10 Movies That Were Better Than 12 Years A Slave

If you thought 12 Years a Slave was the best movie of the year, you've probably not watched these films.

Forget the Oscars.

We’ve seen who won and we know why, but 2013 was a year of much greater English-language cinema than the one that picked up the top prize.

The following 10 films make for a very eclectic and unlikely list: there are two films starring Olivia Wilde; two films starring Adam Driver, two black-and-white films, and absolutely nothing in 3D.

The ones that almost made the list are gems in their own right -- Enough Said, Short Term 12, The Place Beyond The Pines and Afternoon Delight -- and I wish I’d watched Spring Breakers a few more times so I could finally understand whether it was great or godawful.

It took much pedantic sorting and shuffling (and maybe a couple of tossed coins) to arrive at 10 films, but what films they are.

So, I say again, forget the Oscars.

Here are the real Best Pictures:

10. Drinking Buddies

This. This is what all mumblecore should aspire to be.

A less obvious but no less incisive look into a couple of relationships as they stumble along being all coupley, Joe Swanberg’s film consists of strikingly relatable dialogue mostly improvised by the great cast -- Anna Kendrick, Olivia Wilde, Jake Johnson and Ron Livingston star, and are all great -- with the director cannily riffing on their naturally bright, young vibe by dousing the picture itself in melancholia.

Slick, very slick, and disarmingly honest.

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Director and writer Richard Linklater reunited with actor-writers Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy for this unlikely, unflinching look at what may well be the definitive on-screen relationship for our generation.

Before Sunrise sparkled in 1995 and Before Sunset dazzled us in 2004, but this third film brought up questions and ruminations of life and love in a way we never expected (or, indeed, wanted) Celine or Jesse to confront.

It is a film that acts as balm, as mirror, as accusation.

Heartbreaking, powerful and shouldered by masterfully long chunks of dialogue, it feels more confessional that cinema ought be.

In a way, while reminding us that some things stay the same, this film changes everything.

Beer never looked more like liquid gold than in the opening of Edgar Wright’s madcap genre-mashing finale to his Cornetto Trilogy. And that’s just the tip of the, well, the tipple.

Simon Pegg -- in his best written character to date -- plays a swashbuckling saucer rousing his school gang from necktied-apathy to take them on a boozy bender they never finished in their heyday.

Wright, shifting gear in loony but scrupulous fashion, throws us right into a whole other kind of film while never losing sight of his first one.

The energy, the gags, the way the director and his actors full-throatedly embrace the ludicrousness of it all: The World’s End is the perfect pint.

Joel and Ethan Coen, those cinematic troubadours who croon captivating ballads about people we would normally just point and laugh at, are at it again with this gorgeous film about a folk musician fated to be but a footnote.

It is a beautiful film about a depressing, mean man (played superbly by Oscar Isaacs) who naively believes his talent will see him through.

It doesn’t, but it does allow him to bob afloat on the choppiest of waters populated by corks like him. And, in true Coen style, many a screwball.

Stunningly shot by Bruno Delbonnel, the film wallows in Llewyn Davis’ misery, pausing only to let the brilliant music lift it to another level. Before hurtling it down again.

The world, as Davis says, is divided into two kinds of people: those who divide the world into two kinds of people...

Read the review here

Woody Allen’s film might well be an update of Tennessee William’s A Streetcar Named Desire, but Blue Jasmine is a crueller, sharper and decidedly more devastating tale.

Cate Blanchett’s Jasmine is a delusional neurotic, a woman well beyond the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Her marriage, with a wheeler-dealer of possibly Belfort-ian proportions, has imploded after many years in denial, and now the Hermes-carrying Jasmine can’t afford cab-fare.

Populated by fascinating characters armed with Allen’s typically quotable lines, this perfectly cast film throws up many a moment of absolute unforgettability.

Sally Hawkins, Alec Baldwin and Bobby Cannavale all shine, but the film belongs to Blanchett’s Jasmine, for whom the meaning of life truly does involve the consideration of who one has to sleep with (around here) to get a (Stoli) martini (with a twist of lemon).

The only big-screen spectacular to make it to my list this year, Rush is a rousingly dramatic film that sees director Ron Howard at his very best.

The facts -- about a mid-70s Formula One rivalry between two drivers that almost killed one of them -- are incredible enough without embellishment, and screenwriter Peter Morgan takes what was known and doodles in the margins around it, amping up the off-track thrill.

Chris Hemsworth and Daniel Bruhl are terrific as British playboy James Hunt and Austrian genius Niki Lauda, and Howard swings his narrative from one to the other like a violently socked punching bag.

Rush ends up riveting, surprising and compelling: one of the best sports films in modern times.

Read the review here

'You need to water these plants,' a girl tells her boyfriend just moments before breaking up with him.

'These are plants,' she explains wearily, as if he -- a fellow who sells hi-fidelity audio equipment while conceding its all the same nowadays -- won’t be able to tell the difference.

Meanwhile, the boy’s father, a silently grizzled old loon, is convinced he’s won the sweepstakes.

Things are never what they initially seem to be in an Alexander Payne film, and this gorgeous black and white meditation on a father-and-son story tells an alarmingly universal tale of age and utility, of finding something to live for, and of the importance of a mirage. It is a lovely, languorous film, assuredly slow but enlivened by cinematographer Phedon Papamichael’s frames and by the dialogues, lines that cut instantly, memorably deep.

Bruce Dern gives the performance of his career as the befuddled but bold father, while Will Forte does valiantly well as the son. Nebraska is a tale of men, who, like classic cars, are built to run forever -- until they stop running, that is.

Read the review here

'Golden words he will pour in your ear, but his lies can’t disguise what you fear,' boomed Shirley Bassey in the title track for Goldfinger, perhaps the greatest James Bond film of them all.

A helluva track, for sure, noisily sensual and positively dripping with menace and power -- but not quite the track you want played at your wedding. Unless, of course, you want to be the devil.

Leonardo DiCaprio forks his tongue to play Jordan Belfort in Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf Of Wall Street, and the entire film throbs with a seductive, scary energy.

This is an amoral tale about men who can’t spell the word ‘scruples,’ and Scorsese and his fellas dive into it good, getting their hands and souls dirty.

It’s a horror story told as a farce -- the most effective way to deal with a monster may be to mock him -- and while it’s an intoxicatingly stylish movie, one reference to the 1932 horror classic The Freaks is enough to tell us what Marty thinks of these brokers.

Even as Leo throws himself into the part with feverish glee, we see him constantly on the edge of implosion.

As we watch this heady timebomb tick, Scorsese and Leo scare us straight. Unlike his character, who’d rather die soon than die sober.

Read the review here

Can you live inside a movie?

If so, can I have a one-way ticket to inhabit Noah Baumbach’s marvellous black-and-white Frances Ha, an instant classic if ever there was one?

Baumbach’s film -- and his actors Greta Gerwig, Mickey Sumner, Adam Driver and Michael Zegen -- so consummately capture the zeitgeist of a time and place and generation that were we wiped out as a race tomorrow, I’d want this film to be our tremendous-albeit-twee epitaph.

Gerwig plays the “undateable” lead character with a magical openness, as if she were a jam-jar missing a lid, eager to soak up everything from bagels to boys.

She careens through New York with klutzy earnestness -- or, rather, earnest klutziness -- a cross between a Truffaut character and a bull in a china shop.

Watching this precocious, cunning, irresistible film is like stumbling upon a burst of glorious jazz with a glass of something imaginatively-coloured in hand. Frances Ha is bottled lightning; glug from it till giddy.

'Choke me with that dead cat.'

It is a rare film that reduces a critic to a sap, and Her turned me into the lead loser in a Cameron Crowe movie. But ‘reduces’ is the wrong word; how about ‘lifts,’ or, better yet considering the film at hand, ‘upgrades’?

My review was admittedly more of a love-letter, but that, perhaps, is apropos for a film about a man who writes other people’s letters.

It is a film of savage sincerity and incredible ingenuity, a film that stands above all others by dint of both heart and originality.

Spike Jonze’s Her is immaculately crafted, flawlessly acted, and looks and sounds beautiful: but those are just, I daresay, its technical specifications.

The magic lies in how Her makes us feel, how it strings us up and strums us into a minor key, how it makes us believe in socially acceptable insanity, how it haunts, and how -- during its most enchanting moments -- we feel we’re lying on the moon, on a perfect afternoon.

Read the review here