Best Movies of 2021
From intimate character studies to groundbreaking documentaries that captured pivotal cultural moments, 2021 delivered an exceptional year of cinema that reminded audiences why the movies matter. As theaters reopened and streaming platforms continued to flourish, filmmakers across the globe responded with bold, innovative storytelling that pushed boundaries and redefined what cinema could achieve. Our curated selection of the 21 best movies of 2021 showcases the year's most remarkable achievements, spanning critically acclaimed international dramas, powerful animated features, and documentary films that unveiled forgotten histories. Whether you're searching for award-winning performances that dominated the festival circuit, emotionally resonant indie gems that flew under the radar, or visually stunning epics that demanded to be experienced on the big screen, this definitive ranking captures the diverse filmmaking excellence that made 2021 unforgettable. Discover the standout directors, breakthrough performances, and cinematic moments that critics and audiences celebrated, from thought-provoking European art films to triumphant crowd-pleasers that restored faith in communal moviegoing experiences.
In the summer of 1969, while Woodstock grabbed headlines, another monumental music festival unfolded in Harlem's Mount Morris Park, drawing 300,000 attendees over six weeks—and then disappeared from cultural memory for fifty years. Questlove's directorial debut unearths this lost treasure, presenting astonishing footage of Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, Sly and the Family Stone, Mahalia Jackson, and many more at the peak of their powers. The performances alone would justify celebration, but the film goes deeper, contextualizing the Harlem Cultural Festival within the Civil Rights movement, Black Power era, and the moon landing that summer. Interviews with attendees reveal what this gathering meant to a community asserting joy and excellence amid turbulent times. The restoration is pristine, the music transcendent, and the historical reclamation profound. This isn't just a concert film—it's a vital correction to the historical record and an electrifying testament to Black cultural achievement.
Devastating, intimate, and ultimately hopeful, this animated documentary tells the story of Amin, an Afghan refugee grappling with secrets from his past as he prepares to marry his longtime partner. Director Jonas Poher Rasmussen uses animation to protect his subject's identity while allowing for profound emotional honesty, creating a visual language that moves seamlessly between present-day Denmark and harrowing flashbacks. The animation style serves the storytelling beautifully, making traumatic memories feel both impressionistic and painfully real. Amin's voice guides us through his journey from Kabul to Moscow to Copenhagen, revealing the layers of trauma and concealment that refugees often carry. The film tackles identity, sexuality, displacement, and survival without ever feeling didactic or manipulative. It's a deeply moving exploration of what it means to finally tell your truth after years of necessary silence, and how the past shapes our ability to embrace the future.
Haunting, cathartic, and deeply emotional, this conclusion to Hideaki Anno's Rebuild of Evangelion series delivers everything fans could hope for and more. Anno wraps up the complex mythology while never losing sight of the damaged characters at the story's heart, particularly Shinji Ikari, whose journey toward self-acceptance forms the film's emotional core. The animation is spectacular, blending traditional and CG techniques in ways that feel purposeful rather than flashy, and the action sequences are genuinely breathtaking. But what makes this finale so powerful is Anno's willingness to let his characters simply talk, process trauma, and find paths toward healing. It's a remarkably mature ending to a franchise that has always been about the pain of existence and the difficulty of connecting with others. Even at nearly three hours, the film never drags, building to a conclusion that feels both surprising and inevitable. Essential for fans, and a genuine masterpiece of animated cinema.
Confronting grief, guilt, and the possibility of human connection after devastating loss, Ryusuke Hamaguchi's adaptation of Haruki Murakami's short story expands into a profound three-hour meditation on art, communication, and healing. Hidetoshi Nishijima stars as Yusuke Kafuku, a theater director and actor whose wife dies suddenly, leaving him with unanswered questions about her fidelity and inner life. Two years later, while directing a multilingual production of Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in Hiroshima, he's assigned a young driver named Misaki, played with quiet intensity by Toko Miura, whose own grief begins to resonate with his. Hamaguchi demonstrates masterful patience, allowing scenes to unfold with naturalistic rhythms that draw viewers into genuine intimacy with these guarded characters. The decision to feature extended rehearsal footage of the Chekhov play creates fascinating parallels between performance and authenticity. Cinematographer Hidetoshi Shinomiya captures landscapes and faces with equal attentiveness. The film builds to emotionally devastating revelations earned through careful character development. This is cinema at its most humanistic and artistically accomplished, a rare achievement that justifies every minute of its runtime.
This is fundamentally a story about the beautiful, terrifying freedom of modern life and the paralysis that comes with infinite choices. Director Joachim Trier follows Julie through four years and multiple chapters as she navigates relationships, careers, and the gulf between who she thought she'd become and who she actually is. Renate Reinsve delivers a phenomenal, utterly natural performance that makes Julie's contradictions and impulsiveness feel completely understandable rather than frustrating. Trier employs inventive visual techniques—a frozen-time sequence is particularly memorable—but never loses sight of the raw emotional truth at the film's center. Anders Danielsen Lie provides perfect support as one of Julie's partners. It's an achingly perceptive film about being young-ish in the 21st century, capturing both the exhilaration and anxiety of self-determination with remarkable insight and compassion.
When terrorists attack on September 11, 2001, American airspace closes immediately, forcing 38 international flights carrying nearly 7,000 passengers to land unexpectedly in Gander, Newfoundland. This filmed version of the Tony Award-winning musical, directed by Christopher Ashley, beautifully captures how the small Canadian town's residents opened their homes and hearts to stranded travelers during those uncertain days. The ensemble cast delivers the show's uplifting songs and interwoven stories with infectious energy and genuine emotion, celebrating human kindness in the face of tragedy without minimizing the event's gravity. The production wisely maintains the musical's stage origins rather than attempting cinematic realism, allowing the powerful performances and storytelling to take center stage. What emerges is a deeply moving tribute to compassion and community, reminding viewers that even during humanity's darkest moments, extraordinary generosity can flourish in unexpected places.
This extraordinary documentary chronicles the 2018 Tham Luang cave rescue, when a Thai youth soccer team and their coach became trapped deep underground by rising floodwaters, triggering an international effort that captivated the world and tested the limits of human courage and ingenuity. Directors Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin (Free Solo) gain remarkable access to the divers, engineers, and volunteers who orchestrated the seemingly impossible extraction, using a combination of interview footage, news coverage, and incredibly tense cave diving cinematography to reconstruct the high-stakes operation. The film brilliantly conveys both the technical complexity of the rescue and the human drama underlying every decision, as expert divers pushed into unexplored passages while the clock ticked down. What emerges is not just a thrilling procedural but a profound meditation on international cooperation, expertise, and selfless heroism. It's edge-of-your-seat filmmaking that reminds us what humans can accomplish when they refuse to accept the impossible.
Tender, enchanting, and emotionally perceptive, Céline Sciamma's meditation on childhood, grief, and imagination unfolds with the simplicity and wonder of the best children's literature. Eight-year-old Nelly (Joséphine Sanz) is helping her parents clear out her grandmother's rural home when she wanders into the woods and encounters a girl her own age building a fort—a girl who turns out to be her mother Marion (Gabrielle Sanz, Joséphine's real-life twin) at the same age. Sciamma handles this magical-realist premise with remarkable restraint and grace, never over-explaining the mechanics but focusing instead on the emotional truth of a daughter understanding her mother as a person. The film is brief—just 72 minutes—but every moment feels essential, and the twin casting creates an uncanny believability. It's a film about how we carry our past selves within us, about empathy across generations, and about how children process loss. Absolutely beautiful and deeply moving without a manipulative moment.
This remarkable documentary from director Maria Speth captures the extraordinary work of an unconventional German teacher and his diverse group of students over the course of a school year. Dieter Bachmann teaches in Stadtallendorf, bringing patience, creativity, and genuine respect to his work with children from immigrant backgrounds. What could have been a simple inspirational teacher story becomes something far more profound as Speth's camera observes without judgment, allowing moments of learning, frustration, and connection to unfold naturally. The film's three-and-a-half-hour runtime might seem daunting, but the time allows viewers to truly understand these young people as individuals rather than symbols. Bachmann's methods—incorporating music, discussion, and real-world engagement—demonstrate how education can transcend mere academics. It's an inspiring and deeply humanistic work that celebrates both a dedicated educator and the resilience of his students.
Electrifying doesn't even begin to describe this concert documentary capturing Oasis at the absolute peak of their powers during two legendary nights at Knebworth Park in August 1996. Directors Jake Scott and James Russell assemble footage from the historic shows where over 250,000 fans witnessed the Gallagher brothers and company during the "What's Story Morning Glory?" tour, with an estimated 2.6 million having applied for tickets. The film doesn't just present the concert footage—though the performances themselves are phenomenal—but contextualizes this cultural moment through interviews and archival material that captures the sheer mania of Britpop at its zenith. The brothers' swagger is undeniable, the crowd's energy is palpable even through the screen, and classics like "Wonderwall," "Don't Look Back in Anger," and "Champagne Supernova" have rarely sounded more anthemic. For fans, it's essential viewing that captures the band before the inevitable decline; for newcomers, it's a thrilling document of a defining moment in British rock history.
Streaming live from Columbus, Ohio during the pandemic lockdown era, Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun created something genuinely special with this ambitious virtual concert experience. The duo transformed the limitations of livestreaming into creative opportunities, crafting a visually stunning performance that feels both intimate and expansive. Directors Jason Zada and Mark C. Eshleman capture the meticulously designed stage environments and lighting schemes that shift with each song's emotional landscape. The setlist draws from across Twenty One Pilots' catalog, with performances that crackle with energy despite the absence of a physical audience. What elevates this beyond typical concert film territory is the production design and visual effects work, which creates immersive worlds for each track without overwhelming the musicianship at the core. Joseph's vocals are exceptional throughout, and Dun's drumming provides propulsive energy that translates remarkably well to the screen. This stands as a creative triumph that captured a moment in time while delivering lasting entertainment value.
This hybrid documentary-animation follows an adorable one-inch mollusk with shoes and a heartwarming perspective as he searches for his long-lost family while sharing his tiny world with the human who discovers him. Director Dean Fleischer Camp expands his viral short films into a surprisingly moving feature that uses stop-motion animation and documentary techniques to create something genuinely original. Jenny Slate provides Marcel's voice with perfect childlike wisdom, finding humor and poignancy in this little creature's philosophical observations about life, loss, and community. What could have been a slight novelty instead becomes a tender meditation on loneliness, resilience, and finding connection in unexpected places. The film's gentle pacing and Marcel's earnest vulnerability create moments of surprising emotional depth, particularly as his story intersects with themes of family separation and holding onto hope. Isabella Rossellini lends her voice to Marcel's grandmother in scenes that will quietly wreck you. It's a small miracle of a film—inventive, touching, and infinitely rewatchable.
In postwar Germany, a man is repeatedly imprisoned under Paragraph 175, the law criminalizing homosexuality, forming an unlikely friendship with a fellow inmate across decades of incarceration. Sebastian Meise's powerful drama traces Viktor's life through multiple prison terms, where he develops a profound bond with Hans, a convicted murderer who becomes his only constant in a life defined by persecution. Franz Rogowski delivers an extraordinary performance as Viktor, capturing decades of aging and the toll of systematic oppression without ever losing his character's essential humanity. Georg Friedrich matches him as Hans, creating a relationship that becomes the film's emotional anchor. Meise refuses to sanitize prison life while finding moments of tenderness and resistance within brutal circumstances. The film serves as both a devastating reminder of historical persecution and a testament to human resilience and connection under the most oppressive conditions.
Three separate stories, each exploring the unexpected ways that chance encounters, miscommunications, and coincidences shape romantic and personal destinies, form the elegant structure of Ryūsuke Hamaguchi's masterful triptych. Working with a deceptively simple premise—each segment revolves around women navigating moments of emotional revelation—Hamaguchi crafts a deeply moving meditation on connection, regret, and the stories we tell ourselves. The director's patient, observational style allows scenes to unfold in long, unbroken conversations where small gestures carry enormous emotional weight. The ensemble cast delivers extraordinarily naturalistic performances that make each scenario feel simultaneously specific and universal. What could have been a mere formal exercise instead becomes something profound: a demonstration that the smallest moments—a chance meeting, a misheard word, a story shared—can reverberate through our lives in ways we never anticipate. This is sophisticated, deeply humane filmmaking that rewards viewers willing to surrender to its contemplative rhythms.
An Iranian family travels across the country on a road trip shadowed by an unspoken but palpable tension—they're taking their eldest son to the border, where he'll escape the country to avoid an unclear but serious threat. Director Panah Panahi (son of the renowned Jafar Panahi) crafts a deceptively simple journey film that gradually reveals its emotional depths. The confined space of the family's Volvo becomes a pressure cooker for arguments, memories, and reconciliations, while the stunning Iranian landscape outside the windows serves as a bittersweet reminder of what's being left behind. The performances feel utterly natural, particularly the younger brother whose innocent questions and observations cut through the family's carefully maintained composure. Panahi demonstrates a masterful control of tone, moving seamlessly between humor and heartbreak, often within the same scene. What could have been a somber dirge becomes something more life-affirming—a celebration of familial love even in circumstances designed to tear families apart. It's a remarkable debut that announces a significant new filmmaking voice.
This black-and-white drama follows radio journalist Johnny (Joaquin Phoenix) as he travels across America interviewing children about their lives, fears, and dreams while caring for his young nephew Jesse (Woody Norman). Director Mike Mills crafts something genuinely special here—a film that listens to young people with the same seriousness it gives adults, capturing their philosophical observations and unfiltered honesty. Phoenix is wonderfully understated as a man learning to connect with a child while processing his own family trauma, while Norman delivers one of the most authentic child performances in recent memory. Cinematographer Robbie Ryan's luminous black-and-white photography finds beauty in cities from New York to New Orleans, and the real interviews with children woven throughout give the film documentary richness. Mills has created a meditation on empathy, family, and how we prepare the next generation for an uncertain world. It's patient, moving, and deeply humane.
Devastating and electrifying in equal measure, this historical drama recounts the FBI's infiltration and assassination of Black Panther chairman Fred Hampton through informant William O'Neal in late 1960s Chicago. Director Shaka King orchestrates a powerful ensemble led by Daniel Kaluuya, who inhabits Hampton with magnetic charisma and revolutionary conviction, making his tragic fate all the more heartbreaking. LaKeith Stanfield matches him as O'Neal, capturing the internal torment of a man who betrayed greatness for self-preservation. King refuses to simplify the moral complexities, showing how institutional power weaponizes poverty and fear against movements for justice. The film crackles with urgency, drawing clear lines between historical oppression and contemporary struggles without ever feeling didactic. Cinematographer Sean Bobbitt captures both the warmth of community organizing and the cold brutality of state violence. Every performance, every frame, every choice serves the larger purpose of bearing witness to a profound injustice while celebrating the revolutionary spirit that couldn't be killed. This is essential American cinema that demands to be seen.
This unflinching drama follows a young university student in 1960s France who discovers she's pregnant and must navigate an illegal and dangerous world to terminate her pregnancy. Audrey Diwan's adaptation of Annie Ernaux's memoir is absolutely shattering in its immediacy and power, with Anamaria Vartolomei delivering a performance of raw courage as Anne, a woman whose entire future hangs in the balance. The film doesn't shy away from the physical and psychological toll of Anne's journey, employing an almost tactile visual style that puts viewers directly in her experience. What makes this so devastating and vital is how Diwan captures the claustrophobia of a society that criminalizes women's bodily autonomy while maintaining Anne's dignity and determination throughout. The period setting feels uncomfortably relevant, and the film builds to moments of almost unbearable tension as Anne's options narrow. This is essential, urgent cinema that transforms personal history into something universally powerful.
Reverential yet deeply engaging, Giuseppe Tornatore's documentary portrait of composer Ennio Morricone captures both the man and his monumental impact on film music across seven decades. Through extensive interviews conducted before Morricone's death in 2020, along with testimonials from directors like Quentin Tarantino, Oliver Stone, and Wong Kar-wai, the film traces his evolution from avant-garde composer to creator of some of cinema's most recognizable scores. Morricone's collaborations with Sergio Leone transformed the Western, but the documentary reveals the astonishing breadth of his work across more than 500 film scores, each approached with rigorous craftsmanship. Tornatore intersperses analysis of Morricone's compositional techniques with concert footage and film clips, creating a comprehensive portrait that music lovers and casual fans can equally appreciate. At 156 minutes, it's thorough without feeling padded, a fitting tribute to an artist whose work elevated every film he touched.
Jason Isaacs and Martha Plimpton deliver absolutely shattering performances as Jay and Gail Perry, parents meeting with Richard and Linda (Reed Birney and Ann Dowd), whose son killed their son in a school shooting years earlier. Director Fran Kranz, in his feature debut, stages almost the entire film as a conversation in a single church room, trusting his extraordinary cast and Daniel Kitrosser's script to hold our attention through dialogue alone. What emerges is a profoundly moving examination of grief, forgiveness, and the impossibility of finding meaning in senseless tragedy. All four actors do career-best work, navigating their characters through rage, denial, defensiveness, and vulnerability with breathtaking honesty. Kranz's direction is admirably restrained, knowing when to hold on faces and when to let silence speak. The film never offers easy answers or catharsis, refusing to sentimentalize its subject matter while still honoring the humanity of everyone involved. This is challenging, essential cinema that treats an impossibly difficult subject with the gravity and complexity it demands, resulting in one of the most emotionally powerful films in recent memory.
Hypnotic and richly textured, Todd Haynes' documentary employs split-screen compositions and archival experimental films to capture both the band's revolutionary sound and the avant-garde art scene that birthed them. Rather than following a conventional documentary structure with talking heads and linear biography, Haynes immerses viewers in the creative ferment of 1960s New York, where Lou Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison, Maureen Tucker, and later Nico converged to create music that sounded like nothing else. The film draws extensively from Andy Warhol's Factory footage and the experimental cinema of Jonas Mekas, creating a visual language that mirrors the Velvet Underground's own artistic adventurousness—you don't just learn about their influence, you experience something approximating their aesthetic approach. Interviews with surviving members and collaborators provide context, but Haynes trusts his visual strategy to convey how radical this music was in its moment and why it continues to resonate. The multi-screen technique, which could feel gimmicky, instead perfectly captures the sensory overload and creative cross-pollination of the era. This is documentary filmmaking as art object itself, a worthy tribute that understands the band deserved something more than conventional hagiography—innovative subjects demand innovative treatment, and Haynes delivers magnificently.