Best Movies of 1970
1970 stands as a watershed year in cinema history, marking a bold creative shift that produced some of the most daring and influential films ever made. As Hollywood's old studio system crumbled and international auteurs reached their creative peak, audiences witnessed an unprecedented wave of groundbreaking storytelling that challenged conventions and redefined what movies could achieve. The best movies of 1970 showcase this revolutionary spirit through intimate character studies, politically charged dramas, and visionary documentaries that captured the era's tumultuous energy. From European masters crafting stylish thrillers to American directors exploring alienation and rebellion, these 21 essential films represent the artistic fearlessness that made 1970 unforgettable. Whether you're seeking award-winning performances that pushed dramatic boundaries, innovative cinematography that influenced generations of filmmakers, or culturally significant works that documented pivotal moments in music and social movements, this curated selection celebrates the cinematic excellence that emerged during one of film history's most creatively explosive years. Discover the masterpieces that captivated critics, challenged audiences, and continue to inspire filmmakers today.
Visually intoxicating and morally complex, Bernardo Bertolucci's adaptation of Alberto Moravia's novel is a stunning achievement that uses fascist Italy as a backdrop for exploring identity, conformity, and self-deception. Jean-Louis Trintignant plays Marcello Clerici, a man so desperate to appear normal that he joins the Fascist secret police and accepts an assignment to assassinate his former professor. Vittorio Storaro's cinematography is absolutely breathtaking—every frame is composed with painterly precision, using color and light to externalize Marcello's psychological state. The film moves fluidly through time, revealing how trauma and shame shape political allegiance and personal betrayal. Dominique Sanda is unforgettable as the professor's wife who both attracts and unsettles Marcello. Bertolucci's direction is confident and sophisticated, creating a film that works as both political critique and psychological study. A masterpiece of 1970s cinema that demands to be seen.
While there isn't a traditional lead actor or character in this documentary, the true star of Woodstock is the half-million strong crowd that descended on Max Yasgur's farm in August 1969. Director Michael Wadleigh crafts an electrifying chronicle of three days that defined a generation, featuring legendary performances from Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, and Santana. The split-screen cinematography captures both the mind-blowing music and the muddy, chaotic, beautiful humanity of the festival itself. This isn't just a concert film—it's a time capsule of counterculture at its peak, when music genuinely felt like it could change the world. The editing won an Oscar for good reason, weaving together performances with candid moments that showcase the idealism, community, and sheer joy of the event.
In the shadowy underworld of 1970s Paris, director Jean-Pierre Melville crafts what might be the ultimate heist film—a masterclass in atmospheric noir where every frame feels like a work of art. Alain Delon, Yves Montand, and Gian Maria Volonté form an unlikely criminal alliance to pull off an elaborate jewelry store robbery, but the mechanics of the crime matter less than the ritualistic precision with which Melville stages every moment. The famous centerpiece heist unfolds in nearly wordless tension for thirty minutes, yet you can't look away for a second. Melville's vision of the criminal code and masculine honor feels mythic, elevated by Henri Decaë's stunning cinematography that bathes everything in blues and grays. This is filmmaking at its most assured and hypnotic, where silence speaks louder than dialogue and fate circles these doomed men like a patient predator.
Darkly satirical and deeply unsettling, this Italian thriller creates a nightmarish vision of power and corruption through the story of a police inspector (Gian Maria Volontè in a tour-de-force performance) who commits a murder just to prove he's above the law. Director Elio Petri and Volontè collaborated to create one of cinema's most chilling character studies, following the inspector as he taunts investigators, manipulates evidence, and publicly plays the role of the dedicated detective pursuing himself. The film's distinctive visual style—featuring distorted angles, vivid colors, and disorienting compositions—mirrors the protagonist's psychological instability and the twisted society that enables his behavior. Ennio Morricone's unsettling score adds another layer of anxiety to the proceedings. What could have been a straightforward thriller becomes a razor-sharp critique of authoritarianism and institutional power. This is thrilling, intelligent cinema that grows more relevant with each passing year, proving that unchecked authority remains one of humanity's most dangerous impulses.
Luis Buñuel crafts a devastating character study with Catherine Deneuve delivering one of her finest performances as the title character, a young woman whose fate becomes entangled with her guardian Don Lope, played brilliantly by Fernando Rey. Set in early 20th century Spain, the film traces Tristana's transformation from innocent ward to complex woman as she navigates the hypocrisies of a patriarchal society. Buñuel's signature surrealist touches punctuate what is otherwise a grimly realistic portrayal of power, manipulation, and the limited choices available to women. Deneuve brings remarkable depth to Tristana's evolution, making her neither simply victim nor villain but something more complicated and human. The director's anticlerical sentiments and critique of bourgeois morality simmer throughout, culminating in an ending that feels both inevitable and shocking. This is late-period Buñuel at his most controlled and devastating, a film that lingers long after viewing and rewards multiple watches with its psychological complexity and visual precision.
Following the Rolling Stones on their 1969 American tour should have been a triumphant document of rock and roll at its peak, but directors Albert and David Maysles captured something far more profound and unsettling. This extraordinary documentary builds toward the free concert at Altamont Speedway, where violence erupted and a young man was killed, marking what many consider the symbolic end of the 1960s counterculture dream. The Maysles brothers' cinéma vérité approach puts you right in the middle of everything—the backstage chaos, the screaming crowds, and the mounting tension as the Hells Angels "security" grows increasingly aggressive. The performance footage is electrifying, but it's the film's unflinching honesty about what went wrong that makes it essential viewing. This isn't just a concert film; it's a masterpiece of documentary filmmaking that captures a cultural moment collapsing in real time.
In this remarkable true story, François Truffaut directs and stars as Dr. Jean Itard, the 18th-century physician who attempts to educate and civilize a feral child discovered living wild in the French countryside. The film is a profound exploration of what makes us human, examining questions of nature versus nurture, communication, and the ethical boundaries of scientific inquiry with remarkable intelligence and sensitivity. Jean-Pierre Cargol gives an extraordinary performance as Victor, the wild child, conveying complex emotions without dialogue. Truffaut's restrained direction and the stark black-and-white cinematography create an almost documentary-like quality that emphasizes the dignity of both subject and doctor. The film raises challenging questions about civilization's value and the cost of imposing social conformity, never offering easy answers. It's a masterful work that combines intellectual rigor with genuine emotional power, representing Truffaut at his most contemplative and humane.
In early 1970s Washington state, Bobby Dupea works on an oil rig, bowling and drinking beer, concealing the fact that he comes from a family of classical musicians and possesses considerable piano talent himself. Jack Nicholson delivers one of his finest performances as Bobby, a man running from expectations and unable to connect authentically with anyone around him. Director Bob Rafelson captures the rootlessness of American life with observational precision, following Bobby as circumstances force him to return to his family home and confront what he's abandoned. Karen Black is excellent as Bobby's working-class girlfriend, whose simplicity throws his pretensions into sharp relief. The film builds to the famous diner scene where Nicholson's frustration with arbitrary rules explodes, but it's the quieter moments—particularly those with his ailing father—that reveal the character's profound disconnection. This quintessential New Hollywood character study examines class, talent, and the American tendency to reject the past without finding a meaningful future. Rafelson and Nicholson create a portrait of alienation that feels as relevant now as it did fifty years ago.
This documentary captures The Beatles during their final days as a working band, offering an invaluable glimpse into their creative process and deteriorating relationships. Directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg, the film documents the January 1969 sessions that would produce the *Let It Be* album, featuring raw rehearsals, tense discussions, and ultimately the iconic rooftop concert atop Apple Corps headquarters. While the atmosphere often feels strained—Paul McCartney pushes the group forward while George Harrison visibly struggles with his role—the musical moments remain compelling, showcasing songs like "Get Back" and "The Long and Winding Road" in their formative stages. The intimate footage provides essential context for understanding the band's dissolution while celebrating their extraordinary partnership. For Beatles historians and casual fans alike, this remains an important document of rock's most influential group during their bittersweet final chapter.
Donald Sutherland leads an ensemble cast as Hawkeye Pierce, the irreverent army surgeon who uses dark humor and hijinks to cope with the horrors of the Korean War in Robert Altman's groundbreaking comedy. The film follows the misadventures of the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, where Hawkeye and his fellow doctors—including Elliott Gould as Trapper John—perform life-saving operations while thumbing their nose at military authority. Altman's overlapping dialogue and improvisational style create a chaotic, authentic feel that perfectly captures the absurdity of war. The film balances genuinely funny moments with the sobering reality of battlefield medicine, never letting you forget the stakes even as you're laughing. This anti-establishment satire broke new ground for what studio comedies could achieve, influencing everything from the long-running TV series to countless war films that followed.
In late 1940s America, this true-crime story follows lonely nurse Martha Beck (Shirley Stoler) as she falls under the spell of charismatic con man Ray Fernandez (Tony Lo Bianco), who seduces and swindles lonely women through correspondence clubs. Director Leonard Kastle, making his only feature film, shoots their increasingly murderous romance with stark, unglamorous realism that feels decades ahead of its time. The film refuses to romanticize its antiheroes, instead presenting them as desperately pathetic figures whose obsessive codependency leads to brutal violence. Stoler and Lo Bianco deliver fearless performances, inhabiting their characters' physical and emotional grotesqueness without vanity. Shot in raw black-and-white that emphasizes the seediness of their schemes, the film plays like a disturbing docudrama. While its pacing occasionally falters, the psychological portrait of folie à deux and American loneliness remains unsettlingly powerful, earning its cult reputation as an overlooked noir classic.
Epic in scope and deeply humanistic in perspective, Youssef Chahine's masterwork follows an Egyptian farming family across three generations as they struggle against landowners, changing political regimes, and the timeless challenges of working the land. Mahmoud el-Meliguy leads an exceptional cast in this sprawling drama that uses one family's story to explore Egypt's tumultuous twentieth-century history. Chahine's direction balances intimate character moments with sweeping historical context, creating a rich tapestry that honors the resilience and dignity of rural Egyptian life. The film's connection to the land itself becomes almost mythic, with the soil representing both burden and birthright across generations. Beautifully shot and powerfully acted, it stands as a landmark of Arab cinema that transcends cultural boundaries through its universal themes of family, justice, and perseverance. This is essential viewing that rewards its substantial runtime with genuine emotional and intellectual depth.
In this film, director Jacques Demy reimagines a classic fairy tale through a kaleidoscope of color, whimsy, and thinly veiled Freudian psychology. Catherine Deneuve stars as a princess who flees her kingdom when her father, the king, decides he must marry her after his wife's death. What follows is a visually sumptuous fantasy where Deneuve disguises herself in the titular donkey skin while a prince becomes obsessed with finding her. Demy collaborates with his frequent creative partner, composer Michel Legrand, whose score enhances the film's dreamlike quality, while costumes by Gilles Aucaigne and production design by Jacques Dugied create a storybook world that feels both timeless and distinctly of its era. The film balances its darker psychological underpinnings with genuine enchantment, never losing sight of the fairy tale's inherent strangeness. Jean Marais appears as the king, bringing weight to what could have been a thankless role. Demy's direction embraces artifice and theatricality, creating a film that delights in its own magical impossibility.
At its core, this is a story about the masks people wear and the vulnerability required to remove them, adapted from Mart Crowley's groundbreaking play about a group of gay men gathering for a birthday party in pre-Stonewall New York. Director William Friedkin, just before his breakthrough with The French Connection, preserves the theatrical origins while opening up the single-location setting enough to maintain cinematic interest. The entire original Broadway cast returns, led by Kenneth Nelson as Michael, the acerbic host whose self-loathing bubbles beneath witty repartee. What begins as celebratory banter gradually transforms into something darker as the arrival of an unexpected straight guest catalyzes a night of cruel games and painful revelations. The film captures a specific moment in LGBTQ history with unflinching honesty, portraying internalized homophobia and community dynamics that remain resonant. While some elements feel dated, the emotional truths at its center endure.
Arthur Hiller directs this adaptation of Erich Segal's bestselling novel about a relationship between two college students from vastly different social backgrounds. Ali MacGraw and Ryan O'Neal have genuine chemistry as the working-class Radcliffe student and wealthy Harvard jock whose love story unfolds with both sweetness and inevitable heartbreak. The film became a cultural phenomenon upon release, and while some elements feel melodramatic decades later, the central performances remain affecting. Hiller wisely keeps the focus intimate even as the story heads toward tragedy, trusting his actors to sell the emotional moments without excessive manipulation. Francis Lai's iconic score has become so ubiquitous it risks overwhelming the film itself, but it genuinely enhances the romantic atmosphere. The script's famous line has been parodied endlessly, yet in context it works as character-driven dialogue rather than greeting card sentiment. Modern viewers may find the pacing slow and the tragedy telegraphed, but there's a reason this connected with audiences so powerfully—it treats young love with respect and captures both its intensity and fragility with sincerity.
This sprawling wuxia epic explores the collision between contemplative Buddhist philosophy and the brutal realities of political violence in Ming Dynasty China. Director King Hu crafts a three-hour meditation on fate, honor, and the cost of taking sides, centered on a humble portrait artist who becomes entangled with fugitive rebels hiding from corrupt officials. Hsu Feng delivers a mesmerizing performance as the enigmatic warrior Yang, while the film's deliberate pacing allows for moments of genuine spiritual reflection between spectacularly choreographed action sequences. Hu's innovative camerawork and use of natural landscapes transformed martial arts cinema, influencing generations of filmmakers from Ang Lee to Zhang Yimou. The bamboo forest battle sequence alone justifies the runtime, though A Touch of Zen offers far more than technical brilliance. This is essential viewing for anyone interested in how action cinema can grapple with philosophical depth without sacrificing visceral excitement.
In Brooklyn during the late 1960s, a privileged young white man named Elgar impulsively purchases a tenement building in a predominantly Black neighborhood, launching a culture-clash comedy-drama that's far more complex than its premise suggests. Director Hal Ashby, in his directorial debut, brings his characteristic humanism to this adaptation of Kristin Hunter's novel, with Beau Bridges playing Elgar as a well-meaning but clueless interloper whose presence disrupts the building's existing community. Lee Grant excels as Elgar's society mother, delivering a performance that earned her an Oscar, while Pearl Bailey and Diana Sands anchor the tenant side with dignity and sharp wit. Ashby refuses to simplify the racial dynamics at play, showing how Elgar's wealth and naiveté create real harm even when his intentions aren't malicious, while also avoiding the trap of making him purely a villain. The film's tonal shifts—from broad comedy to serious social commentary to bedroom farce—don't always mesh seamlessly, but the ambitious messiness feels appropriate for the subject matter. It's a fascinating early work from a director who would go on to define 1970s American cinema, already displaying his interest in characters struggling across cultural divides.
Capturing Elvis Presley at the absolute peak of his live performance powers, this 1970 concert documentary follows the King through his landmark summer residency at the International Hotel in Las Vegas. Director Denis Sanders wisely keeps the focus squarely on the music, offering extended performances of classics like "Suspicious Minds," "All Shook Up," and "Can't Help Falling in Love" without excessive backstage filler or talking heads. What emerges is a thrilling portrait of an artist reclaiming his throne after years away from live performance. Elvis radiates charisma and confidence, his voice powerful and his stage presence magnetic as he works through a setlist that showcases both his rock and roll roots and his more recent ballad work. The film stands as essential viewing for understanding why Presley remains an enduring cultural icon.
Metropolitan Hospital in New York City opens its doors to Frederick Wiseman's unflinching documentary camera, revealing the daily struggles of an underfunded public healthcare system serving a predominantly poor community. Wiseman employs his signature observational style, letting scenes unfold without narration or musical manipulation, and the result is both devastating and deeply humanizing. We witness overworked doctors and nurses navigating impossible choices, patients waiting hours for care, and administrators wrestling with budget constraints that directly impact human lives. The film's 84-minute runtime captures the systemic failures and individual dedication with equal clarity, creating a portrait that remains shockingly relevant decades later. Wiseman finds dignity and dark humor in the chaos, never exploiting his subjects while honestly depicting the crumbling infrastructure of American healthcare. Hospital stands as essential documentary filmmaking—urgent, compassionate, and politically vital without ever becoming preachy.
In a stark, snow-covered landscape that could be ancient Britain or a timeless nowhere, director Grigori Kozintsev presents Shakespeare's tragedy as a primal howl against the void. This Soviet production features Yuri Yarvet as Lear, delivering a performance that emphasizes the character's dissolution rather than his majesty—he's a foolish old man who learns wisdom far too late. Kozintsev, working with a Russian translation by Boris Pasternak and a score by Dmitri Shostakovich, creates a Lear that feels elemental and apocalyptic, stripping away theatrical conventions in favor of cinematic poetry. The black-and-white cinematography by Jonas Gricius captures vast, desolate spaces that dwarf the human figures, reinforcing the play's themes of cosmic indifference to human suffering. The pacing is deliberate, allowing scenes to develop with patient intensity rather than rushing through the plot. While perhaps less immediately accessible than Laurence Olivier's more traditional Shakespeare adaptations, this version offers a haunting, distinctly Russian interpretation that emphasizes the play's existential despair. It's a significant artistic achievement that demonstrates how culturally specific approaches can illuminate new dimensions in classic texts.
In this essential historical document, directors Joseph L. Mankiewicz and Sidney Lumet assemble contemporary footage to chronicle Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s journey from the Montgomery bus boycott to his assassination in Memphis. The film eschews retrospective narration or modern historical framing, instead allowing the archival material to speak directly—speeches, news coverage, protest footage, and intimate moments captured during the civil rights movement's most pivotal years. The cumulative effect is powerful and often overwhelming, as we witness both the moral clarity of King's vision and the brutal resistance it encountered. The footage of police violence, angry white mobs, and political intransigence remains deeply disturbing, while King's oratory—captured in extended passages—demonstrates precisely why his words moved a nation. The film never hagiographizes its subject, showing King as a brilliant strategist and inspiring leader rather than a saint. As both historical record and tribute, it serves as an invaluable resource for understanding this transformative period in American history.