Everything You Need to Know Ahead of This Year’s Oscars

One Battle After Another is here to welcome you to the ICE age, and Bob Ferguson—its stoned, rumbling lead—is half-awake. 16 years prior, Ferguson was a renegade, terrorizing the U.S. government with his wife, Perfidia, and their rebel group, the French 75. But his wife’s reckless actions and government retaliation led by Bob’s nemesis Col. Steven Lockjaw force him (and their daughter Willa) into hiding. 

One Battle After Another is far and away this year’s best film. It’s stylistically flawless, thematically complex, and totally enthralling. It’s the year’s Oscar favorite, and deservedly so. It’s already taken the Golden Globe, Critics Choice, and DGA top prizes. It’s a once-in-an-era classic, a film that feels completely relevant to life right now. 

Paul Thomas Anderson is the visionary behind this era-defining film. A three-hour, studio-financed, $140 million action-comedy (and it’s a genuine laugh-out-loud comedy) shot entirely on location is unheard of. And, in true Anderson fashion, One Battle After Another is visually gorgeous and perfectly composed. For almost any other director, this concept would be met with ridicule. But here it is, against all odds.

It’s remarkable that hope is the force that wins you over by the end of the film. You’ve seen the once-thriving resistance network sell each other out, retire into mundanity, or be kidnapped by the government. You’ve seen kids in cages playing volleyball with their aluminum foil blankets. You’ve seen community leaders evacuate undocumented immigrants as a militarized police force busts down their door. You’ve seen a white supremacist club hunt down a mixed race teenager for pure sport.

But in little jabs and minute attacks, hope bleeds through the cracks. Ordinary people do ordinary things and the ball keeps rolling. Together, they defend their freedom. And eventually, after 16 long years, Bob wakes up. After One Battle After Another, you might too. 

All God’s children sin, but not all sinners are created equal: some drink blood. Sinners, the hyper-successful, Ryan Coogler-directed movie marvel, is about that blood-drinking category. With 16 Oscar nominations (the most ever for a single film), Sinners has more than enough cinematic gospel to share. 

Sinners follows preacher boy and amateur blues player Sammie Moore (methodically played by newcomer Miles Caton) and his infamous twin cousins (played by Michael B. Jordan and … also Michael B. Jordan) as they battle the KKK and vampires to build a juke joint in ’30s Mississippi.

But Sinners is more than just a vampire flick. It particularly speaks about the Jim Crow era, about Black culture, its co-option into the mainstream, and the tradeoffs that come with that. About generational trauma. About what it means to last. About whether art is supposed to last. About what it really means to sin. It is surprisingly complex for a major studio blockbuster. Its thematic meat is tough. And by nature, Sinners forces you to bite off more than you can chew, and then manage to swallow it all down. 

Its highlights are some of the best cinematic moments of the year. A ranting Delroy Lindo at the train station, or his following monologue in the car. An impassioned Michael B. Jordan with a machine gun. A post-credits scene for the ages, one that consciously places Sinners within a lineage of Black filmmaking. A bone-chilling warning, delivered to ignorant Klan members by Choctaw cowboys. And, of course, a pulsing, one-take dance sequence, blending time, genre, geography, and sound in a way only Coogler and composer Ludwig Göransson can. 

It’s moments like these that make Sinners the only film with a reasonable chance at upsetting One Battle After Another. But Sinners still has its flaws. Its climactic battle feels more aligned with a dry Marvel spectacle than with the soulful ease that defines the first two acts. Some of the performances lack their necessary subtlety. The win for either Best Picture or Director feels like a long shot, but Original Screenplay should be a lock for Coogler. 

Sinners’ faults are easy to forgive, namely because Sinners feels classic. Like the blockbusters of the past, it’s enjoyable and thrilling, but still substantial down to the bone. Maybe Hollywood has finally seen the sun again. 

Hamnet is made to make you cry. It’s carefully crafted into a delicate puzzle of emotional devastation. Adapted from a book by the same name, directed by Oscar-winner Chloe Zhao, and produced by the great Steven Spielberg, Hamnet feels like a classic drama. Except for one fatal flaw: you know the blueprint. You’ve seen it before. And you realize, very quickly, that Hamnet is following the same tired, tear-jerking, emotionally overdramatic playbook.

William, the brooding artist, meets Agnes, the mystical older sister of the kids he tutors. They fall in love and fight against their parents for the right to marry. Eventually, their three children, William’s desire to write in London, and the looming plague begin to splinter their relationship. 

However, the film differentiates itself in a couple of ways. Its scenes are gorgeous, lush, and lived-in. Its storyline cuts the gimmicks the book embraces. And, most of all, it’s incredibly well acted, all the way down the call sheet. 

Hamnet culminates in one of the best scenes of the year. Agnes finally sees her husband’s play (Hamlet … it’s Hamlet) after decades, and with it comes a quiet reckoning. This shot of unstoppable adrenaline—anchored by Jessie Buckley’s exquisite performance—should be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, leaving you weeping as she lurches her hand toward her husband’s stage (and the camera). But it doesn’t. The rest of Hamnet is so dull, so emotionally washed out, that its final scene, in all its emotional power, feels out of place. 

“To be or not to be,” Paul Mescal’s Shakespeare eye-rollingly ‘improvises’ on the edge of a bridge at the end of the second act. Whether Hamnet is or isn’t makes absolutely no difference. 
Maybe it’s Zhao’s incredibly stale camera (it almost never moves), the fact that almost all lines are delivered in either seductive whispers or guttural screams, the forced and discontinuous ending themes, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but at the end of the day, Hamnet just feels impersonal.

Marty Supreme is on the run. No, not just its despicable hero, Marty Mauser, flashing past Lower East Side cops, mobmen, ex-girlfriends, and even his own mother. The film itself is on the run. It’s filled with energy, darting into vivid vignettes of ’50s New York City, destroying them in hilarious fashion, then abandoning them, leaving their inevitable consequences for 30 minutes in the future. And just when you’re hypnotized by the film’s newest ploy (and its vivid vignettes), and you’ve forgotten all about the unsolved mystery from 30 minutes ago, here it comes crashing through the ceiling. It’s in this manner that Marty Supreme manages to maintain its unreasonable pace. 

Timothée Chalamet might be the lead in this race against absolutely nobody—time, perhaps. Or maybe failure. But he’s supported by an eclectic range of somebodies, nobodies, and everybodies. Odessa A’zion, Gwyneth Paltrow, Tyler Okonma (, The Creator to most of you), and Mr. Wonderful from Shark Tank are superstar highlights. So, too, is Josh Safdie’s screenplay, leaving Uncut Gems’ anxious dryness for a movie instead injected with pure energy.  

Marty Supreme has its issues though. It, like Mauser, seems to brush past the implications of any one of its decisions. And its refusal to ever take itself entirely seriously makes its final thematic reckoning feel more stupid than sobering. It seems to argue that the hunger to achieve your goals, no matter how much of a public nuisance (and Marty Mauser is a complete nuisance) you are in the process, is at least somewhat honorable. 

Only with context does the film gain some real thematic saying. Marty Supreme is about the post-WWII Lower East Side. A Jewish-American community mourning the Holocaust, determined to make their lives count. They are hungry and they are brash. But they have burdened themselves with the responsibility to prove the entirety of antisemitism wrong. To do what their fallen community members couldn’t.

“I’m going to do to Kletzki what Auschwitz couldn’t. I’m going to finish the job,” Mauser says about his mentor and upcoming opponent, shocking a British reporter. “I’m just kidding, I’m Jewish,” he assures. “I’m Hitler’s worst nightmare.” 

Yes, this movie is technically about ping pong.

One of the foreign nominations in this category, Brazil’s The Secret Agent, is a mixed bag. It definitely has a lot to say, but a slightly jarring way of saying it. However, the film is anchored by a superb leading performance and features some of the most vibrant characters put on screen all year. The fearless Dona Sebastiana is a major highlight.

F1 is the recipient of the annual “totally serviceable popcorn movie” nomination slot. It pulses with energy and delivers some truly breathtaking racing scenes. Yes, it’s underwritten. Yes, it’s cheesy. Yes, it’s completely unserious. But it’s also an incredible technical feat. And it’s fun. Can we not just have fun anymore? 

Frankenstein takes quite a cue from its infamous monster: it’s massive and visually imposing, yet as many times as you just want it to be over, it still doesn’t die. The two-and-a-half-hour run time feels closer to five. If, for some reason, you’re forced into this bore, I’d advise you to pay attention to the stellar set design or Mia Goth’s incredibly odd performance.

In Bugonia, Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos reunites with his most frequent collaborator, two-time Oscar winner Emma Stone. Add to the mix stellar performances by Jesse Plemons and Aidan Delbis, a fascinating brass-centered score, and one of the most tense scripts of the year, and you get a pretty solid film all around. Until the last 15 minutes screw it all up with an overly heady mess.  

Norwegian filmmaker Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value is fall-off-the-bone tender. The family drama is magnificently acted (all four of the leading players have earned their own Oscar nominations) and meticulously directed (hopefully well enough to secure it a Best Foreign Film win). It also might be the saddest of this year’s nominees, filling you with mostly emptiness and dread. But after a couple stellar highs, and a perfect final moment, Sentimental Value leaves you sitting in a surprisingly complex emotional soup.

The award for this year’s quietest film goes to Train Dreams. At times, it benefits from its restraint, achieving moments of near-serenity. But its logging hero is too often drowned out by an overbearing narrator, and its gorgeous filmmaking is overshadowed by wandering storytelling.

If you’ve been living under a rock since December, you might not know: it’s Timothée Chalamet’s world—and we’re just here visiting. Chalamet, a now three-time nominee for Best Actor, has reached a new frontier. Marty Supreme is the first film that feels, unquestionably, completely his. It’s just as chaotic as it is buzzing, and as spiked with energy as anything ever put on the big screen. 

Marty Mauser is the hero (and I say hero with a little more than a touch of sarcasm) who’s brought Chalamet to his highest heights. He’s the character who’s demanded the most out of him. As Mauser, Chalamet has to be a real douche. He also has to be endlessly charismatic. He has to lure viewers in, hypnotize them, and then force them through the anxiety-ridden mess that Marty Supreme turns out to be. And most of all, Mauser must be endlessly, entirely, dreadfully driven. 

Mauser, from his first moments as a shoe salesman to his last at a hospital, is always focused on something. It might be ping pong, money, his girlfriend, his soirees with a Hollywood star, running from the cops, or a scam. There is always something on Mauser’s mind. And that thing is never as simple as what’s being discussed on the screen. 

The only obstacles between Chalamet and his well-documented dream (see his SAG Awards speech from last year) are history and himself. The Academy doesn’t reward young, attractive male actors. The youngest ever Best Actor winner was 29 (Chalamet is 30) and the Academy’s disdain for the young, beloved superstar is known. It’s also well known how much Chalamet wants this Oscar. He’s been campaigning for it for the past four months. His brash, ultra-competitive nature has garnered him a dedicated fanbase and some even more dedicated haters. But, for Chalamet, it feels like failure doesn’t even begin to enter his consciousness. 

The irony shouldn’t be lost on you. The man between what feels like Timothée Chalamet’s Oscar destiny is the man who’s had half a dozen Oscar destinies. The man who’s become the epitome of the Academy’s twisted way of treating young male actors. Lose and lose when you deserve to win as a young heartthrob, and they’ll reward you when you only half deserve to win when you get old. But this isn’t a half-deserving, lazy, Oscar-bait DiCaprio performance. This one’ll go in his hall of fame. 

DiCaprio is One Battle After Another’s only constant. He’s a shy, sensible presence in the film’s first 30 minutes, controlled by his wife Perfidia and his desire for a normal life. But as his life unravels, Bob Ferguson is thrust into paranoia. When the film flashes forward, we’re introduced to a new Bob. This one is a mess. 

He tries to smoke a blunt in his daughter’s parent-teacher conference. He bickers with his daughter about her school dance. And of course, he can’t remember the single most important thing from his past: a password. He’s an unconventional hero, to say the least. 

It’s an unusual role for DiCaprio. Usually drawn to excess or psychopathy or emotional unavailability (see The Wolf of Wall Street, The Departed, The Revenant), this time DiCaprio is forced into something simpler: stoner slapstick. But that’s not to say it’s easier. Comedy can be incredibly difficult, especially in situations where the majority of a character’s actions are played entirely for laughs (his rant about the password is probably the highlight of DiCaprio’s comedic career). Bob is not a serious man, but DiCaprio must keep him real, even when it’s demanded that he stumble endlessly. It’s a challenge for DiCaprio: how to keep a character grounded when a script relegates him to farce. 

But in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment—one line about his inability to do his daughter’s hair—DiCaprio gets what he’s spent the whole film thirsty for: dramatic depth. It is beautiful. 

One of Sinners’ 16 nominations belongs to its lead actor, Michael B. Jordan. And maybe he should’ve gotten two. He plays both of the infamous Smoke Stack twins, and does so with complete intensity. Jordan successfully avoids most of the landmines that come with playing twins. They’re each entirely whole, and distinguishably different, not just by look, but by voice and action and character. He gives them both their own spectacular moments.

The film’s end gets an impassioned Jordan, with squinted eyes and an unflappable mind, machine gun in hand, releasing all 120 minutes of pent-up anger. Stack’s raunchy relationship with Mary (a coy Hailee Steinfeld) is an inevitable game of cat and mouse, played with perfect seduction. He understands that the twins are emboldened, that when they return to lowly Mississippi from Capone’s Chicago, they feel like they can take on anything. And more than anything else, he understands the softness in the twins’ relationship with Sammie (Miles Caton), their younger cousin. It’s there that he lets them be nurtured.

But it’s Sammie, from a technical lens, that keeps Jordan from a serious chance at the Oscar. Though the twins are clearly the leads of the film, they don’t push the story. That would be Sammie. They don’t get anywhere near Caton’s level of character development or emotional depth. And so even though the twins get most of the screen time, they are instead often relegated to parallels, one twin directly contrasted against the other. It’s part of what makes Sinners so thematically deep. But it’s not as focused, as emotionally layered, as some of Jordan’s competitors. And so, like his characters, it seems Jordan has sacrificed his own personal success for the greater good. 

Best Actor is by far this year’s most competitive category, with all five of these performances being loved by critics. In fact, it feels like there’s a reasonable pathway for any of these actors to win the coveted award. 

Ethan Hawke is just okay in Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon. As the degenerated playwright Lorenz Hart, Hawke is repulsively pathetic. Hawke plays him just how the movie planned. The only issue: the movie planned him to be unwatchably annoying. And even though the blame falls more on Linklater’s hands, the film—and Hawke in it—really falls apart. It’s impossible to watch 100 minutes of someone this annoying. Sadly, the critics seem to disagree.

Wagner Moura has a very complicated task in The Secret Agent. Moura plays Marcelo, a scientist on the outs with Brazil’s ’70s dictatorship. Though he’s got hitmen following him at every move, Moura keeps a remarkably calm demeanor. He’s as emotionally diverse as the best of them, but still a secure rock in a film marked by several incredibly unique choices (there’s a 5-minute montage in which a CGI leg runs around Brazil causing havoc). Sadly, some of them end up overshadowing him. 

You’re met with complete awe when you see Jessie Buckley in Hamnet’s last sequence. After a drawn-out journey, filled with all the emotional extremes possible, Buckley’s final moments feel relatively restrained. Until they don’t. She panics. She lurches, pathetically, desperately toward a stage. She sees an actor’s face in her husband’s play. And then it clicks. Then she laughs, and she smiles, and she beams with pride and understanding. It really is a feat worth seeing. 

We really get time with Agnes throughout the film. We see her fall in love, reluctantly, in the back of a barn. We see her give birth in a scene overflowing with stress and chaos. We see her relationship with her husband harden, dry up, and go cold. We see her hurt, pained, and attacked by the world. And then, we see the world surprise her. Her husband’s play is not a comedy, as she had thought. It’s a tragedy. The tragedy. And it’s named after her son. 

Buckley does have a tendency to grossly exaggerate big emotional moments, lending herself to multiple minute-long monologues of only guttural screams or intense prophecies. It can be a little much. But in a film that does remarkably little, it’s a relief to see an actress so dedicated to reaching her emotional touchpoints. 

When the plague kills her son, it’s impossible to look at her. Her grief feels so real that by looking her in the eye, you’ve inexplicably become responsible for the deaths you’ve seen. When her husband chooses his art over her, you feel guilty too. You’ve benefited from her struggle. And Buckley wants you to know that. She is making you wade through the puddle with her.  

This innate awareness of the audience is unusual. And so, by the end, when she reaches over the stage, in a moment so quietly revolutionary, she is reaching out to you. She is proving to you, through a means of time travel only film can provide, that she has triumphed. This triumph extends to awards season. Buckley has racked up every single award possible. 

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is this year’s most uncomfortable film. And Rose Byrne is the sole actress at its center. The film centers around Linda, an overwhelmed psychologist, who is walled off from the rest of the world by a series of challenges. There’s her husband’s naval deployment, leaving her as a de facto single mother. There’s her patient’s disappearance due to a post-partum breakdown. There’s the giant hole in the ceiling of her apartment. And then, above all else, there’s the fact that her daughter won’t eat. 

It’s painful to watch a woman like Linda struggle so alone. To see her ram her head against a wall hundreds of times. Linda is not a character who we see get drained of life in real time. If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is not that kind of movie. By the time we meet Linda, her life is already gone. We’re really only allowed to theorize about who this woman used to be. 

Byrne is able to reach levels of emotional complexity that are frankly sick. Disgusting even. Linda is a choiceless woman, relegated to the subservient in almost every role of her life. She’s completely trapped and completely raw. Cut open on a figurative operating table for all of us to see and pity. 

But Linda can’t be relegated to something that simple. And so Byrne completes an emotional marathon on a treadmill. It’s exhausting. A tenuous journey. An impossible one. It’s by far the toughest task put on an actress this year, one that should be rewarded by a statuette and an acceptance speech. The film starts with a woman at ground zero, but instead of watching her climb, we see her fall. It seems like Linda will keep crashing into walls until the day she dies. And then Byrne pulls out the ace in her sleeve. And the tears come again. 

From the very beginning, we know exactly who Nora is: an actress who is afraid of the stage. Terrified. When we first meet her, she’s running from an entourage of stage managers, crying while crawling out of her dress (they end up duct taping her into it). When she is finally pushed onto the stage, forced to act, it all makes sense. Nora is really good at what she does. And she’s scared of the power that it gives her. 

Renate Reinsve’s performance as Nora is wonderful. Nora is a character enveloped in a deep sadness. But the origin of this sadness itself is inexplicable. This is Reinsve’s main challenge. To make an audience believe that this confusing sadness is the all-consuming force in her life. It’s not a performance spanning all-emotions (say Rose Byrne’s), but instead it focuses on the complexities of one overwhelming feeling. And so Nora is always grounded, always familiar, but never plain. 

And here Reinsve is tasked with another tough job: Nora is the protagonist, not an anti-hero. She must remain likable despite being trapped in the darkness—we need to see glimpses of light within her. To understand that inside that darkness is a person. A person with charisma, with a sense of humor, with love. A person who just can’t find the light switch, the one that reveals the ladder out. But Reinsve avoids inviting pity. Instead, she makes Nora humble and shy without dulling her edge. 

It takes until the very end of the film for Nora to crack a real smile. But, when it finally comes, Reinsve’s character comes to full light. It just takes a while for us to get to meet her. 

Emma Stone is just having fun in Bugonia. It’s another team-up with Yorgos Lanthimos, the Greek director who got Stone her second Best Actress Oscar in 2024 for Poor Things. Here, Stone plays Michelle Fuller, a Fortune 500 CEO who might be an alien sent to destroy Earth. Her cruel manner and knack for PR speak are the only reasons the film works as well as it does. Stone’s monologue about her company’s newly shortened work hours and her car ride rendition of Chappell Roan’s “Good Luck, Babe!” are hilarious highlights.

Kate Hudson is a frumpy, Minnesotan Neil Diamond interpreter (not an impersonator … interpreter) in the sickly sweet Song Sung Blue. And, she (and the movie as a whole) is really quite awful to watch. Hudson is insincere and fake. It’s an impersonation of a “normal” person from a star who feels completely out of touch. It’s clear there’s no passion involved here. This is just painful Oscar bait.

Gustav Borg is a very difficult person. He is judgy, rude, ambitious, and sometimes just mean. But as the acclaimed, overly serious, incredibly distant Borg, Stellan Skarsgard is anything but difficult to watch. However, as he’s in over 40% of the movie, and plays the major emotional antagonist, Supporting Actor might not be a fair category for him. 

Gustav Borg is a tough character to play. Sentimental Value hinges on the relationship between Gustav and his daughter Nora, and he rarely hides his disappointment in her, often delivering it with startling bluntness. But it’s incredibly important that Gustav doesn’t become the story’s villain. We need to believe in him. We need to root for him and his daughter to get past their differences and unite under their art.  

That belief is the starting line for Skarsgard’s portrayal. It’s one marked by emotional outbursts and quiet, simmering anger. One by one, Skarsgard peels back layers of his character. He shares his emotions for brief, perfectly-timed moments, and then hides them again in shadows. His freedom when a new actress makes him feel young again. His disgust when his old cinematographer, cane in hand, makes him combat his age. His viciousness as he wages all out war against his daughters at his grandson’s birthday party. 

This is a man who is fundamentally hurt. And so, Skarsgard treats him with empathy. He takes care of him. With subtlety, Skarsgard turns Gustav into a poetic figure, and likely, himself into an Oscar winner.

Sensei Sergio St. Carlos only has 13 minutes of screen time in One Battle After Another. He’s introduced as Willa’s karate teacher and becomes a crucial ally to Bob. He exits Modelo-drunk just as Bob jumps out of his car with a new rifle, ready for his final fight. What Benicio Del Toro does in the middle is nothing short of genius. 

As the Sensei brings Bob through his apartment complex (or as he calls it, a modern day underground railroad station) into rooms filled with dozens of family members he knows by name (carefully introducing each to Bob), and past anxious immigrants fleeing the military, we begin to understand the extent of his power. The Sensei has people that will go to bat for him. 

He’s one of the decade’s most fascinating characters. He’s flawless. Seemingly floating over the conflict at the center of the film. This all-consuming war between Bob and the Colonel is simply too petty for him. He’s focused on much bigger things. He’s got a meditation app on his phone, a machine gun under his bed, and a mission. It’s probably best to put it this way: Sensei Sergio St. Carlos is the twenty-first century’s Yoda. He’s a sage, brightening the path for those who cannot see it themselves. 

Del Toro understands all of this. He captures the wisdom, the restraint, and the weight of Sensei’s responsibility. It’s rare to see a character who feels completely self-assured, completely doubtless, but Sensei is, and so Del Toro does. It’s a perfect performance. Simple as that. Disappointingly, it’s this understated nature that makes Del Toro such a long shot in a Supporting Actor category that usually rewards more dynamic or lengthy performances.

It’s pure fun to watch Delroy Lindo act. There’s a rhythm to his pattern of speech, a toughness, a prophetic quality. As Delta Slim, Lindo always feels larger than life. And, after five decades as an iconic figure in the industry, it’s nice to see Lindo finally get his due with the Academy.

Sean Penn is another major contender for his performance in One Battle After Another. The two-time Oscar winner’s portrayal of the downright despicable Col. Steven Lockjaw is bone-chilling. Lockjaw is simply one of recent memory’s most horrifying villains. Penn’s controversial political stands, his disdain for interviews and promo, and the fact that the film’s campaigners will split the votes between Penn and Del Toro all stand in the way of him and the statuette. 

Jacob Elordi’s performance as Frankenstein’s monster isn’t half bad. He has very few lines (mostly just grunts), and almost no help from his fellow castmates, but out of nothing (like his character) comes something … sometimes. 

Aunt Gladys is definitely a character. She’s got a big pink beaded necklace, a very unflattering red wig, and some of the runniest makeup ever. She’s also totally horrifying. Gladys is (spoiler alert) not a real aunt: instead she’s an ancient, life sucking, child-stealing witch. And Amy Madigan has the impossible job of playing her. 

Gladys only gets around 15 minutes on screen, appearing mostly in blink-and-you’ll-miss-it jumpscares until her grand entrance in the film’s final act. But what an entrance it is. For most of the movie, she remains unsuspected in the disappearance of her “nephew’s” 17 classmates—until she’s called into the principal’s office to talk about his response to this traumatic event.

There, we finally understand the chaotic nature of Aunt Gladys. Her wobbly speech patterns and firm outbursts are off-putting. More than anyone else put to screen this year, Aunt Gladys is a wildcard. A complete chaos agent dedicated to keeping Weapons watchers enthusiastically addicted. 

Madigan plays her with a precision seldom seen from horror villains. Each and every decision, even down to the slightest of twitches, is completely fine-tuned. Madigan and Gladys are completely in sync. Madigan plays up Gladys’ inherent humor (her jaw droppingly ugly costuming, her shockingly unhuman manner of conversing with other people) when it’s needed, but not to the extent that she ever loses the ability to scare. 

Aunt Gladys is one for the books, endlessly entertaining, completely unique, totally unforgettable, and impossible to place. Yet Madigan never lets Gladys become a caricature. She’s full of emotion and pain and completely impossible to stop watching.

Perfidia Beverly Hills is only in the first 30 minutes of One Battle After Another. But God, does Teyana Taylor know how to make an impression. Perfidia is a revolutionary—the leader of the French 75, a Che-like symbol of resistance. She’s captivating and completely forceful. When she grits her teeth, things move. A pregnant Perfidia, machine gun in hand, exuberant about looking like Scarface lead Tony Montana, is an unforgettable image. 

Taylor is fearless in this role. Almost violent with her emotions, she’s direct and sometimes crude. At times, the character leans toward the symbolic—more ideological figurehead than fully formed person—and Taylor occasionally pushes that intensity into one-note territory. Still, she’s completely enthralling. Even when Perfidia’s vision of revolution feels oversimplified, you still want to believe in it because she does. 

As the film progresses long past Taylor’s early exit, One Battle After Another distances itself from the radical hope Perfidia embodies. But it never forgets her. She’s always there, burning in the back of your mind, reminding you that hope and love and freedom don’t have to be soft. That they can hold just as much power as any hate. 

As Gustav Borg’s younger daughter Agnes in Sentimental Value, Norwegian actress Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas might have the most poised performance of the year. When the film reaches its emotional climax, she finally gets her moment to shine, and nails the film’s thesis statement with such force. It’s a line so heartbreaking, and so perfectly performed, it landed Ibsdotter Lilleaas a flight from Oslo to the Oscars.

Right alongside Ibsdotter Lilleaas is Elle Fanning as Rachel Kemp, an up-and-coming American actress unknowingly thrust into the Borg’s family situation—one that’s far above her weight class. She’s wild and joyous, introduced as a shimmering ingenue on the beach at Cannes, but throughout the film she fades into insecurity. It’s here that Fanning proves, once and for all, that she’s a serious actress, one capable of handling subtlety and emotional depth. 

Wunmi Mosaku’s Annie is the heart and soul of Sinners. She is smooth and royal, holding an all-knowing power in her perfectly postured shoulders. Annie knows how Sinners is going to end, even when you don’t. Mosaku’s ability to remain captivating is admirable. In molding Annie, she has created a character that is felt deeply in the crevices of the soul, even when she isn’t understood.

This year’s Best Director race is pretty strong from top to bottom. The overwhelming favorite is One Battle After Another’s Paul Thomas Anderson [WILL WIN/SHOULD WIN]. Barring a major upset, Anderson seems poised to win his first Oscar after 11 nominations. And it’s well deserved. Not only is One Battle After Another an epic effort in directing a flawless three-hour film, but Anderson remains America’s premier auteur. This year’s work, combined with his towering career, makes him the clear frontrunner. 

The only reasonable upset would come from Oakland native Ryan Coogler for Sinners, likely as part of a broader sweep. Coogler’s direction is remarkably controlled, has some of the year’s most stunning cinematography, and is tonally on point. His time will come—it’s simply a question of when, not if. 

Josh Safdie (Marty Supreme) and Joachim Trier (Sentimental Value) lead very different movies, but excel at very similar things. Both Safdie and Trier are able to completely convey complex moods throughout their filmmaking. For Safdie that means a bold, brash, constantly-moving rush, and for Trier, it means precise, blink-and-you’ll miss-it emotional pricks. No matter their successes, this is more of the ‘lucky to be nominated’ crew. 
Chloé Zhao (Hamnet) is the only Oscar winner of the bunch. Her 2020 win for Nomadland, makes her a complete wildcard. But Hamnet is not well directed. Its distractingly minimalistic camerawork and eye-gougingly boring blocking halt most of the movie’s bright spots. But she’s an Academy favorite, so who knows.