1. Once (John Carney): Here is the greatest movie musical since Cabaret, made even greater when considering this statement in light of its minimalist approach to its material—it was shot in just 17 days with a cast of unknowns. I’ve been pitching this film to my friends as a sort of “Irish-Pub musical;” it is simultaneously so charming and heartbreaking that it knocked both me out of my socks and any other film’s chance of topping my list. The film presents a week in the lives of a lonely street performer (Glen Hansard) and a single Czech mother (Marketa Irglova)—two lost souls dealing with private heartbreaks who find comfort in a platonic love affair in which they share their music. At first, they sing merely at each other; the film soon transitions into a tenderness in which they earn the right to sing to each other. All the songs are catchy and have a natural, street-performance quality to them; one called “Leave” is perhaps the greatest backhanded declaration of love since Brando’s speech to his dead wife in Last Tango in Paris. I think Ebert put it best in his review: “It's one of those films where you hold your breath, hoping it knows how good it is, and doesn't take a wrong turn.” No film moved or inspired me more this year.

          2. No Country for Old Men (Ethan and Joel Cohen): I can think of two great compliments for this powerful film that will inform you of its achievement: 1) It is the best film by the Cohen Brothers since Fargo, and perhaps equals its durable greatness (only time will tell), 2) it faithfully adapts Cormac McCarthy’s masterful novel so that it is both true to its spirit and complementary to its genuine magnitude. The Cohens are two of the greatest American filmmakers, and McCarthy is the greatest living American author, and the combination makes for one hell of a movie. Great performances abound, particularly Javier Bardem as a psychopathic serial killer who is such an effective personification of evil that he could make Hannibal Lector blush. From the first frame to the last, you stand in awe of the Cohen’s perfect, intentional mastery of cinematic language that they display here. This is the McCarthy adaptation that I was waiting for, and it is something of a miracle in the way it so successfully adapts what I would have considered to be an inadaptable novel. Makes me feel a little better about Ridley Scott’s upcoming Blood Meridian.

          3. Juno (Jason Reitman): I’m sympathetic toward critics who think that writer Diablo Cody’s Juno is too clever for its own good, featuring characters who speak witty, unnatural dialogue that constantly draws attention to itself. But looking deeper, I find the disarming wit to be the characters’ strategies, not the filmmakers’. Observe the natural way that its title character, played by Ellen Page in 2007’s best female performance, cloaks herself behind sarcasm and put-downs that slowly but surely, under the increasing strain of an unwanted pregnancy, become superfluous and trivial and force her into more honest, simplistic ruminations. Besides, I’ve known (and dated) goth girls like Juno, and I will vouch that Page’s portrayal is spot-on: She is sharp-tempered, razor-sharp, self-deprecating, endlessly sarcastic, and very wounded. Her journey through all of these aspects of her personality leads to a moment of truth between her and the father of the her baby (Michael Cera) that I would have called the greatest love scene of the year, had I not seen Once. Still, this one’s a masterpiece, and it should earn Page an Oscar.

          4. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik)/ Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (Yves Simoneau) (tie): This year saw the release of several traditional westerns, and these two films were the best of them (No Country for Old Men is really a contemporary western, which is almost its own genre). I’m counting these films together, because they both document the fall of the west from polarized but appropriately similar viewpoints: Dominik’s film is an operatic meditation on the death and legacy of Jesse James, and Simoneau details the final days of the great Sioux chief Sitting Bull. Cowboys and Indians thus have equal representation in terms of cinematic quality and disconsolate reflections on a lost way of life. Both films are so entrenched in sadness and thoughtfulness that they instantly draw us into their spells and ask us to consider their protagonists as the giants that they were, but men first. Two of the most poetic westerns that I’ve ever seen, and refreshing indications that the mythology of the American West will continue on for as long as there are filmmakers holding cameras.

         5. The Journals of Knud Rasmussen (Norman Cohn and Zacharias Kunuk): Cohn and Kunuk’s devastating follow-up to The Fast Runner will find unlikely but correct comparisons to last year’s documentary Jesus Camp for its revelation of fundamentalist Christianity’s strategies to convert susceptible victims. An authentic account of the fall of the arctic-dwelling Inuit culture to western culture, the film weaves various subplots and vignettes together about western explorers’ encounters with these fascinating people and climaxes with a confrontation with Christian missionaries that is at once angering and sobering in its implications. The film itself does not judge, only records; viewers are left to draw their own conclusions and mourn with the characters as they grow increasingly aware of their pending assimilation. A mesmerizing, celebratory funeral hymn for a stolen culture.

          6. Into the Wild (Sean Penn): A complex, highly-fictionalized chronicle of the controversial Christopher McCandless, a college-graduate-turned-vagabond who traveled most of North America before inadvertently poisoning himself to death in the wilds of Alaska. The film is manipulative as only Hollywood biopics can be, but Penn sounds all the correct notes in the character of Chris, played brilliantly by Emile Hirsch. He is a complex, realistic figure for whom we can never quite root; is he a lunatic, a visionary, or both? Penn is never sure, and correctly allows us to view him through the eyes of the fellow travelers who befriended him. A film that is at once tragic and triumphant, as was McCandless himself.

          7. Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead (Sidney Lumet): Sidney Lumet delivers one of his best films at the astounding age of 83, and thus joins the ranks of Bergman, Altman, and Kurosawa as a director who only improved when most had already hung up their hats. Ethan Hawke and Phillip Seymour Hoffman positively shine as two unlikely brothers who try to pull a heist in which no one will get hurt. Lumet is not interested in another traditional heist movie, but rather in the developing relationship between the two brothers and their father (Albert Finney) as the heist continues to go unbelievably wrong and calamity escalates upon calamity. Speaking of Finney, he has a conversation with one of his sons that is just about as revealing and electrifying as Peter Finch’s meltdown in Network. Yeah, it’s that good. So is the rest of this magnetic film.

          8. Atonement (Joe Wright): Is Joe Wright the next Merchant-Ivory? Still too early to call, but between this moving, romantic epic and last year’s Pride & Prejudice, I think it is a valid speculation. Kiera Knightly continues to establish herself as one of the finest actresses of her generation in this tragic love story about misunderstandings, guilt, and obsession. The contrast between the opening scenes, which are so utterly joyful, and the final passages, which are devoid of hope, quite literally sucks the oxygen out of our lungs and holds us captivated, even as our hearts break. What moves us the most is not the cinematic manipulation of emotion as is the case in so many period pieces, but the responses to guilt and despair that constantly ring absolutely true from beginning to end.

          9. Ratatouille (Brad Bird): A pure delight, capturing exactly the kind of charm for which animated films were originally conceived. The story of a rat living in Paris who dreams of becoming a chef sounds absurd, and it is. But this delight from Pixar plays up those absurdities with image after image that are fresh and original. In its center is one of the great animated characters of recent memory, the rat Remy (voiced by Patton Oswalt), who successfully convinces us that a sewer-dwelling rodent can indeed succeed at greater things. We smile with this film from beginning to end.

          10. Persepolis (Vincent Paronnaud and Marjane Satrapi): An animated film about a young woman’s experiences during the Iranian Islamic Revolution has an unnerving affect: The animation is so simple and unblinking, much the like graphic novel on which it is based, that after a while we forget that we are watching a “cartoon” and simply accept the film as a realistic portrayal of a world torn upside down. In a way, this subject matter is so devastating that it has to be animated, just to make the plight of its young protagonist bearable. In this way, Persepolis is comparable to Isao Takahata’s Grave of the Fireflies, and it stands favorably with that Japanese masterwork as a stunning reminder of what animation can do to accentuate, as well as make digestible, our harshest realities. 

• Away From Her (Sarah Polley): Stunning directorial debut for Polley; one of the finest films ever made about Alzheimer’s.
  
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  The Darjeeling Unlimited (Wes Anderson): Interesting follow-up to The Life Aquatic, with perfectly casted Owen Wilson, Adrian Brody, and Jason Schwartzman as estranged brothers on a redemptive trek through India. Typical (and brilliant) Anderson absurdities ensue.
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  The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Julian Schnabel): As good as you’ve heard; perhaps the best film to deal with a physical handicap since My Left Foot. Read the book too.
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  Gone Baby Gone (Ben Affleck): Ben Affleck is a very talented dramatic director. Who knew?
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  I’m Not There (Todd Haynes): Unconventional biopic finally reveals why Bob Dylan is so impenetrable: He doesn’t really exist. Ah-ha!
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  In the Valley of Elah (Paul Haggis): The first serious drama about Iraq veterans; great performances.
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  Into the Great Silence (Philip Gröning): Grande Chartreuse, the head French monastery of the Carthusian Order, is explored in meticulous detail. 169 minutes, every one of them well-used.
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  The Kite Runner (Marc Forster): Based on the best-selling novel by Khaled Hosseini. I was afraid this would be too manipulative. It ended up pitch-perfect.
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  Lake of Fire (Tony Kaye): The definitive documentary about both sides of the abortion debate; painstaking, mesmerizing, and fair.
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  Lars and the Real Girl (Craig Gillespie): Ryan Gosling is one of our very best, and this is a sweet, simple showcase of his talent.
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  La Vie en Rose (Olivier Dahan): Enchanting biopic on the life of Edith Piaf.
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  Michael Clayton (Tony Gilroy): George Clooney’s turn as a slimy but brilliant lawyer deserves an Oscar nomination; the interesting film surrounding this fascinating character does him tremendous service.
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  No End in Sight (Charles Ferguson): Mark my words: This documentary will become the definitive statement on the Iraq War. A stunning account of people who were there, and a heartbreaking condemnation of an administration gone awry from sources that might surprise you.
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  The Orphanage (Juan Antonio Bayona): A chilling, subtle haunted house flick positioned as this year’s Pan Labyrinth. I agree; I just hope I don’t kick myself later for not including it on my top ten.
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  Rendition (Gavin Hood): Very controversial, as any film detailing the United States’ secret torture should be. Manipulative, but not to a fault. How else do you tell a story like this in a way that communicates its warning to its American audience, except to use the language and devices of traditional Hollywood to get our attention? A daring, gripping film.
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  Romance and Cigarettes (John Turturro): The other unlikely musical hit of the year. Turturro is a great director, always strengthening his craft from film to film.
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  Sicko (Michael Moore): Moore has finally learned to translate his ideas in a way that sheds (or successfully hides) his ego. This authoritative, timely statement on America’s broken healthcare system is causing waves throughout the United States; if you don’t believe me, listen to the way the politicians are talking about its subject matter this year.
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  Southland Tales (Richard Kelly): A misunderstood epic that successfully parodies the Book of Revelation, with images, characters, and a narrative just as apocalyptically wacky as its source material. Rightfully destined to be a cult-classic; it is an ingenious, audacious piece of satirical celluloid with perhaps the most unlikely ensemble cast in motion picture history.
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  Starting Out in the Evening (Andrew Wagner): A more intellectual, less emotionally manipulative Finding Forrester. Best appreciated by lovers and writers of great literature. I sincerely hope Frank Langella gets an Oscar nomination for his role as a reclusive writer—he delivers one of the year’s best performances.
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  Zodiac (David Fincher): Fincher’s masterpiece at long last successfully marries his effective visual style with a complimentary story that accentuates his mood without distracting his rhythm. Great performances to boot, particularly from Robert Downey, Jr.