The 50 Saddest Movies to Watch on Amazon Prime

Earnest, beautiful, and tender, Luca Guadagnino’s Bones and All is many things: a road trip movie that sweeps the midwest deserts of 1980s America; a coming-of-age story that brings together two outsiders into an understanding world of their own; and a cannibal film that is unflinchingly flesh deep in its depiction of the practice. Bizarrely, these seemingly disparate elements work harmoniously to create a film that you won’t soon forget, not least because of its rawness. 

As the aforementioned outsiders, Maren and Lee (Taylor Russell and Timothée Chalamet, respectively) are bewitching—individually sure but especially when they’re together. They have a bond that is quite difficult to replicate onscreen, charged as it is with so much chemistry and warmth. The background players also bring their a-game when called for, especially Mark Rylance as the disturbing stalker Sully, Michael Stuhlbarg as the creepy but good-willed Jake, and Chloë Sevigny as Maren’s stark mad mother. 

It’s worth repeating that this movie goes all in on the gore, so steer clear if you don’t have the heart for these sorts of things. But if you do, the viewing experience is rewarding. Bones and All is as romantic as they get, and rather than bury its message, the many layers on top of its core serve as a meaningful puzzle to unpack and unravel long after the credits roll.

Taking place entirely on beachside farmlands in Denmark, Land of Mine takes a particularly intimate—and visually distinct—approach to war. The fighting may be over, but the film remains a tense and emotionally distressing, with all the pain and violence being carried over onto these German boys being forced to clear the beaches of live explosives with their bare hands. The relationship between these young men and their vengeful Danish commanding officer may progress a little quickly for some, but their volatile bond only emphasizes that rage isn’t meant to be felt forever, and that war is a destructive cycle that eventually needs to come to an end.

Documentaries about people suffering from dementia, Alzheimer’s, or other neurodegenerative diseases will always occupy a bit of an uneasy space—how much consent can they really provide in their condition? At what point does presenting their struggles become exploitative? Maite Alberdi’s The Eternal Memory doesn’t entirely assuage these concerns, but it certainly knows better than to define its characters by the things that they lack. In fact, much of this film’s romance comes from the image of Pauli and Augusto (who sadly passed away earlier this year) simply sharing space together, present in one another’s routines even as the gap between their shared understanding grows. Their life is one populated by art and literature, which seems to act as both a cage and a liberating escape throughout their relationship.

In the times when Augusto’s struggle with basic cognition is too severe, Alberdi doesn’t look away, and the resulting footage is truly painful to watch. But it should be emphasized that Alberdi displays the same attentiveness to the couple’s ordinary moments of quiet contemplation or married-life silliness without allowing them to be reduced into tragedy in retrospect. The film never tries to define their bond as either purely doomed or hopeful. For them, the mere possibility of love continuing to persist even in brief flashes is enough.

Not many places are worse to find a dead body than in the border of North and South Korea. The tensions are high, the trust is low, and the conflict between them hasn’t been resolved in more than half a century. Joint Security Area is centered on a whodunit surrounding two North Korean soldiers at the border, but Park Chan-wook crafts a compelling mystery not caused by international politics, but rather by friendship between soldiers in the lower ranks, a unity and brotherhood that’s tragically hidden and forced to separate because of lines made by their higher ups. It may not compare to Park’s more famous films, but Joint Security Area hinted at the filmmaker that was to come.

This is a touching saga based on the plight of the women labelled as “fallen” that the Magdalene Laundries housed in Ireland. The movie grips you by the throat right from the first minute and the sense of injustice to women that characterizes the entire length of the film only rarely eases up to give you room to appreciate the emotional complexities that each individual character represents.
The stories of Margaret, Bernadette and Rose and the people they meet inside the Magdalene Laundry will force you to ask time and again during the movie, “Why?” and “Who are they to?”. You will share in Bernadette’s sense of outrage, in Rose’s compassion and Margaret’s acute fear of the church, of speaking up and asking for justice. So much so, that you may even find yourself identifying with (or at least understanding) Crispina’s questionable grasp on reality. Worst of all, the devout Catholic establishment that this was, hypocrisy and corruption ran through its every vein, adding to the shock and resentment that builds towards the, for the lack of a better word, captors of our protagonists.
The Magdalene Sisters is a tribute to one of the forgotten chapters in a long history of injustice to women and an absolutely moving one at that. It does not fail to utterly horrify while it also warms your heart.

In this documentary by Bianca Stigter, a three-minute home video of a nondescript Jewish town in Poland is examined in great detail to reveal the history and humanity behind it. Taken just before the Holocaust, it’s one of the few remaining proofs of life the town has before its population was decimated in the war. And so the footage is repeated and stretched in this documentary, because as the narrator puts it, “as long as we are watching, history is not over yet,” and the people have yet to be gone.

Glenn Kurtz, the grandson of the person who shot the home video, takes it upon himself to investigate the history of the town and its citizens: what they were and what became of them. The results are often grim and unsettling, and the eerie editing matches them with great effect. But when it’s not haunting, the film is oddly hopeful—for a future that remembers its past and preserves it in meaningful ways. Couple this sentiment with the narrator’s own poetic observations, and you get a powerfully moving elegy about loss and memory. 

Focusing on the personal over the global, 76 Days serves as a valuable reminder for generations to come, of the catastrophic human cost of a pandemic. The film’s directors (including one or more filmmakers who have had to keep themselves anonymous) take an entirely boots-on-the-ground approach in Wuhan, China. Together they find both humanity and the loss of humanity in these individual cases of COVID that are stalled by small inconveniences or a general lack of understanding of the disease. And all of this confusion is punctuated by the humbling fact that we never see the nurses’ faces. It’s a harrowing watch, but it tells us everything we need to know about how much assistance our health workers need and the kind of superhuman things they’re tasked with doing every single day.

Teenagers forced to grow up quickly and spend their prime years wiling away at garment factories sounds like a grim reality, and it is, but in Youth (Spring), Chinese documentarist Wang Bing captures more than just the inherent tragedy of young labor. Here, they build friendships, find love, discover an affinity for their craft, stand up for themselves against exploitative bosses, and look for ways to have fun. Even if it’s just as simple as eating street food, spending the night at an internet cafe, or finding nice clothes, we’re with them in every way. Though it’s never explicitly political, the documentary makes you think about the conditions that put the kids there in the first place, such as our insatiable need for cheap and trendy clothes, governments turning a blind eye to child labor, and a skewed system that favors these above people’s—especially young people’s—well-being and welfare.

While surpassed by the masterpiece Tár, Todd Field already garnered critical acclaim by his first feature debut In The Bedroom all the way back in 2001. The story is a familiar revenge drama that we might have heard from stories from small towns, but the way Field captures it is fascinating, with its challenging, layered dialogue, and the juxtaposed young and old love hinting at both couples’ insecurities, jealousy, and possessiveness, particularly with regards to the potential college graduate Frank has. It’s slow-paced, haunting, and Tom Wilkinson and Sissy Spacek share a sense of heartbreaking intimacy only true couples can wield against each other. In The Bedroom showed us Todd Field’s brilliant filmmaking that we hope to see more soon.

Organized crime and drug dealing has been a topic of many a film, sometimes even glamorizing the whole endeavor, but rarely do these depictions acknowledge the weight it can do to a culture, particularly indigenous cultures. Birds of Passage is a film about drug dealers, but it’s a much more distinct take, tackling Colombia’s reputation for the drug trade through the lens of an indigenous group that hasn’t been totally colonized, that still keeps its language, rituals, and legends, but is still pushed to the brink due to far more lucrative reasons. It does take fairly familiar plot points, but Birds of Passages transforms the narco crime drama with a different direction.