2022 Movie Rankings | Travis Bean

Hi, my name is Travis Bean and I have…well. I have what some people say is “unique” taste in movies. Other people would use other adjectives: terrible, questionable, contrarian, etc. And hey, everybody is entitled to their opinions—including me. I like the movies I like and hate the movies I hate for a reason. You may not like it, but that’s the beauty of movie-loving: there’s always a new conversation to have. And I want to drive that discussion.

So Chris (co-founder of Film Colossus) and I decided to start these lists. Yes, I will be ranking every new movie release I watch this year. But I will also be recording my thoughts about each and every movie along the way. And whatever your reaction—whether it’s anger or combativeness or delight—I want to hear about it. If you disagree with me, leave and comment and I’ll respond. If you think there’s more to love in a film, leave a comment and I’ll respond. If you want to join in and trash a movie I hated, leave a comment and I’ll respond. But don’t just write me off—I won’t have time for that. I don’t want to shy away from how I feel about movies, but embrace it. And I hope it inspire you to do the same.

Rankings

1. jeen-yuhs
2. Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy
3. Dog
4. Ambulance
5. X
6. RRR
7. Kimi
8. Deep Water
9. Morbius
10. Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore
11. Jackass Forever
12. The Bob’s Burgers Movie
13. Bubble
14. The Batman
15. Prey
16. Friends and Strangers
17. Everything Everywhere All at Once
18. The Northman
19. Fresh
20. Death on the Nile
21. Senior Year
22. The Lost City
23. Texas Chainsaw Massacre
24. Scream
25. The Gray Man

Movie Diary

Last updated August 10

Prey

It was interesting to watch both Prey and Alien vs. Predator this week. As two out-of-left-field additions to the Predator franchise, I was really intrigued by the inherent modern themes each addition would bring to such a rich, deep commentary. The first Predator movie was a masterful critique of toxic masculinity, with each character dying at the hands of an alien creature that constantly emasculates them in ironic fashion. As the men fight back, they flounder and squirm and agonize—an about-face from their earlier ruthless energy when they desecrated their opponents with superior weaponry. 

Alien vs. Predator brought an interesting twist to that equation, pitting the Predator against the Alien, a symbol of demonized femininity that has been projected by society. Two opposing forces that come together to represent a giant social flaw? That’s what I pay good money for. And Paul W.S. Anderson delivered.

Seemingly, Prey also had a great concept to serve as its foundation. It’s no secret that women haven’t been afforded the same opportunities and rights as men in this world. It’s also no secret that the unconquerable male ego would be damaged if the playing field was leveled even a little bit. And you see both of those energies playing out as Naru tries to find her place in the Comanche tribe by pursuing a traditionally male path all while the Comanche men snarkily snort at her attempts to become anything but a housewife who cooks and cleans. What better way to overcome such an ostensibly insurmountable social barrier than to have Naru battle a Predator—perhaps cinema’s most striking representation of toxic masculinity? Yeah, it was written in the stars for Prey (which, by the way, is a perfect title for this feminine take on the franchise).

Yet…sigh. Doesn’t it feel like the movie fumbled this premise a bit? All of the pieces are in place for the aesthetic: the thematic meat is there; the characters all hit their marks; Naru is a great hero we can all root for; and the Predator character is as dominant as ever. But the movie also feels like it never goes far enough to truly become an arresting piece of social commentary. The violence feels spurious and sanitized when it should feel dangerous and undeniable. The dudes are all half-jerks who make nothing more than snide comments that feel rather weightless compared to the heinous acts committed by Dutch and Blain and Mac and Poncho in Predator. The Predator itself isn’t awarded the same level of characterization and empathy it innately inherited from the opposing forces of other franchise films. And worst of all, the technical aspects—the fighting and choreography and editing—just all feels a bit disorderly and lame. 

Prey needs to fully embrace its premise to become a crucial element of this franchise’s societal examination. But the stylistic elements are so sterile that the movie almost starts to feel incapable at points. You can see what they’re trying to say (hell, they’re practically winking at the audience about the social commentary). But it just never comes to fruition. It doesn’t have the bite a modern update of Predator deserves.

Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy

The great critic Pauline Kael had one simple request for filmmakers: “Astonish us!” Make us feel something we’ve never felt before. Let the art become transformative and eye-opening and reflective. Take us to an entirely different realm that’s both completely foreign and achingly familiar. Art has the capacity to alter our DNA, to force us to take stock of the world around us and how we fit into it. The most exciting part of movies? There are endless ways to provoke such profundity.

All too often, movies resort to the spectacle. Making a spectacle out of life is a great idea—if the movie has enough pop and flair. To explore universal truths of life with expert rhythm, with interesting characters, with a realized aesthetic that combines imagery with evolution and philosophy—that’s not easy. And thus, movies often get lost in the high-powered spectacle on display. Movies become so engrossed with the plot and the appearance that they forget what truly makes movies profound and entertaining: that unshakable connection we form with a story.

All this build-up is to highlight just how effortlessly Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy navigates these waters. It’s a quiet independent film, yet it has the tenacity of a big-budget affair; people talk slowly and deliberately, yet it’s an extravaganza of human conflict; we never leave the city, yet it feels like we’ve navigated every throbbing emotion and burning struggle that can possibly infect someone on this planet earth. Regret, sorrow, joy, self-doubt, cognitive dissonance, sexual desire, hopefulness, optimism, pessimism, narcissism—and, ultimately, life-altering catharsis. It’s almost too much to handle in just one film.

Wheel of Fortune is most definitely a “spectacle” in every sense of the world. A spectacle that’s disguised by the quietness of life that slowly consumes us. We aren’t asked to accept a dystopian future where robots have taken over, or laugh at an absurd romantic comedy premise; or yearn for a superhero to save the day—all of that (and much more) exists in everyday life. And the fact that director Ryusuke Hamaguchi can place those same elements normally defamiliarized by movies into a contemplative drama? His ability to make elevated situations feel so intimate and recognizable? That’s astonishing. That’s why I go to the movies.

RRR

When I walked in (really I just sat down on my couch) to watch RRR, I was 90% convinced it would turn out to be the year’s most overrated film this side of Everything Everywhere All at Once (which truly is overrated) and leave me saddened about the state of cinema culture—nothing but a feeble-minded political statement, an overblown melodrama with cringe-worthy acting, a big expensive spectacle inspired by the Marvel (Un)Cinematic Universe. 

But…holy heck was I impressed. As someone who has seen several classic Indian films from the likes of Satyajit Ray, Guru Dutt, and Bimal Roy and has never digested the modern films from Bollywood and its competitors, I felt unequipped to handle the cavalcade of stunts and colors that immediately came flying at me. While I admittedly needed a few minutes to find my footing, I quickly embraced the energy of RRR. Something strange has happened in pop culture where every other movie has a dour, dismal, debilitating tone—perhaps it’s the horrific state of the world? But RRR feels like the antidote. The movie replaces defeatism with impenetrable victory; its heroes smile instead of frown, strut instead of sulk, cooperate instead of sabotage; the message is one of hope and trust and humility. Its entire aesthetic is realized because it is true and honest and entirely committed. The movie doesn’t worry about cartoonizing its villains or embracing humanity because those very elements are stylistically woven into its form.

The earnestness of RRR reminded me of Old Hollywood films from the minds of masters like Ernst Lubitsch or Frank Capra or George Cukor. People these days complain when a movie’s intentions are obvious or when their characters speak candidly or when optimism is embraced…but what’s wrong with that? Movies were like that for a long time (before haughtiness and self-absorption became cool) and people loved it. We enjoyed going to the theater and rooting for somebody fighting for a better life. We smiled when Maurice Chevalier sang a song directly into the camera. We were mesmerized when color and intensity and dynamism were embraced. I’m not annoyed that so many people love RRR—I’m thrilled that we’ve chosen to champion a movie that values the lost art of earnestness. Let’s get Hollywood to make more movies like this.

Senior Year

There are movies I find offensively awful. Perhaps it’s a big-budget sci-fi flick like Dune that’s absolutely devoid of life or spectacle; maybe somebody has brutalized a franchise I love like Scream or Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Spider-Man; there’s even a chance an arthouse movie like Hereditary or Vivarium or The Invitation horrifies my very being with its sickening ideology.

Then there are movies like Senior Year…which can’t really stir up any of those emotions in me. It’s a movie that’s neither here nor there (nor anywhere else) as it meanders between cringe-worthy bits and pussyfoots around an onslaught of themes and ideas, never really making a point or saying anything of significance. It’s a completely directionless movie that feels like its script was compiled by robots targeting Netflix’s Millennial audience. “The ‘90s were awesome and Gen Z’ers are weird, amirite?” Netflix must think all of us thirty-somethings said in unison, laughing contemptuously as Rebel Wilson, donned in heavily layered, brightly colored clothing, danced around her childhood bedroom adorned with NSYNC posters and Josh Hartnett photos and other memorabilia that fail to give her an ounce of unparalleled personality.

The entire aesthetic is so mind-numbingly obvious that, once again, it’s hard to get too mad because of how tedious and inoffensive it truly is. It’s a purely bland experience that never addresses generational differences with the weight or profundity of something like 21 Jump Street (a film that doesn’t even take itself too seriously in the first place) did an entire decade earlier. You’ve got great actors—like Wilson, Sam Richardson, Mary Holland (and let us not forget all the younger actors)—doing their best with humdrum schlock. It’s so strange to never once be challenged intellectually or emotionally during a film. It’s pretty sad when the only positive takeaway is that I wasn’t completely offended by the experience.

Dog

People often make fun of my love for Magic Mike XXL. Which, honestly, I understand. After all, it’s a movie about dudes who take their clothes off. Could it possibly be deeper than that? What people don’t realize, though, is that Magic Mike XXL is also a loving tale about a bunch of people helping each other find the change they need in life. The narrative is less reliant on drama and plot, and more focused on characters and atmosphere. It’s an insanely optimistic film about the power of human nature that’s emboldened by an incredibly drawn design, mood, and feel from director Gregory Jacobs. The movie has no time for traditional storytelling methods and instead unfolds alongside its characters’ growth—which is reflective of the way life moves. Visually speaking, it’s beautiful to watch because it feels so relatable, so profound.

Channing Tatum must have taken a note from Jacobs’s playbook when he co-directed what is undoubtedly the most underrated movie of the year. Dog never stood a chance, mostly because of its bizarre marketing campaign targeted at moms around Valentine’s Day. But Dog is anything but a romance. It’s a full-on drama about somebody who is completely lost in life and needs to be pointed in the right direction. Jackson is a deeply flawed character who isn’t disguised by movie theatrics. He’s blockheaded, he’s dispassionate, he’s confused—a desolate human being in limbo psychologically. And he’s presented as such. As he moves through various settings and meets various people with his dog companion, his general apprehensiveness toward becoming a full-fledged person with his own unique path in life slowly whittles away.

The movie’s simple title becomes reflective of Noah’s sentiment that God can be found in anything or anyone—a plant, a parrot, your barber—that allows you to speak and examine yourself. Conveniently for this film, “dog” is “God” spelled backwards. And it’s beautiful to watch this intensely damaged character find the solace he needs in something that can’t even speak back. Their connection simply is. This is the pivot he needs to make the most of himself. It’s such a raw and visceral portrayal of the slow, gradual inner-workings of life that words can’t possibly justify.

The Gray Man

Over the years, movies have offended me for a variety of reasons: Argo with its faux-political, holier-than-thou pomp; Scream with its complete and utter bastardization of a franchise I adore; Hereditary with its cold and callous treatment of human life. But perhaps never before have I hated a movie so much for being so…lame? Pointless? Barren? The Gray Man has nothing interesting to say and nothing interesting to show me for two-plus hours. It is the most by-the-numbers action movie I’ve ever seen—and not just with its wannabe Jason Bourne storyline. Visually, the Russo brothers have crafted an aesthetic that is so free from flair and style that “The Gray Man” becomes a perfect title for their first of what I’m sure will be many boring Netflix-funded projects.

In 6 Underground, the characters choose to become ghosts to protect the living people they care about. But in The Gray Man, Sierra Six chooses to become a ghost…because? Because he was wrongfully convicted and now has a chance to go outside and do the CIA’s dirty work? Really, I think it’s because Netflix had $200 million lying around and wanted to hire the dudes who couldn’t even make Avengers: Endgame—perhaps the most intensely hyped movie of the 21st century—feel exciting. The movie has no thrust, no foundation, and only finds its heart when a terminally sick child comes along, or when it needs to quickly recall a past when Sierra Six was abused by his father, or when this sad thing happens or that sad thing is convenient to the plot. The Gray Man putters along and only asks us to care when it’s time to care. Otherwise, it’s a colorless fart of a movie that has no life and—much like a person with no personality—nothing much to say.

The Bob’s Burgers Movie

I agree with the general opinion that Bob’s Burgers works better as a show than a movie. Simply put, there isn’t enough story here to sustain 90 minutes. But there is enough humor and heart to make up for it. The Bob’s Burgers Movie certainly isn’t the most challenging film in the world, but its light and breezy approach to character and drama makes it feel welcoming and soothing. The nadir of the movie (Bob’s restaurant might not be able to pay this month’s business loan payment) is so simple and familiar that it almost becomes background noise, making way instead for a bevy of everyday human struggles that are fixed by the simple power of family. The narrative unfolds in a rather lackadaisical manner, twisting and warping based on whatever Bob or Linda or Tina or Louise or Gene is dealing with in that moment. The movie’s warm and loving sentiments about family are only enriched by the eccentric characters that dart and dash around a family trying to save its restaurant. The stakes are small compared to most movies, but so high for the Belcher family. And I had fun rooting for them.

Morbius

I’m already on the defense. Because people will wonder, “How could you possibly hate Everything Everywhere All at Once…but like Morbius?” Which saddens me. Because it makes me realize Morbius was never suited for this world. In this timeline, quality has been associated with high-octane movies with “depth” like Everything Everywhere All at Once that beat you over the head with an aesthetic so heavily that its rather humdrum musing about life becomes “philosophical poetry” that’s been deemed “important” by the increasingly unreliable critical landscape. And this timeline doesn’t have time for Morbius, which doesn’t follow the rules we’ve set up for narrative, for editing, for acting, for all-the-things-a-movie-must-do-to-be-taken-seriously. The world has self-serioused itself into a corner, to the point where a wacky conundrum of a superhero story that stylistically doesn’t feel anything like the barrage of Marvel and DC movies we’ve been forced to consume for over a decade is met with haughty snort. “This isn’t how we do movies, Morbius. So please, kindly see yourself out.”

I’ll choose to exist in a different timeline. I believe Morbius’s commentary about the power and ethics of science is interesting. I believe Jared Leto is giving a great, over-the-top, campy-as-hell performance. I don’t believe the narrative “rules” established by traditional methods of storytelling necessarily apply to movies (or any piece of art looking to rewrite the rules of narrative). I believe Morbius is elliptical with its narrative logic because the narrative logic isn’t nearly as important as the themes and characters at hand (and isn’t that important when it comes to movies in general). I believe the movie has a sense of humor about itself (a big no-no in the current movie zeitgeist) that allows it to feel light and playful without sacrificing thoughtfulness. I believe the editing is sound, the colors are vibrant, the direction communicates a mood and feel I find effortlessly enjoyable.

And most of all, I believe Morbius would have a chance in a different timeline where the rules for cinema weren’t so rigidly (and stodgily, I’d argue) defined. I’m more than happy to champion a movie like this.

Everything Everywhere All at Once

Cinema is a beautiful medium that allows stories to visually explore universal truths of life, the struggles we all face as human beings. A lonely journey through space symbolizes the grieving process for Ryan as she copes with the loss of her daughter in Gravity. The alien invasion in The World’s End challenges Gary’s notion of life-fulfillment and forces him to grow up. The grand interweaving dream-within-a-dream of Mulholland Drive represents the pressures of Hollywood and the consequences it can have on people. These tales come to represent our desire to grow, to expand, to evolve in a world that feels like it’s increasingly working against us.

This is the exact reason people seem to love Everything Everywhere All at Once. It’s also the reason why I think it falls way way way short of having the same impact as any of the above mentioned movies, which all explore their stories with care and nuance and subtlety. Everything Everywhere All at Once is the exact opposite of subtle, as it so candidly adopts this model to the degree where it loses any and all emotion about 45 minutes in. Life didn’t turn out the way Evelyn envisioned…and that’s about the extent of it. Aren’t we all dissatisfied with our lives from time to time? Don’t we all wonder what would have happened if we dated this person or took that job or made that other decision? You’d think something so simple and relatable would be a perfect fit for a defamiliarized tale. Yet Everything Everywhere All at Once just beats you over the head with the same point ad nauseam. If I could give movies a passing grade for effort, I would. But effort actually works in the opposite direction for this film, as nearly two-and-a-half hours of non-stop cuts and settings and colors and character beats does nearly nothing to advance the central theme of the film. It’s all for show, and it left me feeling nothing by the end.

I know I will get pushback on this, as Everything Everywhere All at Once seems to be everybody’s favorite movie of the year. People will say, “How can you hate on a movie that’s trying this hard and doing this much?” Look, I think there are great parts in this movie and people are giving it their all. The acting, the directing, the settings and costumes and sounds—it’s all great. But I profoundly reject the notion that Everything Everywhere All at Once simply “tries harder” than a movie like Kimi or Morbius or Dog. I refuse to be that narrow-minded and oblivious when it comes to the beautiful art of cinema. Even the simplest of movies that are missing the fast-paced editing and world building and character catalog of Everything Everywhere All at Once have just as much capability to explore the universal truths of life. Most people don’t even realize what movies like Gravity or The World’s End or Mulholland Drive are doing at a thematic level. But we know what Everything Everywhere All at Once is doing because…it tells us. Over. And over. And over. This movie has about seven monologues where a character philosophizes about life in several different settings cleanly edited together in the exact same way every single time—and I’m supposed to accept that this movie tries harder than other movies? No. No way.

Perhaps modern cinema isn’t the problem. Maybe everybody who makes a movie is giving their all and trying to say something. Maybe, instead, it’s the way we’ve chosen to watch movies and think about movies that’s the problem. I don’t think Everything Everywhere All at Once is a bad movie. But it sure as heck isn’t above and beyond everything else.

Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore

Of the many blockbusters to hit theaters this year, David Yates represents a beacon of hope. The vision this guy has is astounding—the fluidity of his scenes, the emotion he gives to important moments, the power he gives to characters. The first two scenes of this movie had me in absolute awe. Yates is showing all these wannabe genre directors how to construct an aesthetic and stay true to it throughout a picture. His biggest hurdle, unfortunately, is the money-hungry film studio looking to build yet another cinematic universe. Only the executives at Warner Bros. have the power to disrupt such impeccable flow and pacing—and trust me, they constantly do with throwbacks and foreshadows and wink-winks. It turns an otherwise breathtaking experience into a somewhat stilted story that, in the end, is just another piece in the Harry Potter Cinematic Universe (something I’m profoundly uninterested in). In the end, The Secrets of Dumbledore wins because of the artists involved. But it sure had to put up one hell of a fight.

X

In a world where independent horror felt like a lost art, Ti West was there with House of the Devil. Fast forward 13 years later, and West is back—this time to revive the slick flasher flick bankrolled by A24. While most of the horror movies that come from everyone’s new favorite film studio are cringe-worthy and pretentious and afraid to show us anything truly gnarly, X has the confidence and poise that only a master like West could devise. Maxine’s struggle to live her life to the fullest plays out so well in the horror arena. West is very adept at using the genre’s bloody offerings to give these internal battles color and texture. The story itself is so entertaining and the characters themselves are so interesting that you almost forget that we’re following one woman’s journey to achieve mental stability from the very beginning. But by the end, the film sure makes its mark. And in its wake, I’m amazed more movies can’t pull it off.

Fresh

The nicest thing I’ll say about Fresh is that it was a decidedly different take on the horror genre. I appreciated the movie for going after toxic masculinity, for creating a world where women are literally butchered up and eaten alive by their male counterparts on the dating scene. That’s the sort of commentary that can thrive and come alive in the horror genre. But…that’s also the problem with this movie. It never fully commits to inspecting this deeply depraved portion of society, to exploring how terrifying it must be to be a woman surrounded by such chaos. The aesthetic is all off—sometimes it’s horrifying, but sometimes it’s flippant (and often it’s flat-out uninspired). The movie often has a smirk on its face as it winks to the viewer and says, “See what we’re doing here?” Which brings the social commentary to a standstill as the characters become nothing more than an extension of gender politics. I never felt attached to anyone because the movie never fully committed to their story or the genre’s offerings.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

If you’d like me to rant on and on about how terrible this movie is, then just hop over to my all-time movie rankings to hear me complain. But for my 2022 entries, I’d like to keep these entries short. So I’ll just make this one request to Hollywood: don’t bastardize franchises I love. Please? I’m asking nicely. The original two Texas Chainsaw movies (Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 is a masterpiece, by the way) did an incredible job of surveying the political turmoil of the 1970s and 1980s when disgusting politicians were running amok, ruining this country and leaving people behind in their wake. The Sawyer family became the embodiment of the horror so many people in our country faced—and thus Leatherface symbolized our frustration, how we resorted to ripping each other out from the inside.

But this new Leatherface…ugh. It’s embarrassing. I appreciate Fede Álvarez trying to bring this cultural cinematic icon into the Trump era, and maybe if he had directed the film it would have gone well. But he didn’t, and what we got instead was a very half-hearted evaluation of what currently divides this country: Gen Z social influencers who will cancel you with their phones vs. inbred Texans who believe in the second amendment above all else. The movie’s entire social commentary is just so boring, thus rendering the slasher portions of the film weightless. Plus the movie has been weirdly sanitized for the Netflix audience, which makes no sense for this franchise. Texas Chainsaw Massacre was flat out painful to watch. The end.

Friends and Strangers

Even though arthouse indies tend to frustrate me, I had a nice time with Friends and Strangers. One thing this movie does that I love is its lack of narrative structure. It’s the kind of movie that just unfolds as its main character, Ray, moves through life. He’s trying to get past a terrible break-up and having a tough time. And every interaction he has is part of his development and growth as he deals with that pain. The movie feels meandering and random because…well, life is meandering and random. You can look backwards and make sense of things later. But in the moment, life is always taking you exactly where you need to go. I also really love the movie’s ambiance. The score is diegetic, and we are often surrounded by the sounds of nature and traffic as Ray moves from the countryside to the city. It’s an incredibly relaxing experience that often reminded me of Australian filmmaker Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock—and wouldn’t you know it, Friends and Strangers is directed by an up-and-coming Australian filmmaker, James Vaughan.

The only disconnect for me was that I don’t know much about Australian life, and this movie was very much infused with social commentary. It was interesting to read about afterwards, but I definitely didn’t feel the power of the film’s commentary in the moment. Maybe upon rewatch it would click more. But for now, my reaction is that the film didn’t quite grab me enough and make its point clear. I wanted a bit more there. Still, I would recommend this movie for anyone who can stand arthouse ventures.

Every movie I’ve watched up to July 7

Alright, so this is the first time I’ve actually sat down to rank the movies I’ve seen in 2022. As somebody who watches quite a bit of movies (I think I’ve seen about 150 movies this year?), I was surprised to see that I’ve only seen ten from 2022. I used to watch new movies CONSTANTLY, so I think this will inspire me to watch more!

Then again, as I look through this list…I can also see why I don’t watch too many new movies. I am admittedly a bit of a curmudgeon when it comes to newer movies, as they usually disappoint me when pit against the classics. I love watching old movies because the rate of return is usually much higher for me. I’m getting more and more from old movies as I dig deeper into the classics…and less and less from modern movies as I struggle to find great new filmmakers. Sorry if you find that annoying about me 🙂

So far, this list only has five movies that I definitively like, with a few of them being on the edge. I enjoyed Deep Water, Jackass Forever, Kimi, and Ambulance, while I didn’t care for The Northman, Death on the Nile, and The Lost City—and absolutely HATED Scream. But there was one movie I found absolutely transcendent, which was…

Maybe this isn’t very surprising, as I host a Kanye West podcast. But remember: jeen-yuhs wasn’t made by Kanye. It was made by two guys who grew up alongside Kanye: Coodie and Chike Ozah. And that is what makes this film so profound. Kanye’s story alone makes for a great film. But the insight we gain from the people intimately involved in Kanye’s journey, the people who witnessed him persevere, the people who saw him go through the best and worst of it all—that all elevates this movie to another level. In the end, the movie almost isn’t even about Kanye, but about the world as Kanye tried to figure the world out. Kanye is the sun in his solar system, and we’re all revolving around it. And we’re all adapting to it. And we’re all learning from it. It becomes motivation for how to think about how you live your own life—and how to avoid the pitfalls that could suck you under and ruin everything. Kanye West is a rarity in this world that we should cherish. Nobody lives on the edge like this guy.

It’s no surprise that my other two favorite movies were made by filmmakers I grew up with—Michael Bay and Steven Soderbergh—while the bottom-tier movies were helmed by fresh new faces. Say what you want about Bay, but at least he’s trying new and exciting things this late into his career. He employs every camera angle imaginable in Ambulance. It’s a wild artistic undertaking: you watch a gripping car chase from the perspective of a city, but you’re also intimately involved with the players. So you get this detached perspective from a media standpoint, but then you’re forced to take a humanistic perspective we don’t usually get. It forces us to consider why people sometimes do the terrible things they do. The world is more complicated than we think, less black and white than its often presented. And Bay explores this societal tension with stylistic mayhem. The landscape (along with the characters) constantly evolves and takes new shape. It’s truly breathtaking at times.

And Kimi feels like a master came into the classroom to show all the students how it’s done. It’s not a BIG movie—and that’s what I like about it. The point is simple, and the runtime is short. Which might make film seem like it’s covering less ground than, say, The Northman or The Batman. But I’d argue that a film like Kimi is much more impactful in its approach, and as a result says more than either of those movies. It makes efficient use of the story and only shows us what we need to know. And as a result, none of the meaning is clouded and none of the commentary is overbearing. We are simply part of this woman’s journey as she tries to make a pivotal pivot in her life. It’s an overwhelmingly human story that’s more relatable than anything else I’ve seen from 2022.

Meanwhile, a movie like Scream…oof. While Soderbergh and Bay are challenging themselves and stretching their styles in exciting new directions, up-and-coming directors like Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett just bore me to death. No, I didn’t care for their 2019 movie Ready or Not—but at least that film felt of its own. Scream is an utter bastardization of a franchise that I’ve grown up loving. It also completely undermines the power and poetry of Wes Craven’s beautifully campy approach. Even a lesser project like Red Eye has more life and charisma than anything we see in Scream. Craven was the master of making you care about his goofy characters. But everybody in the Scream remake is wooden and unlikeable—including the characters Craven created. What a travesty. Plus the concept was stale compared to Craven’s approach, and it didn’t leave room for anything exciting moving forward. Sorry, but I’m not interested in any future Scream movies involving these two.

Now for the other movies I actually liked. Deep Water wasn’t incredible, but I really enjoyed the murky Fincher-esque tone. It’s basically a Lifetime movie with a budget and two powerhouse actors. Ben Affleck is frightening as the silent, cuckolded husband, and Ana De Armas mesmerizes as the cartoonishly coquettish wife. They have awesome chemistry that made the movie enjoyable. But the bare-bones script kept it from reaching the heights of great erotic thrillers from the 90s.

I also enjoyed Jackass Forever—but not as much as I was hoping. I have a soft spot for that entire gang of weirdos I grew up watching. I’m not too far behind them in age, so I feel some sort of kinship with them. But at the end of the day, the stunts and gags simply weren’t as good as the other movies. The highlights were the bees on Steve-O’s balls and Ehren being trapped in that room with a bear. That last one…my god. Made me cringe so hard. I loved it.

You can read my full explanation of the movie Bubble here.

Bubble is a movie I’m on the fence about. While some of my favorite movies of all time are anime—Spirited Away, Paprika, Your Name—I feel like the genre has never captivated me like it has for others. And Bubble encapsulates that feeling (). The movie could have explored its deeply personal subject with more weight and emotion, but instead opted for world-building sci-fi tropes. Sometimes the best movies are the ones that don’t feel the need to answer every single question…but a movie like Bubble appears obligated to explain everything. To the point where I’m not left to wonder, and instead told what to think and where to look and how much to care. It’s a cool and interesting story presented in a very uninteresting way.

The rest of the movies on this list bore me too much to discuss in detail. The Batman is the only one that escaped complete mediocrity. I appreciate the movie for its scope and scale, but even the most skilled filmmakers would have a tough time keeping my attention for three hours. The movie simply isn’t gripping enough to warrant that much time—it ends up ruining the intent. Still, there was some interesting stuff here.

Meanwhile, The Northman was a weird mix. I liked how gnarly it was. But…beyond that. There wasn’t much. I wasn’t very into the characters. The way the story unfolded didn’t allow me to become too invested in them. Thus, the message didn’t hit me very hard.

Death on the Nile was a sad sequel to the fantastic Murder on the Orient Express—a movie that did just about everything better.

And The Lost City reminded me of those terrible 2000s romantic comedies that were farted out by studios looking to capitalize on the latest Hollywood hunk. Yawn.