There’s nothing like “getting” a movie. It makes us feel accomplished and satisfied upon completion. But sometimes, every so often, we finish a film, and we’re left stumped. Maybe they’re not to “get.” At least that’s what the filmmakers tell those cinephiles asking for answers. As negative a connotation as it has, it’s these films that we dub “pretentious.” A movie generally earns the honor when it’s viewed as much deeper, smarter, or more significant than it actually is. Sometimes its prestige is lauded so hard that, by the time the credits roll, the eyes are rolling too.
The films we are about to discuss prefer substance to style, use forced symbolism with heavy-handed metaphors, are deliberately vague, or treat their themes insincerely. Some of these films are a combo of those traits. Maybe they’re all of the above! No matter what, the last 30 years of cinema have been a mixed bag of brilliance and pomposity. From arthouse stunners to Oscar shockers, these pretentious pieces have made a list they might wish to be on.
When it comes to closing out the ‘90s with iconic imagery, no film did it quite like American Beauty. The Sam Mendes-directed drama, written by Alan Ball, is a film meant to satirize how beauty and personal satisfaction are perceived by the American middle class. Instead, the cynical take on suburbia attempts to present profound existential truths that read more like deep-sounding clichés. But with five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, the film’s pretentious nature clearly meant very little because it was so well made. The film tells the story of Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey), a middle-aged advertising executive who experiences a severe midlife crisis and rebels against his soul-crushing routine, materialistic marriage, and stagnant existence. Lester’s wife, Carolyn (Annette Bening), is deeply invested in appearances and material success, while their teenage daughter, Jane (Thora Birch), struggles with insecurity and deep depression. Feeling invisible and unloved, Lester quits his job, starts smoking marijuana, and becomes obsessively infatuated with his daughter’s flirtatious teenage friend, Angela (Mena Suvari). A mix of dark comedy and psychological drama, the film juxtaposes the beauty of mundane things with symbolizing outward perfection that conceals decay and hidden tragedies.
American Beauty is a poetic look at repression, loneliness, and the pursuit of personal liberation, which will come at a high cost. But to sell that narrative, Mendes and Ball overwhelm the film with heavy-handed symbolism and metaphors. Perhaps the most debated moment comes when new neighbor Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley) films an ordinary plastic bag blowing in the wind and calls it “the most beautiful thing I’ve ever filmed.” Coming long before Katy Perry opined about it in her hit song “Firework,” some viewers of American Beauty take on it and see it as pseudo-deep wisdom. The film promises didactic life lessons via Lester’s opening and closing narration, but his deep revelations about life and death can be seen as generalized observations. Now, in hindsight, American Beauty has not held up well due to the nature of its lead actor’s personal allegations. The journey of a middle-aged man’s midlife crisis and sexual fixation on a teenage girl as an act of genuine spiritual awakening and self-discovery has an uncomfortable essence now. Regardless, the film’s adoration has allowed it to remain a distinct masterpiece of the decade that led to a new century. There’s no way to undermine American Beauty’s ultimate legacy.
Just because it’s a superhero flick doesn’t mean it can’t be pretentious. For Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, its ambition and philosophical exploration of man and god overwhelmed the iconic IP. In Zack Snyder‘s blockbuster, bitter vigilante Batman (Ben Affleck) views an unchecked Superman (Henry Cavill) as an existential threat to humanity. Blaming him for massive collateral damage and loss of life, he views him as a god-like threat that requires containment. Meanwhile, criminal mastermind Lex Luthor (Jesse Eisenberg) manipulates this fear, forcing the heroes into a brutal battle. They ultimately unite with Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) to battle Doomsday, a monstrous creation by Luthor. The completely joyless, overtly dark-toned sequel preferred excessive bleakness to accompany the unearned spectacles. Upon the success of Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight trilogy, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice should have worked; Snyder just didn’t have the right tonal handle on the beloved characters.
Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice was not a film dedicated to the devoted DC fans. The ambitious story deconstructed superhero mythology while exploring deep philosophical themes about power, accountability, and fear. There’s nothing wrong with that, but doing so carelessly caused the overstuffed lore to become fragmented. By attempting to shoehorn story elements from unrelated films, the contrived illogical leaps in logic and confusing character motivations ruin the IP. The “Save Martha” device was certainly a choice. The follow-up to Man of Steel, was a preamble to the film he was destined to make. Snyder eventually fixed the woes of this film with 2017’s Justice League, but had there been any extra span of time between films, Justice League could have been dead on arrival. Casting preferences aside, this film is important to the DC legacy for showing how bad things can happen when you try too hard.
Let’s be truthful here: just because something is a masterpiece doesn’t mean it’s free of pretension. The epic coming-of-age drama is an exquisite film, but The Tree of Life is one of those narratives that is a bit too self-indulgent at times. Directed by the visionary that is Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life is an experimental drama that centers on Jack (Sean Penn), who reconciles childhood memories of his stern father (Brad Pitt) and loving mother (Jessica Chastain) with the vast, humbling scale of existence. Of course, Jack’s parents represent a way of living. Mr. O’Brien represents the way of nature — selfishness and survival — while Mrs. O’Brien represents the way of grace, selflessness, and love. Through the cosmic significance of the mundane, filtered through the memories of a reflective man, it avoids telling a simple 1950s family drama, opting instead for a cosmic dissertation on the origins of the universe, the meaning of existence, and the duality of grace and nature.
The average moviegoer tends to prefer an easy-to-consume film. The Tree of Life is anything but. Malick largely abandons a standard, plot-driven structure, instead opting for jumps through time and prioritizing abstract, emotional experiences over a linear story. It’s a film that requires a keen eye and constant attention. So, if you veer away from the roughly 45 minutes of creation and dinosaur sequences, you won’t be reprimanded. Truth be told, those moments recall the defunct EPCOT attraction Universe of Energy— and not even the fun version with Ellen DeGeneres. Malick makes no secret of the fact that The Tree of Life is a work of abstract art. That means you’ll get more philosophical musings about family memories. But those who “get” it can see how it’s all connected. By no means is The Tree of Life a bad film. In fact, it’s quite stunning. It’s just not made for a widespread audience.
Wide-spanning epics that cover a vast span of time can be hit-or-miss. It all depends on if they’re handled with care. Darren Aronofsky has done some extraordinary work in his career. The Fountain is not one of his highlights. Why? The Fountain is far too complex and stylized for the themes it dreams of tackling. A visually philosophical drama, The Fountain weaves together three distinct timelines spanning a thousand years, centering around a man (Hugh Jackman) trying to save the woman he loves (Rachel Weisz). In the present, Tom Creo, a modern-day neurosurgeon, becomes frantically obsessed with finding a cure for cancer to save his terminally ill wife, Izzi. In the past, Tomas, a 16th-century Spanish conquistador, sets out on a bloody crusade through the Mayan jungle to find the legendary Tree of Life and save his captive queen. In the future, Tom, a 26th-century astronaut, travels through deep space in a biosphere toward a dying star, accompanied by the Tree of Life. Simple in premise, obscurely fragmented in execution.
The film tackles the profound themes of morality and mortality, but it almost gets bogged down by the amount of mystical, pseudo-spiritual importance bestowed upon it. In turn, the story becomes deliberately obscure rather than meaningful. The Fountain is quite a hefty work. Not all films require levity, but with such deeply weighted themes, there is no self-awareness. Instead, The Fountain commits to its grandiose vision, resulting in some viewers finding it pompous. No doubt, Aronofsky is the type of director who can take ambitious risks. But the complexity of the timeline sparks such polarizing reactions that the stunning imagery and emotional resonance are lost in the shuffle. Not every viewer gets a chance to rewatch a movie to completely grasp it; The Fountain is one that requires multiple watches. But who has the time when better multi-time cosmic thrillers exist?
Paul Thomas Anderson is one of those modern directors who has devoted fans and fervent naysayers. Those in the latter party are typically more than eager to call out his work. One culprit in the attacks is The Master. The period psychological drama tells the story of Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a severely damaged, hypersexual, and alcoholic drifter battling heavy PTSD, who struggles to fit into 1950s society. He stows away on a boat where he encounters Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), the charismatic, larger-than-life founder of a pseudo-scientific, philosophical movement known as “The Cause.” Fascinated by Freddie’s primal, untamed nature, Dodd takes him in, putting him through intense psychological interrogation and “processing” sessions intended to cure his trauma. But Freddie’s unpredictability disrupts the group’s harmony. A story that begs the question whether it’s possible for one damaged person to haul another, The Master could have been a brilliant dissertation on cult-like behavior; instead, it picks a stylized approach to explore opaque symbolism.
The Master is masterfully performed. The primary trio, which also includes Amy Adams as Dodd’s protective and calculating wife, Peggy, is brilliant. They just have to tread through some sloppy vignettes to find the plot. Though some acting choices are larger-than-life, they’re meant to depict the grandeur of the theatricality of Dodd’s group. Some audiences prefer to have metaphors spoon-fed to them as subtly as possible. Anderson does the opposite. The film utilizes strange motifs that force the audience to infer its deeper meaning. Perhaps the reason is to avoid making a direct connection to Scientology and L. Ron Hubbard, though on that front, it couldn’t be more obvious. All this to say, there is a faction of fans who view Anderson’s directorial choices as the hallmarks of an avant-garde character exploration. But if the feeling is split, the pretension sometimes wins.
Before Yorgos Lanthimos became the prolific, obscure visionary we know him as today, the director made a stubbornly divisive, absurdist psychological horror thriller known as The Killing of a Sacred Deer. In the film, Dr. Steven Murphy (Collin Farrell), a renowned cardiovascular surgeon, has a picture-perfect life with a wife, Anna (Nicole Kidman), and two kids. But lurking in the darkness of his idyllic suburban existence is Martin (Barry Keoghan), a fatherless teen who menacingly inserts himself into Steven’s life, threatening to upend everything. The Killing of a Sacred Deer is a story about past actions with consequences that are destined to destroy your future. While this film didn’t destroy Lanthimos’ cinematic future, it did make some audiences constantly ponder whether his entire body of work is richer than it appears or simply Lanthimos doing his own thing.
Much of the film’s flaws are inherent to the script. The dialogue is quite stilted. With an extraordinary cast of actors, they’re often forced to speak in a flat, monotone, and clinical cadence, devoid of any semblance of humanity. While it does add to the narrative’s eeriness, it actually diminishes the plot’s creepiness. Lanthimos has quite an engaging premise, but its execution feels far too academic as a pretentious reimagining of the Greek tragedy of Iphigenia and King Agamemnon. As seen in his later films, he prioritizes an haunting, disorienting aesthetic over accessibility. The characters come off as too oddly quirky and bizarre, choosing shock value over substance. But the biggest problem the film suffers from is world-building. The Killing of a Sacred Deer tosses supernatural, godlike curses into a world otherwise strictly grounded in realistic, modern medicine, without explanation. So when you ask why, you feel alienated because you don’t get an answer. And with how the film is crafted, you might feel dim as if you missed the point.
Let’s just get it out of the way now: mother! is a dual-allegory-filled psychological horror piece. On the one hand, the narrative directly maps out stories from the Bible, tracing humanity’s history from creation to the apocalypse. On the other hand, it operates as a reflection on humanity’s abusive relationship with nature. Together, they force a brilliant group of actors to spell out chaotic metaphors rather than act in a grounded narrative. Perhaps Darren Aronofsky’s most overtly artistic endeavor, mother! depicts a tranquil couple living in an isolated Victorian mansion whose lives descend into a chaotic, nightmarish invasion of uninvited strangers, representing a metaphorical retelling of the Bible and human destruction of the Earth. As a former New York theater critic who watched a lot of brazen attempts at art in the indie theater scene, mother! was a film in which its prolific creator made art without collaborative guardrails.
mother! deserves to be recognized as a thought-provoking film, but at what cost? Rather than allowing the viewer to come to its own conclusion, Aronofsky doesn’t even try to hide his mission, giving the characters identities such as “Him” (Javier Bardem), a stand-in for God, and “Mother” (Jennifer Lawrence), representingnature/humanity. In doing so, it strips humanity right out of the piece. The film is purposely not an easy watch. If you don’t like unannounced visitors, mother! will feel claustrophobic and unsettling. Aronofsky relies on irrational and jarring moments to elicit feelings of anxiety and confusion. It’s a relentless escalation of an overarching allegory that prevents you from ever catching your breath. mother! was a bold attempt at provocative filmmaking that sadly wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea.
When you assemble the Avengers of Hollywood, the bar is astronomically high for a perfectly executed film. Don’t Look Up didn’t quite do that. Written and directed by the often phenomenal Adam McKay, Don’t Look Up is a dark satire that follows two low-level astronomers, grad student Kate Dibiasky (Jennifer Lawrence) and her professor, Dr. Randall Mindy (Leonardo DiCaprio), who discover a massive, planet-killing comet hurtling directly toward Earth. When they present their findings to an aloof, politically motivated U.S. President (Meryl Streep) and her sycophantic Chief of Staff (Jonah Hill), the politicians downplay the threat to avoid hurting their upcoming election prospects. They frantically bring it to the media, who use it as a means to distract the public by dismissing their warnings. What do Kate and Randall do to convince mankind that the end is near? Don’t Look Up is a well-meaning story, but if you don’t like your movies preachy, this one isn’t for you.
The fact of the matter is, the film’s primary demographic is already the ones who subscribe to science. Don’t Look Up is a film that cautions against anti-science denialism and corporate greed. Those individuals who need to be indoctrinated in those lessons likely never watched the film. In turn, McKay was preaching to the choir. McKay is known for smartly plotted and crafted comedies, but Don’t Look Up bludgeoned the audience with its message that paints humanity with broad strokes. Don’t Look Up may have suffered from immense scrutiny because of its release timing. Dropping on Netflix as the world was still reeling from the effects of the global pandemic, timing was simply not on the film’s side. Also, Don’t Look Up is the “it could have been an e-mail” of movies. It could have been a sketch on Saturday Night Live, but instead it’s a two-and-a-half-hour cavalcade of celebrities.
Your answers have pointed to one Oscar Best Picture winner above all others. This is the film that was made for the way your mind works.
You are drawn to films that operate on multiple levels simultaneously — that begin in one genre and quietly, brilliantly migrate into another. Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite is a film about class, desire, and the architecture of inequality that manages to be darkly funny, deeply suspenseful, and genuinely shocking across a single extraordinary running time. Your instinct is for cinema that hides its true intentions until the moment it’s ready to reveal them. Parasite is exactly that — a film that rewards close attention and punishes assumptions, right up to its devastating final image.
You want it all — and this film gives you all of it. The Daniels’ Everything Everywhere All at Once is one of the most maximalist films ever made: action comedy, multiverse sci-fi, family drama, existential crisis, and a genuinely earned emotional core that sneaks up on you amid the chaos. You are someone who responds to ambition, who doesn’t want cinema to choose between being entertaining and being meaningful. This film refuses that choice entirely. It is overwhelming by design, and its overwhelming nature is precisely the point — because the feeling of being crushed by infinite possibility is exactly what it’s about.
You are drawn to cinema on a grand scale — films that understand history not as a backdrop but as a force, and that place their characters inside that force and watch what happens. Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer is a film about the terrifying gap between what we can do and what we should do, told with the full weight of one of the most consequential moments in human history behind it. You want your films to feel important without feeling self-important — to earn their ambition through sheer craft and the gravity of their subject. Oppenheimer does exactly that. It is enormous, complicated, and refuses easy comfort.
You are drawn to films that foreground their own construction — that make the how of the filmmaking part of the what it’s about. Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman, shot to appear as a single continuous take, is cinema examining itself through the cracked mirror of a fading actor’s ego. You respond to formal daring, to the feeling that a film is doing something that probably shouldn’t be possible. Michael Keaton’s performance and Emmanuel Lubezki’s restless camera create something genuinely unlike anything else — a film that is simultaneously about creativity, relevance, self-destruction, and the impossibility of ever truly knowing if your work means anything at all.
You are drawn to cinema that trusts silence, that refuses to explain itself, and that treats dread as a form of meaning. The Coen Brothers’ No Country for Old Men is a film about the arrival of a new kind of evil — implacable, arbitrary, and utterly indifferent to the moral frameworks we use to make sense of the world. It is one of the most formally controlled films ever made, and its controlled restraint is what makes it so terrifying. You want your films to haunt you, not comfort you. You are not interested in resolution if resolution would be dishonest. No Country for Old Men is honest in a way that most cinema never dares to be.
This may be a controversial inclusion, but even as a beloved ‘90s classic, The English Patient is a bit pretentious. Based on the 1992 novel by Michael Ondaatje, the Oscar-winning film is a sweeping, tragic romance set against the backdrop of World War II. Weaving together two primary timelines, in the present of 1944, French-Canadian army nurse Hana (Juliette Binoche) stays behind in a bombed-out monastery to care for the dying, disfigured man, known only as “The English Patient”. Through flashbacks to North Africa in the ‘30s, it’s revealed that the man is Count László de Almásy (Ralph Fiennes). Before the war, he embarked on a dangerous and passionate affair with Katherine Clifton (Kristin Scott Thomas), a married woman on an archaeological mapping expedition. In the present, Hana grapples with her grief as she embarks on a romance with Sikh bomb-disposal expert Lieutenant Kip Singh (Naveen Andrews). If you love love, you’ll love The English Patient. If you don’t, then you likely see it for what it was: Oscar bait.
It’s not necessarily a fun movie to watch with its harsh, graphic backdrop. The substance is lacking in the sense that you’re lured in by the epic sense of grandeur and poetic dialogue. Directed by Anthony Minghella, who earned an Academy Award for his work, the film is bloated with lavish period detail and overblown drama. Because the story is meant to be circular, the timeline-jumping can become tedious and, at times, feel like it’s meandering toward its conclusion. The English Patient truly tests the viewers’ patience. Again, if you love love, fret not; these characters are ones to champion. If you are not whisked away by its sensational plot, you might find some of the central figures unsympathetic and morally questionable. If the Oscars determine success, The English Patient triumphs. But if you can see through it as a traditional preference over artistic merit, you’ll find it overrated.
If you’re like me and still cannot fathom how the Academy selected Crash over Brokeback Mountain, go back to what we just discussed: traditional preference over artistic merit. Directed and co-written by Paul Haggis, Crash is a vanity project. The film is essentially a series of interconnected stories that focus on racial and class tensions in Los Angeles over 36 hours. The film explores how racial tensions, bigotry, and class divides impact diverse characters—including cops, criminals, and politicians—forcing them to confront their deepest biases following various accidents and altercations. What was meant to be a tapestry of poignant, intertwining vignettes became an exploration of heavy-handed stereotypes, unlikely coincidences, and forced, melodramatic plot devices rather than genuine nuance.
Playing out like an unfortunate after-school special, Crash lacks subtlety. Rather than allowing conversations to be had, it’s never-ending screaming matches for the sake of drama. Crash relies heavily on an interconnected, hyperlink storytelling style. In doing so, Haggis forces his characters into highly improbable and convenient collisions to drive home his theme of humanity’s interconnectedness. At the end of the day, when you learn that the film was inspired by an incident he experienced in 1991 outside a video store on Wilshire Boulevard when his Porsche was hijacked, your feelings for the film change for good. Unfortunately, too, Crash is a film that has not aged well. Hoping to prove that, over a decade later, the same issues linger, Crash was meant to shake you up, but for some, it was just heavy-handed.
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