45 Best Foreign-Language Movies on Max (HBO Max)

The Great Beauty is a film of superlatives! Originally titled La Grande Bellezza, this movie by Italian star director Paolo Sorrentino is so replete with lush, opulent cinematography, it sometimes borders on sensory overload. Having won Best Foreign Language Film at the 86th Academy Awards, as well as the Golden Globe, and the BAFTA award in the same category, The Great Beauty is also a critics’ darling and an award-show sweeper – in addition to being hailed as Paolo Sorrentino’s greatest work to date.

Essentially a tragicomedy, it is both a study and a celebration of the hedonism and decadence of its main protagonist – the bon-vivant and modern-day Roman socialite Jep Gambardella (played by an electrifying Toni Servillo). Instead of honing the craft of writing, Gambardella at some point decides to become the self-proclaimed “king of high life” of Rome. After his 65th birthday, he experiences a shock that changes him for good, prompting him to look past the parties and the nightclubs and to discover the sublime beauty of his hometown, the eternal city. In this way, The Great Beauty is a meditation on art, regret, and pleasure – and Sorrentino’s love letter to Rome.

Based on a classic Japanese folktale, Isao Takahata’s last film will break your heart. This adaptation, of course, follows Princess Kaguya from her being discovered in a glowing bamboo stalk to her departure to the moon. However, while faithful to the original tale, Takahata’s direction turns this historical fantasy into a heart-wrenching coming-of-age film as ethereal as the titular character. The film doesn’t focus on the crazy pursuit of her suitors; instead, we’re drawn to the simple experiences Kaguya herself is drawn to and wants more of, as she tries to balance her life with the societal expectations places on women. All of which is rendered through the film’s lush watercolored scenes of the blowing wind or the opening of plum blossoms.

Called a masterpiece by many and featured on many best-of-the-21st-century lists, Director Wong Kar-wei has created a thing of singular beauty. Every frame is an artwork (painted, as it were, with help of cinematographer Christopher Doyle) in this meticulously and beautifully crafted film about the unrequited love of two people renting adjacent rooms in 1960s Hong Kong. These two people, played by Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung, struggle to stay true to their values rather than give in to their desires, while they both suspect their spouses of extramarital activities. The flawless acting, stunning visuals, and dream-like beauty of In the Mood for Love perfectly captures the melancholy of repressed emotions and unfulfilled love. The cello motif of Shigeru Umebayashi’s main theme will haunt you long after you finished watching.

If you’re living alone and just came back home from a bad day, Wolf Children can make you feel like everything’s alright. It’s the kind of movie that feels like a warm hug and one that you will likely bookmark to get back to for this exact reason. Co-written and directed by Mamoru Hosoda, who’s most known for The Girl Who Leaps Through Time, the title is to be taken without any salt: it tells the, allegedly true, story of a woman raising children who are half-human and half-wolf. It all starts with Yuki studying at Tokyo University, where she meets a mysterious and handsome young man, who can turn into a wolf at will. They fall in love and have children inheriting this strange skill. This is where the colorful visuals and life-affirming vibe of this anime give way to a bleak narrative turn. Wolf Children is a strange story of love and parenting told in an imitable style.

Frequently considered one of the greatest animated movies of all times, and certainly the highest-grossing film in Japanese history, Spirited Away is Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli at their very best. It was also the first non-English animation movie to win an Oscar. On the surface, it’s a film about a Chihiro Ogino (Hiiragi), a young girl who stumbles into an abandoned theme park with her parents. In a creepy spiritual world full of Shinto folklore spirits, she sees all kinds of magic and fantastic creatures, while having to find a way to save her parents and escape. In addition to the adventure, the coming-of-age theme, and the motifs of ancient Japanese lore, the film can also be understood as a critique of the Western influence on Japanese culture and the struggle for identity in the wake of the 1990s economic crisis. A deep, fast-paced, and hypnotizing journey.

While billed as a “ramen western”, Tampopo satirizes plenty of other American genres, including, but not limited to: 1) the inspirational sports film, with Tampopo’s diligent training, 2) the erotic, arthouse drama through its egg yolk kiss, 3) the witty, social comedy pointing out the absurd in dinnertime tables, and 4) the melodramatic mafia romance with its room-serviced hotel getaway. But the film doesn’t buckle under the weight of carrying all these genres– instead, the customer vignettes are all delicately plated to balance out the hearty journey of a store owner learning about ramen and the bemused, yet cohesive contemplation about food. Tampopo is one of a kind.

If we were to list down the best of the best movie musicals ever made, most of the titles would probably come from the Golden Age of Hollywood. But we’d be remiss to forget that just a few years later, all the way across the pond, came The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a French romantic musical from Jacques Demy. It’s certainly in the running for the most gorgeous musical ever made, with the bold, dreamy colors, incredible camera work, stylish costumes, and two beautiful leads front and center, but what makes Cherbourg great is the lush composition made by Michel Legrand. With the sweeping violins and the tragic lyrics of Devant le Garage, to the catchy, jazzy Scène du Garage that starts off the film, Les Parapluies de Cherbourg brings together sublime visuals and sound into one of the greatest musicals ever made.

Based on the Austrian novel, The Piano Teacher is as brilliant and as disturbed as its protagonist. The film follows Erika Kohut (Isabelle Huppert), the repressed masochist in question, and the trainwreck of a relationship that she develops with her student Walter Klemmer (Benoît Magimel). Their dynamic is undeniably toxic. Austrian auteur Michael Haneke frames each scene with clinical detachment, but it is absolutely brutal how the two characters try to assert control over each other, engage in sadomasochism, and repeatedly violate each other’s boundaries. Huppert’s heartrending performance fully commits to the merciless treatment Erika receives. But more tragic is the way Erika’s unusual relationship could’ve freed her, could’ve helped her process her abuse, and instead, reinforces her repression. It’s scary to make yourself vulnerable by admitting your desires, only for them to be used against you.

The prospect of death puts everything into perspective, but Cléo from 5 to 7 crafted a totally new one altogether. As it says in the title, the titular singer wanders the French capital in real time, with an ominous tarot card reading turning Cléo’s world into black and white, shifting the mood even as she tries to ease the worry by going through her regular day-to-day. But as she does so, filmmaker Agnès Varda crafts memorable images that subtly depict Cléo’s inner world. The camera pivots, swaps angles, changes point of view, and only moves into the conventional images and score when Cléo performs, whether that be in literally practice of her craft, or in the presence of other people depending on the role she plays in their life. It’s this thoughtful use of the camera, gaze, and of time itself that makes Cléo from 5 to 7 a standout drama from the French New Wave.

Hayao Miyazaki is no stranger to the fantastical. Howl’s Moving Castle and Spirited Away conjure worlds of spirits and demons, monsters and witches, imaginary wars and extraordinary heroes. But in Kiki’s Delivery Service, the real magic arises from the mundane.

The titular teenaged Kiki leaves home, setting out to become a better witch. She arrives in the idyllic seaside town of Koriko with only her broom and best friend, a black cat named Jiji. When she serendipitously meets Osono, the gentle owner of a bakery, Kiki begins a delivery service as part of her training.

Kiki’s Delivery Service may be one of Miyazaki’s more understated films, but it’s a beautiful reminder that believing in oneself is a magical act of courage that we should all undertake.

The sunniest installment of Éric Rohmer’s Tales of the Four Seasons series is a sly, slow burn of a character study. Everything looks sensuously beautiful in the honey-toned French sunshine, except for the ugly egotism of Gaspard (Melvil Poupaud), the full extent of which is gradually revealed over the film’s runtime to amusing — if maddening — effect.

A brooding twenty-something, Gaspard has the traumatic task of having to decide between three beautiful and brilliant young women while vacationing alone on the French coast one summer. He dithers and delays his choice, each woman appealing to a different insecurity of his — but, as frustrating and plainly calculating as he is, you can’t help but be charmed by Gaspard. That’s partly because of Poupaud’s natural charisma, but also because Rohmer grants Gaspard as many searingly honest moments as he does deceitful ones. These come through Rohmer’s hallmark naturalistic walking and talking scenes (a big influence on the films of Richard Linklater), coastal rambles that produce conversations of startling, timeless candor. That inimitable blend of breeziness and frankness is never better matched in the director’s films than by the summer setting of this one, the sharp truths going down a lot smoother in the gorgeous sunlight.

This Swedish surprise hit captivated viewers across the Atlantic because of one thing: the lead’s perspective. Okay, well, the performances are great, the time frame is nostalgic, and it’s grounded by the few incidents that could only happen in a small town. However, at the heart of the story, author and co-screenwriter Reidar Jönsson hones in on Ingemar’s uncertainty and the lack of control over his own fate. Between his mom’s illness, his separation from his older brother, the small space of his uncle’s house, and the fact he can’t even bring his dog, Ingemar is easy to sympathize with, especially as he tries to look towards the brighter side of life. But combined with his future self’s narration, My Life as a Dog cathartically pulls on the painful core memories that could only be made by growing up.

Studio Ghibli has brought us moving, remarkable animated films such as Spirited Away, My Neighbor Totoro, and Princess Mononoke. One of Studio Ghibli’s most overlooked movies is Yoshifumi Kondou’s Whisper of the Heart, which finds magic in the ordinary every day. Shizuku is a young girl with great aspirations to become a writer—the only thing stopping her is herself. When she comes across a curious antique shop, she befriends a mysterious boy and his grandfather, who are just the push she needs to look inward and discover her own artistic capabilities.

If you have ever wanted to create something bigger and better than yourself—a story, a song, a poem, a painting, a work of art—then Whisper of the Heart will excite you, will call to you, will remind you to answer your heart’s calling.

Sisters Martine and Filippa, daughters of a founder of a religious sect, live a simple and quiet life in a remote coastal village in Denmark. Throughout the course of their lives, they reject possible romances and fame as part of their commitment to deny earthly attachments. This is upended by the sudden arrival of a French immigrant named Babette, who served as their house help to escape the civil war raging in her country.

Babette’s Feast is an inquiry into simplicity and kindness, and whether these would be sufficient to achieve a life of contentment. The religious undertones perfectly fit with the film’s parable-like structure, where bodily and spiritual appetites are satisfied through a sumptuous feast of love, forgiveness, and gratitude.

Rosetta begins fiercely, with a shaky handheld camera chasing the eponymous teenager (Émilie Dequenne) as she storms across a factory floor and bursts into a room to confront the person she believes has just lost her her job. The film seldom relents from this tone of desperate fury, as we watch Rosetta — whose mother is a barely functioning alcoholic — fight to find the job that she needs to keep the two alive.

As tough as their situation is, though, Rosetta’s fierce sense of dignity refuses to allow her to accept any charity. A stranger to kindness and vulnerability, her abject desperation leads her to mistake these qualities for opportunities to exploit, leading her to make a gutting decision. But for all her apparent unlikeability, the movie (an early film from empathy endurance testers the Dardenne brothers) slots in slivers of startling vulnerability amongst the grimness so that we never lose sight of Rosetta’s ultimate blamelessness. Its profound emotional effect is corroborated by two things: that it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, and that it helped usher in a law protecting the rights of teenage employees in its setting of Belgium.

This unique romance is set during a time when a man would be sent the painting of the woman he was to marry before the wedding could take place. Héloïse, secluded with her mother and a maid on a remote island, doesn’t approve of her upcoming wedding and refuses to be painted. Her mother sends for a new painter, Marianne, to try to paint her without her noticing. Marianne has to take on this near-impossible task when she starts having feelings for Héloïse. This makes for a riveting romance where Marianne has to choose between her heart and her art while keeping a huge secret from her love interest.

This post-apocalyptic sci-fi adventure might have escaped the radar of most Ghibli fans, but that’s mostly because it isn’t a Studio Ghibli film. Shocker, I know. But that’s the reason why Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind deserves more love. In its manga form, Nausicaä proved that Hayao Miyazaki was capable of the nuanced, yet epic storytelling that is rare to see in action comics. In its movie form, Nausicaä also proved that that storytelling can jump straight to the silver screen, and that Miyazaki works best with his own original work. In other words, Nausicaä was a Ghibli film before the studio was created, and its resulting success proved that audiences were hungry for more.

This beautiful, realistic, and nostalgic anime movie about childhood is one that almost anyone can relate to. Set in the year of 1982, twenty-seven-year-old Taeko Okajima is traveling to the countryside by train. Along her journey, she gets flashbacks of her childhood: mostly in elementary school, stealing glances at a boy, and navigating puberty. The movie goes back and forth between past and present, easily making one long for sun-filled summers of yesteryear and silly jokes between playfriends. As well as telling a story about Taeko’s past, Only Yesterday also tells a story about her present, and the combined realism of the plotline with the beautiful animation grips you and doesn’t let go. Only Yesterday truly feels like home.

Krzysztof Kieślowski’s trilogy reflects both the colors and the values of the French republic: liberté, égalité, fraternité. In Trois couleurs : Blanc (Three Colors: White), Kieślowski explores not only the theme of equality, but also the ramifications of defining and “achieving” equality as a European ideal.

After failing to consummate their marriage, Dominique (the ever-bewitching Julie Delpy) divorces Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski), leaving him broke and humiliated. Karol plots to exact revenge on his ex-wife, becoming richer and cruller in the process.

Although this is often regarded as the weakest of the trilogy, White is worth a watch not just for completionists. Kieślowski interrogates what it means to be equal in sex and socioeconomic class—and if when we strive to move upward in society, whether we are really debasing our basic humanity and humility.

While the mixed reception of its near-faithful American remake Vanilla Sky might make some viewers pause, there’s an intuitive brilliance in the Spanish original Open Your Eyes that isn’t easy to translate. Sure, the apparent differences help– it’s shorter and less complicated, and Cesar’s face turns more grotesque than David’s does. But what’s startling about Open Your Eyes is the way writer-director Alejandro Amenábar guides the camera through its various shifts, creating a more subtle and gradual realization that something is wrong, and thus, a more terrifying dream turned nightmare. Amenábar has later deemed the film as his worst, saying it was written when he didn’t know much about life, but, in our opinion, Abre Los Ojos still holds up as a groundbreaking existential sci-fi simulation, one that still puzzles and captivates years after.

Visiting a relative can feel strange, because especially when the loved one you share is gone, the visit will inevitably bring up feelings of grief, nostalgia, and being stuck because of it. But no visit would be as strange as the 1977 cult horror classic House. It’s a classic not because it’s particularly scary– in fact, most of the time, the film is much more bizarre than terrifying– but because this grief manifests in the eccentric estate through unusually unrealistic, but undeniably stylish psychedelic visions that stem from the kind of nightmares one would get as a kid as well as the real-life devastation Nobuhiko Obayashi faced as a Hiroshima survivor. It’s because of these absurd images that House escapes explanation, yet still became Obayashi’s definitive work. Hausu is simply a film that you have to visit for yourself.

Best known for Italian neorealist classic Bicycle Thieves, Vittorio De Sica followed it up with a surprisingly hopeful fantasy comedy in Miracle in Milan. It’s very charming. It’s much more cheerful than his previous work, with fairytale-like happening and wishes coming true by angels. It’s also pretty funny to see the landlords and police fall flat in the face of magic. But underneath the town’s endearing optimism is a sadness that understands the magic’s improbability, a melancholy that playfully laughs at life’s sorrows with compassion reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin. Miracle in Milan might be happier than Bicycle Thieves, sure, but it’s no less powerful in depicting the common man.

When the film publication Sight and Sound dubbed it “the greatest film of all time,” movie fans were quick to give their opinion. Those opposed complained about its simplicity, while those favoring the film praised the same trait. It’s true the film is simple—the camera is static and far away, and all it does is follow the titular Jeanne as she goes through the strict routines of her life. But nothing about it is plain or easy. You could mine a thousand things from a single scene alone, to say nothing about the woman at the center of it all. As Jeanne juggles her duties as a homekeeper, mother, and breadwinner, she eventually unravels, and the film rewards us with one of the most memorable climaxes of all time. There’s complexity in the ordinary, Akerman reminds us in her mundane epic, and there’s always something political motivating our choices, no matter how normal they seem.

As impressive as Studio Ghibli’s collection of films are, I am still stubborn to believe that Porco Rosso is its most underrated film. Porco Rosso, directed by Hayao Miyazaki, is the story of a World War military aviator-turned-bounty hunter who has mysteriously been transformed into a pig.

Bright with humor, heart, and flight (Miyazaki is largely influenced and inspired by the art of aviation), Porco Rosso manages to also acknowledge and reckon with the horrors of war. It also boasts one of, if not the greatest, line in any Ghibli film: I’d rather be a pig than a fascist.

In what was originally intended to be his final film, Hayao Miyazaki is at his most lucid with The Wind Rises. Fluid and luminous, it cleanly moves between a grounded, historical reality and an intuitive, imaginative dreamscape. Here Miyazaki reflects on the process of creation and what it means to be an artist, drawing parallels between his own meticulousness as a filmmaker with Horikoshi’s immutable passion for flight and efficient design.

But questions of responsibility and duty arise, as Horikoshi—and by extension, Miyazaki—must reckon with the reality that even things as beautiful as aeroplanes can be destructive, and that even dreams can be violent. This meditative film does not offer any easy answers but it provides solace in its prevailing sentiment: The wind is rising, we must try to live.

The Boy and the Heron isn’t Hayao Miyazaki’s best film, nor is it his most accessible, seeing as the director himself has admitted to getting lost in the world he’s built here. But it is his most personal film to date (apparently he’s out of retirement!) and consequently, it’s one of the most complex Ghibli films to exist. It eschews structure for pure, raw emotion so instead of dialogue and plots, you get wonderfully abstract fantasy worlds and protagonists with near-imperceptible depths. You don’t have to get the story to understand the heaviness, grief, joy, and hope that Mahito, and in turn Miyazaki, feel. You only have to see the delicate turns in the characters’ expressions and their wildly imaginative adventures.

What makes something sexy? Belle de Jour doesn’t have any definite answers, nor does it present a straightforward narrative, especially with the way it slides in and out of the titular beauty’s fantasies and her reality. Still, the way director Luis Buñuel directs this film adaptation clearly holds an understanding of what makes something erotic. The masochism of Catherine Deneuve’s Séverine might be understood by today’s more sexually liberated audiences, but the rest of her desires and the images deliberately left out could easily baffle viewers or maybe even trigger the same feeling a bored, rich housewife would get. Belle de Jour understands something that can’t be easily put to words, and it’s this understanding that made this psychological drama a surrealist classic.

After finishing his contract with Shochiku, Yasujirō Ozu shifted gears with Floating Weeds, an adaptation of one of his previous black-and-white silent films. There are a few differences. It has sound and color, it’s set after World War II, and Ozu works with a new team, including actual kabuki actor Nakamura Ganjirō II. With these changes, Ozu sharpens his parallel romances for a generational conflict split by the war. The classic melodrama had taken on a new meaning. As Komajuro meets his son, and his kabuki theatre fails to sell, Ozu observes a world that has changed for the better, but has left some unable to do the same. Floating Weeds still holds the story’s original themes, but it thoughtfully reimagines the family of its time through Ozu’s appreciation for the everyday.

True to form, this documentary about the famed Japanese animation studio enjoys lingering in the ordinary day to day experience of working there. There’s no question that it’s of interest for fans. Documentarian Mami Sunada helpfully introduces some of the faces, the films, and the history of the company while on her visit. However, even non-fans would be intrigued by the creative process, by the mindset and philosophy revealed by their conversations. As the team works on their 2013 slate (The Wind Rises and The Tale of Princess Kaguya), the film reveals how their process pushes them to reckon with the larger scheme, willing their ideas into creation in spite of the difficult world around them. The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness is quite something to behold.

After an initially disappointing breakthrough attempt to Hollywood, Jackie Chan pivoted back to Hong Kong, unexpectedly creating an iconic film franchise and maybe perhaps one of the best martial arts movies ever made. Police Story seems to be a simple story at first, but it was through this film that Chan’s spectacular stunts evolved for a more modern setting, incorporating slapstick and action choreography into a definable style, while also questioning the ways Hong Kong police conducted themselves at the time. Police Story is Jackie Chan at his best, pushing an entirely new standard for action films all over the world.

Studio Ghibli is best known for their fantastical worldbuilding, but on occasion, they veer into the mundane domestic day-to-day life that might not be as extravagant, but is no less emotionally resonant. At first glance, it seemed like When Marnie Was There would be that kind of small town drama. A young kid moves to the countryside, exploring the new place, seemed to be just another familiar Ghibli protagonist, albeit this time in the wetlands of Hokkaido. But, as Anna befriends another in an abandoned mansion, and keeps being found unconscious by the grass, writer-director Hiromasa Yonebayashi crafts a sense of mystery around her friend that eventually resolves Anna’s loneliness in an unexpected fantastical way. When Marnie Was There might not be one of Ghibli’s most known films, but it nonetheless holds its signature magic of cathartic cartoon animation.

Usually, time travel in fiction are nifty plot devices that allow its protagonist to turn back time and undo mistakes, so the character usually has lived a long life, marked by that one thing that has gone wrong. The Girl Who Leapt Through Time is different. As an awkward, clumsy teenager, Makoto Konno thinks everything she does is a mistake. Being late, bumping into that old lady, causing a fire in her home economics class– All these things have to be corrected the moment she gets the power of time travel. This makes this time travel film more comedic than tragic, but as the plot unfolds, and Makoto experiences every way her day could end, this film thoughtfully depicts these small mistakes as lessons before bigger consequences could take place. It’s a smart way to tie in the original novel’s plot for a newer generation.

Eyes Without a Face is aptly titled. As the mad Dr. Génessier goes to extreme lengths to restore his daughter Christiane’s beauty, the beauty he accidentally disfigured in a car accident, we mostly see Christiane with her face masked, only with her eyes undamaged. It’s her eyes that drive this French body horror classic. Her fear over what her father is willing to do reflects our own, especially when he proves, again and again, how he’ll prioritize beauty and control at the expense of all life. It’s her expression that marks the vivid images that still influence horror up to today.

Where The Umbrellas of Cherbourg lamented the tragedy of one missed connection, Jacques Demy follows it up with a much more upbeat love story in The Young Girls of Rochefort. It’s more hopeful. Even before you watch the end, it’s clear that there’s not one, but two chances at a happy ending, since there are two couples. But on top of that, it’s the girls’ conviction in love that makes everything brighter. Despite the logistics of their act, or the coincidences that had to align, or even the serial killer mentioned, The Young Girls of Rochefort remains bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, celebrating the bubbly optimism that musicals would have us believe in.

Long before his battles with King Kong, this sci-fi classic set the foundations of what was to become the world’s longest running film franchise. It’s an interesting rewatch, decades later. That’s not because the monster in the title is huge and awesome, though it certainly helped when it finally emerged from the water. No, what really makes the first installment interesting is how it lingers on the confusion, the uncertainty, and the terror for something so strong and massive that it can’t be stopped, even when indirectly caused by human warfare. Given the atomic bomb and the succeeding nuclear arms race, Godzilla fully encapsulated the worries of its audiences at home, and it’s the terror that has been shared all over the world even to today.

5 Centimeters per Second is a quiet, beautiful anime about the life of a boy called Takaki, told in three acts over the span of seventeen years. The movie explores the experience and thrill of having a first love, as well as being someone else’s. In depicting how delicate it is to hold special feelings towards another, director Makoto Shinkai also perfectly captures how cruel the passing of time can be for someone in love. While the early stage of the movie maintains a dreamy mood, as the stories develop we become thrust back into reality, where it is not quite possible to own that which we want the most. All things considered, 5 Centimeters per Second is a story about cherishing others, accepting reality, and letting people go.

In war, sometimes, what stands between life and death is convenient papers, passable acting, and a buttload of luck. That was true of real-life World War II survivor Solomon Perel, whose story is depicted in Europa Europa. Somewhat like a Jewish Forrest Gump, all Perel wants to do is survive, but through his pretenses, he inadvertently witnesses the ideologies that tore the European continent apart, revealing the hypocrisy and arbitrariness of the ideas that needlessly pushed them into war. The film also acknowledges the toll it took on him, the way he finds friendship and love from the people who would have killed him if not for his lies. Europa Europa is a striking survival tale that proves how absurd real life can be.

One of Studio Ghibli’s overlooked gems, My Neighbors the Yamadas is a charming anthology film about a modern-day Japanese family. The film sets itself apart from other Ghibli films through its unique doodle-like watercolor animation and its short piano themes. While the vignettes may just depict regular family conflicts, the scenes still feel compelling due to the Yamadas’ imagination of the metaphors that they use. Exaggerating the metaphors keeps the audience breathless in certain strategic moments – most notably in the wedding day speech of the mother of the bride. While not as fantastical as Ghibli’s other offerings, the completely digital My Neighbors the Yamadas finds humor in and celebrates the mundane.

See, usually, when American violence in media is critiqued, it’s usually through analytic studies or overly exaggerated lectures stirring moral panic. Instead of doing this, however, auteur Michael Haneke decided to surpass the crime genre, playing with the form and emotions in Funny Games. It’s terrifying, not because it immediately delves into the violence, but because it starts off with an ordinary, innocuous visit, that gradually escalates into an unpredictable home invasion where two teenagers inflict needless violence in such a scary yet spectacular way, even involving the viewer into their shenanigans. Ironically, this led to Haneke creating a shot-for-shot American remake of this same story, but Funny Games’ break in form made Haneke a director to remember, as he started to film outside his native Austria after the standout thriller.

Arrietty may not be as epic as other Ghibli movies, both in the literal and figurative sense, but its tiny world is so richly detailed that you could spend hours studying a single frame of the film. In Arrietty’s lovely house-underneath-a-house, stamps are hung on the walls like paintings, a flowerpot serves as the hearth, a tea canister is a cabinet, an olive a chair, a sewing pin a sword, a clothespin a hair tie, and so on. The possibilities are endless, but the film tries to exhaust them as much as it can. This alone makes Arrietty a delightful watch, but the simple story at the heart of it—one of survival, empathy, and faith—elevates into a timeless classic.

The Boy and the Beast is somewhat like the Jungle Book, except the jungle has Japanese supernatural creatures competing for deity status, and the human village nearby is the bustling district of Shibuya. But what makes the film different is the main relationship. As boy and beast learn to become apprentice and master, and eventually father and son, their dynamic shifts their lives permanently, transforming their flaws into the keys to the worlds they once felt excluded from. It’s a familiar conflict, but The Boy and the Beast depicts its coming-of-age adventure with beautiful animation, an impeccable score, and unabashed heart.

Of course, it won’t be surprising that Man Bites Dogs is particularly violent, given that the entire film is basically a documentary of a serial killer. But even those used to the gore, murders, and gruesomeness might be taken aback by Benoît (Poelvoorde)’s immediate murders, the matter-of-fact explanations of how he selects his targets, the casual conversations about random topics inbetween kills, and the easy way he lures the filmmakers (and the audience) to the amusement he gains from all of it. Man Bites Dog isn’t an easy watch, and it definitely deserved its controversial reputation, but we can’t deny how hard it is to look away.

A best friendship break-up can be the most devastating thing that can happen to you in high school, especially when it’s because you’re leaving for separate colleges. Liz and the Blue Bird depicts one dynamic through two girls preparing for an orchestral concert. By pairing the two girls with the faux fairy tale that they’re playing, director Naoko Yamada subtly reveals their conflicting feelings in naturalistic, fleeting moments and watercolor fantasy. This subtle expression is helped immensely by the impeccable wind band score by composer Kensuke Ushio. While it doesn’t quite compare to A Silent Voice, Yamada’s previous work, Liz and the Blue Bird nonetheless shares that delicate symphony of art and music that genuinely capture these adolescent feelings.

Of all the spin-offs that Studio Ghibli could make, we did not expect this cat-focused fantasy adventure based on that figurine in Whisper of the Heart. It’s a drastically different film. Unlike the contemplative slice-of-life story, The Cat Returns leans closer to what the lead of Whisper would have written, as a schoolgirl gets whisked away a la-Alice in Wonderland, albeit in a world full of bi-pedal, talking cats. It’s the kind of plot an amateur writer would create. Still, there’s something delightful about this surreal tale. As Haru gets roped into the cat kingdom’s shenanigans, her struggle to assert herself in this dream state cathartically results in her own personal growth. The Cat Returns just captures that journey with cats.

Before Wong Kar Wai made his signature romantic dramas, he first made his directorial debut As Tears Go By, a film that wouldn’t be out of place in the crime and action flicks that characterized 1980s cinema. There are moments that feel a tad derivative, such as the use of Take My Breath Away from 1986’s Top Gun, and the gangster love triangle reminiscent of Martin Scorcese’s Mean Streets, but Wong’s style starts to peek through with his use of color and light, and of course, the distinctive blurred action that transforms movement into lines. It’s not as sleek as Wong’s better known works, but As Tears Go By is still a good film to watch, marking Wong as one of the biggest names in the then-emerging Hong Kong New Wave.