Ten from the ’10s: A decade in cinema
Well 2020 has been off to a rough start, but given we’re all in, or should be in, self-imposed quarantine, I figure it’s best to make the most of the surplus of time we’ve suddenly got for indoor forms of recreation. And so, given it’s also the beginning of a new decade, I figured it’s the perfect opportunity to look back at the decade that’s just passed, particularly through the movies that have defined it. It’s a decade, it’s called the ’10s, and most of all, our Arabic numeral system is decimal-based, so I’ve challenged myself to pick out ten.
Why the movies? Well, experiences are what shape us as people, what allow us to learn and grow. The power of stories is that they give us access to experiences we otherwise might not have the opportunity to. In consuming them and reflecting on the thoughts and feelings they elicit, we discover things about ourselves and the world we operate in. And I suppose that more than any other medium, cinema enables me to go through that experience viscerally; the form that feels most true-to-life.
In addition to that, I’m a big believer that a culture is defined by the stories it tells. Stories speak volumes about the issues that preoccupy people’s thoughts, the principles they hold dear, and beliefs that they stand for. After all, it’s through mythology and epic poetry that we’ve been able to peel back the veil of history and gain some semblance of understanding of the civilizations before us; not of the social systems and infrastructure, but of the people that comprised them.
So in highlighting the ten films that I feel best capture and distill the essence of the decade, I hope in some way to shed light on what that decade has meant, for myself and for the culture at large. The criteria were as follows:
- Objective quality: Goes without saying, for a film to represent an immutable aspect of the period that birthed it, it has to be effective at doing… well, whatever it is it set out to do. In short, the movie’s gotta be good. Overall holistic quality was the primary factor here, but notable accomplishments in particular fields — powerful direction, distinct production design, a noteworthy performance — of course also figured into my judgment.
- Cultural impact: Because quality is never truly objective, especially relative quality, we can never really separate a film’s influence from our assessment of it. As a piece of art, a movie is also not just a product of the society that birthed it, but is supposed to interact and shape that society in turn. So movies that have managed to do this, whether due to marketing, serendipity, or what-have-you, gain a leg up.
- Subject matter: This is a tricky one, because I believe a great movie can be made about anything. To that point, I think a great story can be told about any sort of subject matter or setting. I’ve taken this into account though, because I’m attempting to compile a list of the films that to me have most embodied the past decade. And so, movies whose stories and themes reflect or influenced the zeitgeist came to prominence in my mind.
- Personal interest: Kind of an obvious thing, but bears mentioning because people get really hung up on this kind of thing. This is my list, and so it’s reflective of my experiences and my point of view. Naturally, it’s limited to the movies I saw, and it’s inevitable my personal tastes and inclinations will be reflected in it. I don’t think this is at all a flaw; if anything, it just opens things up to discussions about alternative viewpoints.
In the interest of readability, I split my list across two entries, counting down in relevance according to some combination of the above criteria. With that out of the way, let’s get started!
10) Avengers: Endgame (2019)
dir. Anthony & Joe Russo
Avengers! …Assemble.
It’s criminally negligent to talk about the cinematic landscape of the 2010s without addressing the juggernaut that is the Marvel Cinematic Universe. I knew as soon as I decided to compile this list that I had to have at least one Marvel movie on here, it was just a matter of which one. Don’t misunderstand though, this isn’t here begrudgingly. Far from it. The fact of the matter is, whilst the MCU as an exercise and Marvel Studios as an entity reek of the commerce-driven corporate soullessness whose effects on the filmmaking landscape the likes of Martin Scorsese rightly decry and fear… they’ve also resulted in some very, very good movies. Yes, a lot of Marvel’s output is comprised of milquetoast, mass-produced romps designed to keep narrative plates spinning and which you’re liable to forget by the time you’ve gotten home from the cinema. But to deny that it has also served as a canvas for talented, often untested filmmakers to make their mark is unfair.
Perhaps chief among these filmmakers are the Russo brothers, whose contributions to the MCU by my estimation have been both of the highest quality, and most consistent. In fact, if hard-pressed into choosing an MCU film on its merits as a singular cinematic experience, I’d be inclined to say their Captain America: The Winter Soldier is the franchise’s high watermark. However, there’s something to be said about Avengers: Endgame’s epic sweep; it serves as the capstone for all the MCU films that preceded it whilst embodying almost everything that made them work.
To say that Endgame is the payoff for a decade’s worth of storylines is both overplayed and not strictly speaking true, given that MCU movies are largely self-contained. What Endgame does brilliantly is craft a grand adventure for its focal characters — wisely pared down to the cast of the first Avengers film — that is both viscerally satisfying and a thematically appropriate culmination to their character arcs.
The fundamental flaw in Scorsese’s criticism of Marvel movies as theme park rides is the underlying assumption that this doesn’t fall under the wheelhouse of what cinema is meant to do. The reality is these kinds of films often require a mastery over filmmaking craft that headier subject matter can sometimes alleviate. Endgame is the decade’s biggest contribution to the grand Raiders of the Lost Ark tradition, delivering moments of joy, excitement, and catharsis with terrific effectiveness. Throughout its hefty three-and-a-half-hour running time, our heroes are bombarded with obstacle after obstacle, and we’re taken along for a thrill ride as they overcome each with some combination of their unique abilities, old-fashioned cleverness, and steely resolve. This is the heart of the appeal of superhero stories, arguably that of all stories of heroism and derring-do dating back to antiquity (Hercules, perhaps the most famous of all folk heroes, is best known by a collection of 12 vignettes of his doing exactly that), and Endgame delivers in spades.
As it does, each of its players moves along their personal journey, which are the real overarching narrative of the MCU, to a point that feels organic and earned. Iron Man, who kicked off this franchise with a mission to take responsibility for the consequences of his actions, but whose bloated ego, control freak tendencies, and occasional paranoia had led him to over-swing in the attempt, finds the inner serenity needed for true selflessness. Thor finds self-worth outside the abilities and social stature he’d long used to define him. Black Widow finds a sense of belonging and fights to protect it. Captain America, having long buried his pain and loneliness by dutifully fighting the never-ending fight, earns a measure of personal contentment.
Endings are tough; the weakest installment of any multi-part saga is almost always the third, which is usually the last. That Endgame lands it with aplomb is a feat of great storytelling, gimmicks be damned.
9) Midnight in Paris (2011)
dir. Woody Allen
We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.
One of the greatest joys I derive from movies as experience-by-proxy is the feeling of being transported somewhere regardless of the logistical constraints currently acting on my life (if you’re reading this in the first half of 2020, as I’m writing it, you’ll know exactly what I mean). At the best of times, a movie doesn’t simply capture the sights and sounds of its setting, but the emotional core of it, what the place means to the people who live in or visit it. It’s an insight that even just physically being somewhere can’t quite match, in the same way meeting someone in passing can give you far less insight into a person than hearing about them from someone who’s taken the time to really know who they are.
Woody Allen has long been one of the filmmakers most adept at this. He made his name with movies that distill the essence of his hometown, New York City, into digestible packages that leave audiences knowing the city better for having watched them. One method he employs is exploring a facet of the city experience from different, sometimes conflicting angles: the breadth of perspectives that one is able to encounter in such a melting pot, and the isolation that can come about from being unable to reconcile one’s own point of view with them (Annie Hall); the diversity of experience enabled by proximity to so much culture, and the disconnect from one’s true desires and beliefs that can stem from sensory overload and tyranny of choice (Manhattan).
In more recent years, he’s turned his incisive eye towards other settings, and for the most part has displayed the same ability to cut through to the heart of each of these nuclei of human civilization to find some defining aspect or experience, but also to simply appreciate the beauty they offer. The opening minutes of Midnight in Paris are as ardent a love letter to its eponymous city, and as effective a tourism ad, as any, jumping between breathtaking shots of a variety of Paris locations caught at different times of day, from morning until the midnight suggested in the title. Journeying through time as well as space is revealed to be a key to this exploration as we go back-and-forth to the Roaring Twenties, when the city was home to an endless assortment of writers, painters, musicians, adventurers, and philosophers.
While the modern-day city does figure as a major character in the story, it becomes clear that the subject of Allen’s focus is the Paris of A Moveable Feast, the Paris that Bogart and Bergman’s characters in Casablanca go on about always having, the one we call the City of Light. The movie makes a point through a discussion of “golden age thinking” however, that this doesn’t necessarily mean the Paris of the 1920's, or of any time period for that matter, but that of our collective subconscious.
Perhaps more than any other city in the world, Paris is a subject upon which people attach symbolic importance and project their beliefs and desires. Its very name has become shorthand for imbuing grandeur and significance to those of others (as in “the Paris of…”) This is the reason the 2019 fire that resulted in extensive damage to the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris had struck such a chord in public opinion. What the clamor over the urgency of losing what is essentially an old church’s spire compared to the innumerable array of concurrent, more immediate humanitarian crises misses however, is the significance that Notre-Dame de Paris possesses in the popular psyche. The church is itself a remarkable piece of architecture and an irreplaceable work of art, but more than that, it’s come to represent Paris itself. The city’s storied history as a congregation of great thinkers throughout the ages, and the central role it played in the Enlightenment and other watermarks of human progress have made it stand as a symbol of human achievement, along with any number of romantic ideals.
That’s the case for our protagonist Gil, who as a writer is particularly drawn to the era described in Hemingway’s memoir. Experiencing it firsthand and meeting his heroes, while exciting and creatively stimulating however, doesn’t address the fundamental longing and dissatisfaction that drove him to seek escape in the first place. His realization that real life in the Roaring Twenties was as complex and chaotic as his own instead becomes a catalyst for him to take stock of his situation. Crucially, he decides not to escape into this world when given the opportunity; he chooses instead to leave his life in L.A. behind, in the process shedding many of the petty practicalities that had constrained him and hindered him from finding fulfillment. He moves to Paris, but it’s the Paris of the modern day, believing in what it represents but content with the knowledge it’s still part of a messy reality in which he has to carve out his place.
The central dichotomy between our ideals and the reality we have to contend with imbues Midnight in Paris with a universal accessibility otherwise not allowed by its subject matter. After all, even those not familiar or enamored with the period that captures Gil’s imagination can relate with the longing for a reality more aligned to our intrinsic values and desires. Many have understandably despaired at the developments that have crowded headlines in recent years: a rise in right-wing populism in various parts of the world, abuses of authority, acts of terrorism and random violence, and responses to the like laced with bigotry and xenophobia. There’s no question the 2010’s have been a time of great crisis, but Allen makes the case that this is true of any time period; perhaps it’s even an intrinsic aspect of civilization. Our ideals exist so we can stake our claim on our share of reality and shape it accordingly, and in doing so, find some semblance of of fulfillment.
8) The Social Network (2010)
dir. David Fincher
You’re not an asshole, Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be.
In a career studded with some of the most impressive thrillers ever committed to celluloid (or, for this champion of digital cameras, memory), exploring the disturbing facets of human psychology, it can be surprising that one of the most effective installments in David Fincher’s oeuvre is a biopic about the young founder of one of the biggest technology firms on the planet. On closer inspection though, the serendipitous pairing of artist and subject matter isn’t all that far-fetched, if not strangely organic.
See, the key to Fincher’s effectiveness at thrillers is rooted in his mastery over controlling the flow of information and the way it’s presented to the audience. This is most clearly seen in Gone Girl, with the way each new fact about Amy Dunne’s disappearance changes the viewer’s perception of what the proceedings, alternating between casting her husband Nick as victim, possible perpetrator, and target of conspiracy. Here, by cutting between the story of how college student Mark Zuckerberg came to be head of tech giant Facebook, and that of a lawsuit he faces filed by key figures instrumental to its founding, most notably his former best friend Eduardo Saverin, Fincher anchors his film with a central mystery to be solved: how they came to be there.
In lieu of chases, shootouts, or investigations, conversations between characters serve as generators of tension and the vehicles through which the the storyline is propelled forward. Fincher benefits from a screenplay by the master of dialogue, Aaron Sorkin, perhaps the perfect complement to his storytelling sensibilities. As characters clash verbally, they reveal their intrinsic beliefs, desires, and values, climaxing in revelations that recontextualize the information presented to that point and set the stage for the next narrative turn (think about how Fight Club’s big twist informs the entire third act). All this plays out in meticulously composed shots strung together with rapid, precise editing synchronized to the ebbs and flow of conversation, backed by a propulsive but subtly wistful score by Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross; watching a bunch of computer geeks build a website and sue each other becomes an eminently compelling viewing experience.
The real strength behind Fincher’s visual style though is his ability to capture the nuances of human behavior and in doing so, get into the psychology of his characters, regardless of how socially maladjusted they are. Often, these characters are deviants and sociopaths, or otherwise the people seeking to chase, and so understand, them. The Social Network is uncanny in its prescience, featuring as its subject a tech mogul, well before the proliferation of cults of personality surrounding them. In fact, while already ubiquitous at the time of the film’s release at the beginning of the decade, Facebook had not yet achieved the pervasiveness that it now enjoys by virtue of integration into countless aspects of digital existence.
In spite of how unnerving his affect is in reality, the portrait of Zuckerberg the film paints is distinctly human. It lays bare the deep-seated insecurity that fuels not just a drive to succeed, but to be seen succeeding. It delves into his obsession, which stems from an inability to cultivate and maintain meaningful relationships due to a lack of empathy and an intrinsic deficiency in charisma, but ironically leads him to create the world’s biggest tool for connecting online. It depicts the opportunism and ruthless pragmatism that enable him to achieve his goal, while at the same time costing him the very thing he’d sought all along: validation from people he holds in esteem. In demystifying one of the most prominent representatives of this recent, but incredibly influential archetype in our social landscape, we’re brought that much closer. We can see them up close and decide what to make of it for ourselves.
7) Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017)
dir. Rian Johnson
Pass on what you have learned: strength, mastery. But weakness, folly, failure also. Yes, failure most of all.
Nostalgia is a powerful thing, and an interesting phenomenon is that the information age seems to have only enabled it further. Given that modern technology has in many ways enhanced our ability to interact with cultural artifacts of our past, whether our history with them is firsthand or not — think about how easy it is for us to access copies of French New Wave classics online or to listen to every John Coltrane record in sequence through Spotify compared to the video rental visits and record store raids of yesteryear — this is sensible, if still a little unexpected.
What this means for much of the entertainment industry is a veritable parade of remakes, reboots, adaptations, and belated sequels for properties that have at any point in history held some measure of cultural cache. So of course Star Wars was going to follow. In the realm of cinema in particular, Star Wars is a Holy Grail like no other, possessing both enormous broad appeal and a historical significance for the medium that gives it a unique pedigree. Thing is, this cuts both ways. Movies based on Marvel properties are interpretations of characters and concepts primarily created half a century ago, and their status as interpretations lends them a liberating sense of impermanence: this is why we’ve had four disconnected versions of Spider-Man grace the silver screen in a little under a decade, and have had two wildly disappointing adaptations of X-Men’s “Dark Phoenix Saga”. Star Wars is odd in that it has that brand appeal, but to most people, the movies are Star Wars itself.
As you’d expect, this movement to commercialize nostalgia has birthed decidedly mixed results, mostly because almost all these trends are built on assumptions based on surface-level elements. Case in point: the assumption that Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy was successful because it took a beloved childhood icon and set it against a “realistic” backdrop stripped of the expected outré elements and dallied with “dark”, non-kid friendly subject matter, not because it was built on sound, classical storytelling structure, showcased strong fundamental filmmaking (direction, cinematography, score, etc.), and meaningfully engaged with morally and intellectually challenging themes relevant to the political climate. Cue the wave of gritty reboots.
The point is that there is every reason to not to expect anything too daring from a modern revival of Star Wars from a Lucasfilm now owned by, of all things, the Walt Disney Company, whose immediate brand recall are comfort and familiarity. When the first new entry, The Force Awakens delivered what was essentially a safe, familiar updating of traditional Star Wars, admittedly executed with great panache and solid storytelling, to enormous success, the road ahead appeared clear. How or why Lucasfilm handed the reins to its sequel over to a young auteurist who kicked off his career with a pastiche of old-school film noir in a contemporary high school setting, complete with hardboiled dialogue, and who’d go on to write and direct a send-up of classic whodunits that places a twist or two (or three) on the premise, featuring a cast of delightful 21st century caricatures, it’s difficult to say.
The Last Jedi is in many ways, exactly the kind of Star Wars movie you’d expect Rian Johnson to make. Just as Brick and Knives Out skewer their respective genres, it toys with its very nature as a nostalgia-driven entry in a beloved franchise. Just as we in real life have been casting an increasingly critical eye towards the institutions and traditions that through tradition and expectation have become sacred cows, it builds its story on having its characters engage with the power structures and dynamics inherent to the Star Wars setting, and question the roles they’ve been expected to play within them. Villain Kylo Ren rails against the path charted for him by his mentor, while protagonist Rey struggles with one unwilling to give her either direction or the validation she seeks. This non-mentor is returning hero Luke Skywalker, who actively questions many of the assumptions drawn from a surface-level reading of Star Wars past.
The result is a film that doesn’t simply parrot tropes for cheap validation or because it’s expected, but dissects, examines, and recontextualizes them for the modern day. Instead of taking the quick and easy path of paying lip service to the movies that came before it, it engages directly and thoughtfully with the nostalgia-fueled expectations on its shoulders. This is a sequel to a series of films that have become nothing short of modern myth that deliberately makes a statement about the value of mythmaking in our culture.
This approach hews closer in spirit to the entries that made a name for the franchise to begin with: In a filmmaking era defined by moral ambiguity and dominated by gangster epics, the exploits of grizzled law enforcement, and somber meditations on the Vietnam War, the original Star Wars was a heroic adventure in the classic mythological vein, set against an utterly fantastical backdrop, and featuring an orchestral, Wagnerian score. The Empire Strikes Back followed up this feel-good adrenaline rush with a reflective foray into the ideological underpinnings of its world, facing its motley crew of archetypes with difficult choices in order to reveal their true selves. For at least a brief moment, Star Wars wasn’t a lucrative trademark to be exploited, but again the bold, subversive piece of filmmaking that it used to be, a long time ago.
6) The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
dir. Wes Anderson
To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it. But I will say, he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace.
Most of the discussion that surrounds Wes Anderson’s work revolves around his distinctive personal style. It’s understandable; Anderson movies look, sound, and feel a particular, recognizable way. And there have been a couple of instances in his career (The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Darjeeling Limited) where the aesthetics took precedence over narrative, perhaps blurring the intended message. It’s unfortunate, because his best work (for my money, The Royal Tenenbaums, Rushmore, The Fantastic Mr. Fox) simply use symmetrically framed sets adorned with an assortment of curios and knick-knacks, dry exchanges of articulate and at times pointed observation, and deep cuts from the library of 60s pop to anchor deeply human storylines featuring flawed, eccentric, but ultimately sympathetic people.
He seems to engage with this directly in The Grand Budapest Hotel: at the heart of its narrative is Gustave M., the preening, often demanding concierge of the titular hotel, possessed of very particular preferences and a flair for the theatrical. The bulk of the movies takes comes in the form of a series of whimsical adventures that we follow primarily through the eyes of Zero Moustafa, the Grand Budapest’s new bellhop and Gustave’s protégé, framed by an overarching mission to clear Gustave’s name of murder and uncover the conspirators who sought to have him framed. In many ways, Anderson’s artifice is at its peak: the characters dress and behave more ridiculously than ever, the scenarios more absurd and surreal (contraband is smuggled into a prison wrapped in pastries… shaped exactly like the objects they enclose), and the hotel itself is represented in establishing shots as a diorama, with zero effort made to convince the audience otherwise.
While the zaniness unfolds though, we see Gustave deal with Zero and a gaggle of other wacky personalities brought to life by an array of stellar character actors, and it becomes clear that underneath the occasionally confronting exterior, it’s qualities like loyalty, fairness, and dedication to principle that drive his actions. We even get an inkling as to the reasons behind his eccentricity, not the result of lack of self-awareness but a deliberate choice to cling to certain modes of conduct because of what they represent. Anderson doesn’t hit us over the head with this, doesn’t suddenly switch modes, instead folding the weird and the thoughtful into an organic whole.
By the end, after the tension had mounted and the stakes had become uncomfortably palpable, the mood we’re left with is strangely subdued and nuanced. Anderson’s decision to use a two-fold framing device (a girl reads a storybook about a man, who recounts his anecdote of…), at the outset simply a contrivance, becomes clear. Each successive layer of story (notably shot in period-appropriate aspect ratio) is increasingly surreal, more filled with vivid primary colors and populated by strange artifacts and personalities. Conversely, the transition back out of each layer is accompanied by information about the film’s characters and events that paints a more melancholy, cynical perspective, until the movie ends and we’re back in the real world.
One surmises that Anderson’s stylistic flourishes aren’t borne of indulgence and a detachment from reality, but a conscious, purposeful choice, a tool through which to make sense of a world that’s often ugly and chaotic, and process experiences that often seem meaningless. Here, at the height of his artifice, the humanity is as urgent and palpable as ever.
The next five can be found here.
Hopefully, I’ve convinced you to give them a chance or to revisit them while you’re all bunkered up, because quarantine time is far better spent actually watching these things than reading my ramblings. Regardless, hope you enjoyed it!
