that has garnered an outsized amount of attention from awards bodies and an air of skepticism from film fans. It’s not very exciting to constantly see a well-known actor do a voice and put on pounds of prosthetics to portray a well-known figure and win an Oscar, after all. But Judas and the Black Messiah is no ordinary biopic, and Daniel Kaluuya’s performance is far from typical. Rather than a cradle-to-grave tale that glosses over Fred Hampton’s life, it chooses to be a sleek thriller taking place over a short time period as we are shown how captivating and uniting Hampton was… and why he was ultimately killed by the FBI. And rather than merely appear like Fred Hampton—which was already difficult given the age discrepancy—Kaluuya embodies the might and larger-than-life presence of a man who stood as the beacon for a political movement and uplifted his community at every turn. This is most evident during the speeches he gives, which he delivers with so much conviction and passion that it is difficult to not also be inspired. But Kaluuya shines in the quieter moments too, when Hampton is alone with Deborah Johnson (Dominique Fishback) and we see a more raw, sensitive side to the man. We don’t need to know what Hampton was like as a kid; we completely understand the core of who this man is because of the energy Kaluuya brings in this performance. It is a towering feat that rightfully landed him a placement on this list. [Amy Kim]

Glen Powell is the personification of charm, and this has never been more evident than in Hit Man. As a fake killer in undercover police stings, Gary wears a hundred faces. He is effortlessly cool, entertainingly expressive, and endlessly watchable. He hits every mark with such precision and style that you cannot help but be pulled in. In this Russian doll of a performance of a performance of a performance, Powell calibrates every layer to have the perfect amount of slickness and sympathy while adding a genius touch of comedic timing. Gary flips through disguises like a magician with a trick deck. One minute he’s a rough-edged Russian thug with bleached teeth, the next he’s a slick, buttoned-up American psycho, but every persona feels sharp and fully alive. Truly, Powell is a natural superstar with a commanding screen presence that can’t be taught. His performance here is instinct, precision, charisma, and timing all working in perfect sync. It is quintessential Glen Powell fine-tuned to the highest degree. [Jinwei Li]

Kieran Culkin is a performer known for his manic energy and unusual mannerisms. He is not an actor who ever disappears into a role because he is not an actor you would cast without wanting his baseline personality to infiltrate the character. However, to say that he does the same schtick for every performance would neglect the different ways he elevates the roles he plays while keeping them endlessly watchable. In A Real Pain, Benji is simultaneously charismatic, frustrating, empathetic, and pitiable, and that roller coaster ride of a person could easily feel inconsistent in the hands of the wrong actor. However, every moment with Culkin feels painfully authentic as you watch a man trying his best to hold himself together while feeling every emotion in the deepest way possible. Benji can only light up every room he walks into because of how perceptive and caring he is, but that also means that he gets distraught and upset at the drop of a hat. Culkin’s signature off-the-wall delivery is spotlighted when Benji sees a moment to connect with people or poke fun at his cousin, but his less-acknowledged dramatic chops carry every time we see Benji internally (and externally) suffering. Though his overt moments of frustration are captured with a laser precision, there are times when his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes that are quietly devastating. Simply put, Kieran Culkin is a force of nature in his Oscar-winning role. [Amy Kim]

What might at first seem like a story of a simple and friendly man ends up becoming one of the most tragic explorations of relationships and the human condition in recent memory. Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin is as hilarious as it is heartbreaking. The director’s latest stands out for its talented cast, but Colin Farrell in particular delivers his best performance to date. His portrayal of Pádraic Súilleabháin is anything but simple, as he adds so many layers to a character that could’ve easily come off as a caricature. Rather, Farrell plays Pádraic as a man who believes in kindness and defends it. His softness does not make him weak, but quite strong and human. It is thanks to the authenticity of Colin's performance that we are able to see ourselves reflected in Pádraic. He is someone committed to getting answers and understanding what is going on around him. This initial confusion, subsequent denial, and eventual grief over the loss of a bond is so perfectly transmitted. Farrell captivates the audience with ease, as anyone who watches this film can empathize with him. His eyes in particular are key, as they become a pond where sadness and a bit of hope flow like fishes in the water. Just by looking directly at him, you can get in touch with his suffering. But despite the tragedy of this character, Farrell is also hilarious. McDonagh’s comedy is quite ironic (and at times absurd), which the actors he collaborates with clearly understand. It is in Pádraic’s innocence that we find someone who we can root for and also laugh with. His performance delivers a beautiful take on masculinity. He is not your average tough movie hero, but rather a man that cries and often makes mistakes. Above all, that is the beauty of Farrell’s wonderful work. [Mariano Venegas]

Time will prove that the past is undying and the present is forever beholden to it. Time will also prove that Andrew Haigh is no stranger to directing powerhouse performances. Veteran actress Charlotte Rampling plays Kate Mercer, an elderly woman planning a party for her and her husband Geoff’s 45th anniversary. Everything seems copacetic until Geoff receives a letter from Swiss authorities saying Katya, his long dead ex-girlfriend, has been found frozen in ice in the Alps after falling into a crevice decades ago. Kate is understanding and supportive of this ghost from her husband’s remote past, but over the course of the week, new details come to light, and Kate is forced to reckon with the fact that so much of her marriage has been built on lies. It is amidst this stew of subtle betrayal that Rampling’s true prowess shows. Kudos to Haigh as well, because a less adept screenwriter could easily devolve a story like this into one of bombastic revelations and relationship-destroying arguments. However, he and Rampling understand human nature too well to allow this film to devolve into melodrama. There is nothing uniquely sinful about neglecting to tell your new partner unsavory details about your past relationships, there is nothing remarkable about telling little white lies over the years to avoid difficult conversations, and there is nothing unnatural about grieving those you’ve lost and thinking about what could have been. Yet, when these everyday minute infractions add up, what is your present life but one protracted charade? In quiet despair, Rampling is left to grapple with the fact her entire life has been informed by a woman she never met, a haphazard attempt at achieving what was lost. There are no big moments or climactic ultimatums, but we sense every ounce of Rampling’s hopelessness as she goes about her daily duties nonetheless. Trust degrades, resentment creeps in, and the future feels invariably bleak, but one must keep up appearances! Rampling is a powerhouse in her stunning silence, conveying a hurt in fleeting gestures and glances most would fail to in a thousand words. Much like my ramblings here, talking is nothing against the knowledge of all-destroying dishonesty. There is nothing that can be said. [Skyler Powers]

Christopher Abbott's portrayal of Colin Tate in Possessor is disturbingly magnetic precisely because it taps into our paradoxical fascination with destruction. His Colin Tate is a vessel of restrained turmoil, so emptied of self that witnessing his identity invaded feels dangerously thrilling and even perversely satisfying. Abbott moves through scenes with surgical faithfulness, his eyes betraying subtle desperation as if perpetually swinging at the edge of an abyss—a sensation Cronenberg exploits masterfully. Abbott’s genius lies in meticulous details: the twitch beneath blank composure, the stifled breath signaling hidden panic. He embodies the terrifying allure of annihilation, aestheticizes the grotesque erosion of identity, and seduces the audience with nihilistic grandeur. Abbott’s quiet descent resonates with our craving for adrenaline-laden danger, offering a vicarious taste of self-annihilation that is impossible to turn away from. Long after the screen darkens, Abbott’s chilling performance stays, reminding us of our unsettling appetite for chaos. [Jinwei Li]

Though its ensemble boasts some of the biggest, most consistently talented actors in the industry in Benedict Cumberbatch, Kirsten Dunst, and Jesse Plemmons, the marvel of Jane Campion’s toxic masculinity western The Power of the Dog is a relative newcomer: 25-year-old (at the time) Kodi Smit-McPhee. Smit-McPhee’s Peter is the grief-stricken son of Dunst’s Rose, whose life is disrupted when Rose’s new brother-in-law Phil begins terrorizing him and his family. Peter is a sensitive boy, unlike the cowboys that surround him and mock him for his lanky stature and interest in art. Smit-McPhee is given the challenging job of combining Peter’s delicate nature when he simply wants to exist as he is with his melancholy as he grieves his father and his quiet calculation as he serves as a foil to Phil, effortlessly leading him to his ultimate demise. Smit-McPhee sews these distinct sides of his character together through subtle facial expressions, soft-spoken words, and a silently seductive confidence that you cannot quite comprehend until the end. If Cumberbatch’s Phil represents the way toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia boils up in man, Smit-McPhee’s Peter represents the fatal consequences of it, with his subtle yet masterful performance evoking its ultimate pain. [Aaron Isenstein]

A.I. Artificial Intelligence is a film that was misunderstood for a long time. It was destined to be Kubrick’s final masterpiece, but after his passing, it was Spielberg that took on the project. Thankfully, in recent years people have come to realize how beautiful and special the film truly is. As wonderful as Spielberg’s direction is in this film, the center of this film’s emotional resonance is Haley Joel Osment. In this futuristic world, technology has advanced to the point where robots like David (Haley Joel Osment) can feel emotion. He goes on a fantastical journey through this fairytale-like story of a future with remnants of hope and love. We view every step of this story with Osment as our guide. The emotion he is able to instill in David while still being distinctly not human is astounding. This feat is made even more astonishing by the fact that Osment was only 12 years old while filming. Most actors could not pull off his performance at any age, so to do it at 12 is truly stunning. You believe every bit of love and hope he has and as a result are struck by this film’s sometimes depressing, but often magical message about humanity. [Tom Brinson]

One of two immaculate Lee Chang-dong performances on this list, Steven Yeun’s enigmatic Ben stands out from his generally likable, emotionally vulnerable characters. Burning lives and blossoms thanks to its ambiguity, with Yeun being crucial to its success. It is clear from the get-go that Ben is a dangerous blend of charismatic and narcissistic. He is rich for some indiscernible reason and shows a clear disdain for emotional honesty, but there is something endlessly alluring about him nonetheless. Is Ben just your run of the mill techbro loser, or is he something far more sinister? When our down on his luck protagonist Jong-su’s (Yoo Ah-in) long lost childhood friend Hae-mi (Jun Jong-seo) seemingly vanishes, did she merely skip town? Or was Ben’s self-professed and bizarre greenhouse-burning hobby a metaphor for something unspeakable? Yeun portrays Ben in a confoundingly paradoxical manner. Yes, he is unsettling, manipulative, and blatantly using others for his own amusement. But he is also charismatic, conveniently naive, and crucially never self-incriminating. Burning is an analysis of the all-destroying power of masculinity, and in that context, Yeun’s tightrope walk of a performance is especially virtuosic. Murderer or otherwise, his power struggle with Jong-su is an entirely grounded look at the selfish, misogynistic whims of many men. Both men view Hae-mi as nothing more than an object to lay claim to. Suddenly, Ben’s “hobby” becomes irrelevant. The fact he can exist so comfortably in society in even his most innocent form (a flagrant misogynist) is the real horror, and Yeun taps into that energy with disarming brilliance. You cannot help but become obsessed with the mystery he presents and stalk his every subtle gesture or look, and that is the beautiful trap of it all. The devil is in the details, and Yeun perfects every microexpression to craft a character out of fleeting hints and complete obscurity. His Ben is the personification of smoke and mirrors, and his ability to make a void of a character exist so believably is one of a kind. [Skyler Powers]

Sally Hawkins’s strength as an actress has always been her warmth. She conveys love, joy, and care like no other; a mere smile from her can pierce the screen and hit you right in your heart. Her physicality is put to the test when playing Elisa: a mute cleaning lady whose relatively simple life gets upended after discovering an amphibian man trapped in a tank. Not only does she have to cogently communicate every emotion with her face—though she signs, there is a loss in tone Hawkins must make up for with her eyes—but she even needs to believably fall for said amphibian man. Yet, as we follow Hawkins on Guillermo del Toro’s fairy tale romance, we cannot help but be swept up in the beauty and the tragedy that lies before us. She conveys this character’s inability to be understood and subsequent delight at finding someone who connects with her with so much grace that we easily buy into this wordless love story. The strength Elisa gains throughout the film as she becomes more defiant to protect her lover is displayed markedly on Hawkins’s face. She never loses the softness and tenderness of Elisa, but there is a fierce determination that comes to the forefront in the back half of the film that is so compelling. Without saying a word, and without her entire backstory being provided as exposition to us, we know exactly who Elisa is and why the events of the film change her so profoundly. That is a testament to the greatness of Sally Hawkins’s performance in this film. [Amy Kim]

Park Chan-wook is one of the greatest filmmakers of modern times, and few directors are as consistent as he is in terms of getting top-notch performances from his actors. One of the best examples of this is Kim Tae-ri in his 2016 magnum opus The Handmaiden. She plays Sook-hee, a lower-class woman who becomes the handmaiden of Izumi Hideko, a woman who is far above Sook-hee’s class but also far more subservient in many ways. The way Tae-ri demonstrates Sook-hee’s growth throughout the film as she takes her power back and fights for her love is phenomenal. Her physicality is instrumental in communicating the passion that her words cannot encapsulate, and it is profoundly meaningful to behold. In the complicated web of deception that surrounds this narrative, it is a blessing to have Sook-hee as the audience surrogate and Tae-ri as the actress enabling us to connect with the heart of the narrative throughout. She is a simply fearless actor that is so endearing to watch. [Tom Brinson]

Having an emotionally rich film’s dramatic beats lie almost entirely on your shoulders is hard enough for an experienced actor, but for a six-year-old, it seems nearly impossible. In her incredible debut in The Florida Project, Brooklynn Prince defies all odds with her adorable, heartbreaking and layered performance as Moonee. Since the filmmaking of The Florida Project is so naturalistic, any theatrical or performative moments in its performances would immediately stick out. Yet Prince is so believable in this film, conveying the entire spectrum of childhood emotion without missing a beat: the joy, the confusion, the heartbreak, the naivety, and the unintentional wisdom. Whether it’s the innocent fun of getting ice cream or the weighty realization of her mother’s financial situation, every moment feels real as Prince experiences them. Her performance reminds the audience of their own childhood while also bringing a wholly unique and compelling person to life. While child performances are often credited to the director being able to draw greatness out of the performer, there is a simultaneous gravity and ease to Prince’s performance here that demonstrates a talent that still shines bright all these years later. [Ben Langford]

Never Rarely Sometimes Always is one of the most powerful and empathetic films of this decade, and Sidney Flanigan’s performance at the heart of the film is a huge reason why it works so well. You feel every bit of her pain and struggle to get an abortion after this traumatic experience. She does not have to say a word for you to understand and empathize with her struggle, and that feat alone is remarkable. If a picture is a thousand words, then her expressions in this film tell a thousand stories. The fact that this is her first screen performance is absolutely jaw-dropping, as what she accomplishes in this film is something that even the most seasoned actors in this industry could never dream of. Her performance is so heartbreaking, sympathetic, and genuine. It gets to a point where it doesn’t even feel like acting; you are simply watching a real woman go through life. As Roger Ebert famously said, “movies are empathy machines”, and Flanigan’s stunning performance in this film is a perfect example for how films can elicit so much emotion from the human condition. [Tom Brinson]