Each year, I focus on crossing films off my ever-growing watchlist, imagining the mix of joy and frustration that comes with compiling my year-end list. Scrolling through Letterboxd, piecing together fragments of how each film made me feel—it’s always been something I look forward to. 2024 began no differently. I had that familiar excitement. But somewhere along the way, things unraveled – but not in a way that I’d like it to be.
The year brought a feeling I’ve known before, though it hit differently this time. It wasn’t about losing the joy of watching films—I still love it, but the intensity of the emotions they stirred in me became harder to bear. Joy, sadness, anger—these feelings lingered, almost overwhelming, leaving me uneasy and, at times, even ashamed for being so affected.
I never noticed it before, but after some time, I knew some films left me raw, exposing parts of myself I wasn’t ready to face. Vulnerability isn’t something I’ve ever been good at, and the guilt of sitting with those emotions weighed heavily. It’s strange—knowing I love films yet resenting what they make me feel.
So, making my usual list doesn’t seem right. This time, it’s not about enjoyment or favorites. It’s about connection, about the films that stayed with me, whether I liked it or not.
Here are the films that carried me through 2024.
Civil War (Alex Garland)
Democracy has fallen in Alex Garland‘s most grounded work, Civil War. In Garland‘s hypothetical world, leaders betray constitutions, governments repress and kill, and factions clash as currencies collapse under rising tensions—recipes for disaster. The parallels to real-world problems are easy to draw, making the story all the more harrowing.
In this war, soldiers and paramilitaries kill with guns of all shapes and sizes. Meanwhile, the protagonists — Kirsten Dunst and Cailee Spaeny, portraying a revered war journalist and an aspiring photographer, respectively — shoot with their cameras, capturing the horrors of war from the street level. The visceral imagery makes me reflect on how unchecked politics could ultimately lead to our collective downfall. And that says a lot.
Longlegs (Osgood Perkins)
Longlegs turns the serial killer genre on its head with a heavy dose of the bizarre. In every scene when the titular killer is revealed, his unsettling imagery sears into the mind like a haunting portrait—always watching, even when unseen. Perkins masterfully sustains this atmosphere of dread, as though a sinister force lurks just out of view, its presence never fully disappearing.
Nicolas Cage delivers a chilling performance as Longlegs, an enigmatic killer who terrorizes suburban Oregon with an inscrutably cryptic MO. Unrecognizable under layers of prosthetics and haunting makeup, Cage embodies the menacing aura that defines the film. The director’s meticulously crafted world mirrors this unease—aggressively detailed yet disturbingly hollow, it traps audiences in disorienting liminal spaces where terror quietly thrives.
Disconcerting and distressing in every turn, Longlegs reeks of peculiarities like something’s always off — making a solid entry to the weird cinema.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig (Mohammad Rasoulof)
The country where the film is set has banned its release; the director fled in secret, while the actors remain prohibited from leaving. The Seed of the Sacred Fig delivers a brutally honest critique of Iran’s theocratic regime which brands it a national threat. Yet, it also serves as a cautionary tale for anyone living under the shadow of oppressive, chauvinistic governments.
Marketed as a story of a lost gun tearing a family apart, the film’s deeper focus is on the people’s eroded trust in their government. Rasoulof masterfully intertwines the protagonists’ intimate struggles with the broader fight of the nation’s brave women, who endure relentless persecution under the regime. The narrative operates on both personal and societal levels, and though its extended runtime feels heavy, it is undeniably essential. The film speaks volumes—seething with wrath and resilience.
It delivers a sharp, unflinching blow to anyone who still believes politics isn’t personal.
Joker: Folie à Deux (Todd Philips)
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the 2019 Joker as a standalone motion picture, regardless of the many readings it invites. I root for Joker: Folie à Deux to rise to the occasion and prove the doubters wrong—much like Lady Gaga‘s character, Lee, who serves as a stand-in for every fan of the original. Meanwhile, everyone else who was more critical of the first film represents Gotham’s citizens, playing their part in the trial of the People of Gotham City vs. Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix).
In retrospect, the sequel’s self-sabotaging tendencies reveal themselves in a deeply metatextual way. It offers audiences a bittersweet taste of disappointment—a deliberate subversion of expectations—or a simple dose of nihilism. Like Fleck, the film refuses to progress, lingering in brooding musical numbers that oddly underuse Gaga’s talent. It’s as though the film undermines viewers’ desire to expect nothing and settle for the vibes instead.
Rumor has it an insider once described Folie à Deux as an expensive art film meant primarily for Phoenix, whose creative influence looms over the production. To me, enjoying it felt like sneaking into that very same private screening. I believe in a desperate time, sheer disappointment reminds everyone of their place, and this film certainly reminds me of mine.
Alien: Romulus (Fede Álvarez)
Under Fede Álvarez‘s electric direction, Alien: Romulus avoids alienating fans or newcomers by sticking to familiar territory. It blends the terror of Ridley Scott’s Alien, the relentless action of James Cameron’s Aliens, and the lore of the post-Prometheus era into a cohesive, modern entry.
With a talented young cast, the film feels fresh while staying true to its roots, eschewing self-aware elevated horror in favor of classic Alien storytelling. Impeccable art direction and thoughtful writing elevate it into a horror experience that lingers, all while pointing to a promising future for the franchise
Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (George Miller)
Mad Max: Fury Road is George Miller’s crowning achievement, a flawless blend of striking design, intricate world-building, and expertly crafted stunts. I even ranked it as the best film of the 2010s.
When Furiosa was announced, I doubted it could measure up—but I was wrong. Furiosa strikes a balance between the grit of Fury Road and the camp of Beyond Thunderdome, paving the way for more high-octane chaos. Its action sequences and complex stunts recall the brilliance of Fury Road. Miller is a visual storyteller and a craftsman, and, for both parts, he’s keen. His penchant for striking yet fantastically authentic visuals ushers the exposition that gets as weirder as it goes. While it doesn’t quite reach the same heights, it delivers where it counts, with Anya Taylor-Joy stepping confidently into Charlize Theron’s shoes as the imperator.
Dune Part Two (Denis Villeneuve)
Denis Villeneuve picks up where he left off after making an epic out of Frank Herbert‘s unadaptable novel with Dune Part Two. The sequel feels bigger, tougher, and grittier, bridging the Old and New Testament of the Dune saga. Yet beneath its grandeur lies a surprisingly intense exploration of innocence lost—the beginning of the end.
Herbert’s words, ‘Absolute power does not corrupt absolutely. Absolute power attracts the corruptible,’ resonate deeply here, as Part Two captures this descent with poignancy and irony. The unraveling of power is gradual and subtle, reinforcing Dune’s inherently political nature, where messianic prophecy and politics collide under constant scrutiny.
Villeneuve’s meticulous craftsmanship shines through, elevated by a stellar ensemble cast. The result is a colossal tale that is as sharp in its storytelling as lavish in its visuals.
The Substance (Coralie Fargeat)
Fargeat‘s The Substance uses body horror as a near-perfect vehicle to deliver shocks that are both visceral and ironic. The grotesque and unsubtle imagery makes horror at its most unrelenting, stripping away any pretense to reveal something raw and uncomfortable. It’s not just shocking terror for the sake of it—it’s a medium to pull us into Demi Moore’s raw, cathartic exploration of the harm caused by malicious beauty standards.
As Moore’s character, a fading star Elisabeth Sparkle, battles her frenemy, played by Margaret Qualley, the tension becomes deeply personal. Qualley’s presence serves as a surrogate for Sparkle’s fears of aging and fading into irrelevance, making their dynamic both symbolic and haunting. The horror lies not only in the body but in the mind, reflecting the societal pressures and insecurities that linger beneath the surface.
Challengers (Luca Guadagnino)
Luca Guadagnino has a knack for capturing intimacy up close, allowing his characters to connect with their bodies and humanity’s most primal needs. His films are visceral and sensual, often unified by their raw exploration of bodily fluids, regardless of the subject matter. Challengers belongs to this cinematic hive, too, fully embracing his signature style.
The narrative dives deep into the entangled lives of two best friends and their shared lover, channeling sexual tension through the high-stakes world of tennis. It’s like that “Sure, sex is good…” meme—except, it’s asking a question: have you ever seen a tennis match rendered as viscerally, sensually, and captivatingly as sex.
Guadagnino’s sympathetic approach shines through as he weaves a story that juxtaposes fiercely competitive tennis matches with a passionate love triangle. The film is brought to life by electric performances and a flirtatious directorial style that seduces viewers into constantly questioning what they think they know.
When that happens, Challengers doesn’t just make tennis thrilling—it makes cinema horny again.
That’s the end of the list. I made an abridged version of it on my Instagram post, too.
