Danny Baldwin's Top 10 Films of 2023
In advance of this weekend's Oscar ceremony, I share some final thoughts on the year in cinema and my personal favorites of 2023...
In a cruel twist of fate straight out of Hollywood, 2023 might have been the best year for movies in over a decade, while it may also go down as the year in which the medium’s decline in cultural importance reached a point of irreversibility. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe moviemaking will be a lucrative enterprise well into the future, and that theaters will find a way to survive, albeit with a winnowed and more corporate-controlled footprint. But looking back on what was supposed to be Hollywood’s big post-pandemic recovery year, in advance of an Oscars ceremony that is likely to see improved but still modest viewership, the thing that’s most striking to me is how impressively the films themselves delivered, while moviegoers didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. As I reflect on my favorite titles of 2023, I often come back to the same mental refrain: “Wouldn’t that have been amazing to see with an audience twenty years ago?” There used to be an entirely different energy to going to the movies.
It's not that moviegoers aren’t willing to support the films that interest them anymore. As has been written about to death, Barbie and Oppenheimer – and The Super Mario Bros. Movie and Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 and John Wick: Chapter 4 and Sound of Freedom and Five Nights at Freddy’s – proved that notion entirely wrong this past year. And while 2024 may see a slight decline in box office receipts compared to the still-lagging 2023 due to the ripple effects of major industry labor strikes, the overall financial trajectory is likely to be more positive over the next five years. As someone who cares deeply about the health of filmgoing, I’m worried less about the dollars and cents, and more about how movies – still vibrant and thriving from a creative standpoint, seemingly against all odds – increasingly seem to be enjoyed chiefly as fleeting, disposable consumables.
Before we hopefully finally sunset the relentless Barbenheimer discourse after at least one of the two films racks up a bushel of golden statuettes this weekend, I’d like to go back to the well for one last question. Do you feel that Barbie and Oppenheimer, two highly political blockbusters with a lot of things to say, really made a significant impact on the culture, in the way that even silly comedies like Wedding Crashers and The 40-Year-Old Virgin did twenty years ago? Did you encounter any watercooler conversations where people broke down sections of the movie in painstaking detail, or incessantly recited lines of dialogue from them, or made them their entire personality for several weeks? I ask because I didn’t. As with Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour, I saw a lot of my friends posting photos of themselves attending these movies (sometimes in costume), but little discussion of what they actually meant to people afterwards outside of the film press.
It increasingly appears to me that going to the movies, like so many other inherited rituals transformed by our present era of social media replacing real interaction, has now become more of a performative act than one of legitimate engagement. For a huge swath of moviegoers, this has become an activity, as opposed to an exercise in cultural curiosity. As such, mass moviegoing in 2023 was limited to those titles that were successfully marketed as can’t-miss events, leaving hundreds of other deserving films to wilt before a handful of patrons in empty auditoriums. In large numbers, consumers stopped taking chances on theatrical movies, closing themselves off to the kinds of surprises that used to spur passionate word-of-mouth, a distinctly excited sense of ground-floor inspiration to tell one’s friends about a new movie they just “have to go see!”. True box office surprises, while still possible (Sound of Freedom, Anyone But You), became rarer and rarer.
In the process, it seemed like movies mattered a lot less in the scheme of things. But it wasn’t the fault of the films themselves, which flourished in their post-pandemic rebound. it was the fault of a culture that stopped truly interacting with them in meaningful ways, at least in America. We could debate why this has become the case for hours. One could argue that Americans don’t know how to appreciate a good movie anymore, with diminished attention-spans and increasing physical and mental distress. One could argue that the cheap availability of content via at-home streaming services has messed with our ability to savor any one piece of content. One could argue that our face-to-face interactions have become less rich and rewarding, and this was the space where movies really attained their sense of cultural meaning. One could argue that distributors and exhibitors haven’t presented most of the films with the level of respect that would endow them with a sense of meaning for audiences. One could argue that Hollywood’s left-wing agenda caused many moviegoers to stop treating films with reverence anymore. Or one could argue that all these factors combined to form a perfect storm, draining movies of their cultural significance.
I offer these thoughts as a preface to my annual Top 10 list because I want to express that, when writing about film, we need to spend more time thinking about how to inspire other moviegoers to interact with motion pictures in ways that amplify their sense of meaning. If we have any hope of movies ever recapturing the level of cultural significance they once had, it will be achieved through discourse. While I still feel there is merit in these types of lists as a vehicle for personal reflection, I do worry that by reducing films to numerical entries here, I’m guilty of further dooming them to meaningless interchangeability at a moment when they cannot afford this. Which is simply to say: this year, more than ever, I hope this list serves as an accessible way for me to share what my favorite movies meant to me, more than it serves as a rank-order of the best in cinema. Let’s get into it…
Just Missed the List (alphabetical):
A THOUSAND AND ONE – As emotionally impactful as it is structurally audacious, A.V. Rockwell’s feature debut may be the ultimate rebuke of the ongoing wave of carefree ’90s nostalgia pieces. Teyana Taylor is stunning in the lead performance, but the movie finds its soul in the work of the young Aaron Kingsley Adetola, who delivers perhaps the crown jewel of a stellar year for child performances.
ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT’S ME, MARGARET. – As I mentioned in the introduction, there were a number of movies I saw in 2023 that I wish I could have experienced with an audience from twenty years ago, and Kelly Fremon Craig’s tender Judy Blume adaptation might be at the top of that list. What a travesty that a movie so warm and so universal could go so overlooked by mass audiences.
DREAMIN’ WILD – You can say that Searching for Sugar Man told the same story all you want, but a retrospective documentary just isn’t capable of capturing the profound in-the-moment sense of emotion you get here from the performances of Casey Affleck, Walton Goggins, and Beau Bridges, especially in the close-ups. Bill Pohlad’s directorial hand continues to be as assured as it was in Love & Mercy.
MAY DECEMBER – Leave it to Todd Haynes to deliver another highly-stylized melodrama – this one loosely inspired by a well-known salacious true story – that’s all at once aesthetically stunning, darkly funny, and quietly devastating. American movies with big-name casts largely don’t provoke and toy with their audiences in ways this sophisticated anymore, but Haynes and his actors revive the lost art.
RETURN TO SEOUL – A big part of me wonders what the A24 or NEON brand could have done for this French-Korean production, which walks and talks in such an incredibly cool, fresh-feeling manner that I can’t help but feel it would have really spoken to a broader coalition of younger, city-dwelling moviegoers… had it reached them. But that’s just the initial hook for the emotionally penetrating, years-spanning story, fronted by a breakthrough performance from Ji-Min Park.
THE ROYAL HOTEL – Kitty Green and Julia Garner follow up the best film ever made about modern-day Hollywood with this slow-burn, Outback-set psychological thriller that grapples with gender in far more complex, provocative ways than most in the Arthouse Left seem to be capable of. A return to the days of this genre when dread and anxiety were far scarier than action, with a cathartically stunning final shot.
The Top 10 (in reverse order):
10. PRISCILLA
It has always struck me as an unintended slight that Sofia Coppola’s films are so often described as “personal,” as these comments always seem to inadvertently attribute her incredibly strong attunement to film’s capacity for emotional intimacy, particularly with respect to her young female characters, to her experience as the daughter of a famous filmmaker father. Priscilla, which at its core follows an American teenager swept up in a flurry of fame and fortune, could so easily be marginalized in the same way. But if there’s a statement the film is making, it’s that public appearances are not what they seem. A stunningly vulnerable, effectively stylized piece with a lead performance from Cailee Spaeny that navigates this thorny patch of American iconography as deftly as Coppola does behind the camera. The antidote to Luhrmann's Elvis.
9. THE HOLDOVERS
If Alexander Payne’s return-to-form had been even an ounce less achingly honest, its entire ’70s-inspired aesthetic may have crumbled into schtick right before our eyes. But it hits every emotional note – even the rawest ones – with such precision, it earns its allusions to an era when dramatic filmmaking and story construction were far more disciplined than they are today. Despite a trio of stellar performances from Paul Giamatti, Da’Vine Joy Randolph, and newcomer Dominic Sessa, Payne seems to be intent on countering the notion of the “performance movie.” The Holdovers is a reminder of how much better great acting is when there’s a filmmaker rigorously channeling it, even in the most character-oriented of stories.
8. SHOWING UP
At first contact, Kelly Reichardt’s latest collaboration with Michelle Williams feels like it’s on its way to exploring the same depths of American sadness, solitude, and precarity of their first, 2008’s Wendy and Lucy. But then comes a pigeon. To count this quietly empathetic, leisurely paced film – about a barely-known miniatures sculptor trying her best to keep creating art, amidst the doldrums of arts college office-work – among the year’s most surprising may strike some as incredibly pretentious. But that feels very appropriate for the world that this movie lives in, and it is nonetheless an authentic description of the experience I had watching it, as the sense of melancholy gave way to delightfully self-aware dark humor and unexpected optimism. You may not exactly relate to Williams’ Lizzy by the end of the movie, depending on your personal perspective, but it’s hard not to embrace the humanity in the way she – and the people in her life – summon the ability to just keep plodding forward towards something better.
7. OPPENHEIMER
While I have certain issues with some of Christopher Nolan’s creative choices – namely, his tendency to drown out dialogue-heavy stretches with the constant impression of montage – there is no denying the film’s sheer force, scope, and power. One can only hope that Oppenheimer has laid the groundwork for at least a few more bets on big-budget original movies by thoughtful filmmakers (and underappreciated actors) who have earned the canvas size. It’s hard to imagine a more visually and thematically rich movie made at this scale, but then again, the film itself would challenge us to consider the limits (and perils) of possibility. I’ll simply join the chorus in saying that I found the movie rousing, perspective-taking, and made for adults in the way that few commercial entertainments dare to be anymore. All the while, it achieves some of the greatest visceral impact of any film this year.
6. THE TASTE OF THINGS
About as just-plain-wonderful as movies get. A simple-enough idea executed with absolute mastery and attention to detail by the fascinatingly multifaceted Tran Anh Hung. Onscreen cooking has never been so compelling, and I say this as a rube who wouldn't touch most of the fancy French stuff they painstakingly prepare! Regardless of whether you find the focal cuisine "mouth-watering" or entirely unappealing, however, there's something absolutely transfixing about the commanding culinary technique on display, and the equal precision and care with which it is staged and shot. But the film's joys are not just about the splendid cooking and photography. The story and the characters' relationships are just as engaging. Of course, that starts with Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel. The fact that these two haven't been a real-life couple in two decades is pretty hard to fathom when you see them together onscreen. But I also loved their relationships with Galatea Bellugi and Bonnie Chagneau-Ravoire, who seems destined to be a great French actress someday after this stunning debut.
5. PERFECT DAYS
Critics have spent a lot of time ruminating on perhaps the simplest takeaway from Wim Wenders’ ode to the quotidian – the importance of acknowledging and cherishing the small beauties of life – often without grappling with the considerably more challenging back half of the film. Certainly, Wenders finds a lot of wisdom in the minimalist existence that protagonist Hirayama (played wonderfully by the legendary Japanese actor Koji Yakusho) has constructed for himself. But the film is at its sagest and most sophisticated when it confronts the cracks in that existence. The way that Wenders says more with less, challenging the viewer to think about Hirayama’s past in ways that aren’t explicitly spelled out, lends itself to one of the most thoughtful third-act (and post-movie) experiences I’ve had in some time. What I took most strongly from the film is that, while some will try to craft a perfectly harmonious existence for themselves with the best of intentions, and that there is often great value in such an endeavor, true enlightenment comes in being able to also appreciate the little things in unexpected situations beyond one’s control. Perhaps the same could be said for Wenders’ outlook on filmmaking, as he seamlessly switches between documentary and narrative features.
4. ANATOMY OF A FALL
Despite the rapturous response to the film overall, it’s been a little dispiriting to see a faction of critics dismiss Justine Triet’s Palme d’or Winner as the stuff of a television serial. Certainly, there is a broadly accessible idea at the heart of the story that has been amplified by the film’s marketing campaign – “Did she do it?” – and the arc is not altogether different from a Mystery of the Week. But the critique feels like the byproduct of a most worrying trend: many critics – and audiences – seem to define a film’s “theatricality” based on story content, not form. Doing so risks relegating entire genres to the small screen, and at great cost. For starters, I can’t imagine Sandra Hüller’s intense nuance here translating nearly as well to the HBO aesthetic. Nor would the truly astounding extended court sequences play nearly as well in episodic format, without the overall weight of the exhausting, two-and-a-half-hour epic drama surrounding them. But perhaps most importantly of all, watching Anatomy of a Fall in a dark theater and rendered mute by social convention, the viewer is forced to examine themselves and their own biases as they contemplate the central mystery; there’s no living room to escape to.
3. THE IRON CLAW
Never would I have expected the best new American male melodrama in years to center on professional wrestling’s Von Erich family, but sometimes, the best cinema comes at you by surprise. Filmmaker Sean Durkin takes the tragic bones of the wrestling clan's legacy and transforms them into an agonizingly human portrait of a fucked-up American family. On its face, The Iron Claw may seem like another takedown of Americana, a painful deconstruction of the American-family-as-capital through one of its roughest, saddest casualties. But even as the movie absolutely pummeled me, I don't think we should view it so cynically. By grounding the events in Kevin's perspective — the story of the one who made it out — the film finds touching strength in the bond between brothers. So much of the Von Erichs' story is tragic, but there is spiritual redemption and healing in the way the brothers stick together, and how the memory of this lingers with Kevin as time passes. With Durkin’s delicate touch and the seemingly boundless talents of the cast, led by Zac Efron and Jeremy Allen White, this may go down as the most purely emotional film of the year. The penultimate scene nearly had me audibly wailing.
2. KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON
In virtually any Martin Scorsese picture, there are moments when, as a viewer, you simply have to step outside the movie and marvel at the sheer enormity of what he and his filmmaking team are able to accomplish. A shot, a scene, a sequence that feels so perfect in the moment, it transcends the medium. For me, Killers of the Flower Moon was like that from start-to-finish, so much so that I had to go back a second time to really get into the nuances of the story and the performances. It is a powerful revivification of the American historical crime epic, but told with a wider cultural lens, which miraculously never once falls victim to the hyperpolitical, reductionist ways of examining disturbing chapters in the country’s history that are currently so in vogue. Over the course of three-and-a-half hours, Scorsese grapples with the complicated material through storytelling that is both exhilarating and gutting, often at the same time, a contradiction wherein the film finds many of its most potent things to say. But for all I could write about the movie from an auteurist perspective, I would be remiss if I didn’t credit Lily Gladstone and especially Leonardo DiCaprio for so much of its impact. DiCaprio’s treatment of Ernest's complicity and how he views his own actions here is one of the most nuanced, serious attempts to grapple with the root of mass atrocities in West I've seen onscreen. If anyone was snubbed of an Oscar nod this year, it was Leo.
1. PAST LIVES
I knew this would end up being my favorite movie of the year from the day I saw it, and I have been dreading the idea of writing about it ever since. There’s a certain irony to the fact that I can’t seem to satisfyingly put what hit me so hard about Past Lives, a film that’s very much about the things that go unsaid, into words. It’s not an uncommon favorite, and I sense that it spoke to many others on a similar level as it did to me. But sometimes, a movie just feels right, breathes right, plays in a way that it seems like you’re watching something that perfectly encapsulates certain facets of life that no other film has broached in the same way… and that’s why you’re drawn to it. Maybe there’s a little bit of idealization involved in that viewing process, just as there may be in reflecting on what might have been if you had stayed in touch with a childhood crush. But what good are movies if we can’t idealize them?
I also sense that much of Past Lives’ impact on me has to do with how deeply I felt the weight of the emotional experiences of each of its three main characters – Nora, Hae Sung, and Arthur – in almost equal measure. The film may be told from Nora’s perspective, but that doesn’t mean it shortchanges the other two players – a rare feat in today’s cinema, likely reflecting the playwright’s touch of writer/director Celine Song. It’s a movie that has you practically drowning in empathy, but never so much that you aren’t completely with the performances of Greta Lee, Teo Yoo, and John Magaro every step of the way. Perfectly acted and compassionately lensed, it culminates in a breathtaking final moment that reaffirms life precisely because it doesn’t make it any easier.