Writers Pick: The Best 15 Movies of 2025

2025 has been a year of remarkable contradiction in cinema: a landscape where blockbuster spectacle and intimate, character-driven storytelling didn’t just coexist, but actively challenged one another. It was a year defined by ambition—sometimes overwhelming, sometimes exhilarating—as filmmakers pushed technological boundaries while also returning to deeply human concerns. From crowd-pleasing epics designed for the largest screens imaginable to quiet, risky films that thrived on nuance, 2025 reminded us why movies remain one of the most vital art forms in popular culture.

Having watched nearly 300 new releases this year, I’ve experienced the full spectrum of what 2025 had to offer: the triumphs, the misfires, and the fascinating experiments that landed somewhere in between. Seeing that many films back-to-back sharpens perspective. Patterns emerge. Trends become impossible to ignore. What initially feels groundbreaking can start to blur together, while truly exceptional films rise above the noise with clarity, confidence, and purpose. This volume of viewing also reinforces an essential truth—greatness isn’t defined by budget, genre, or hype, but by execution.

The films that stand out as the best of 2025 are the ones that linger—works that reward reflection long after the credits roll. Some achieved this through sheer technical mastery, others through daring narrative choices or emotionally devastating performances. Together, they form a snapshot of a year in cinema that was restless, evolving, and often audacious. Of course, this list is entirely my opinion.

15. Clown in a Cornfield

Eli Craig’s Clown in a Cornfield is a smart, savage slasher that combines classic genre thrills with modern commentary, delivering a taut and blood-spattered ride through rural America’s anxieties. Based on Adam Cesare’s novel of the same name (one of my all-time favorite novels), the film is more than just a masked killer in a cornfield—it’s an allegorical reckoning between generations, set against a backdrop of small-town decay and unrest. With a truly awards-worthy performance by Katie Douglas and confident direction from Craig (Tucker & Dale vs. Evil), this adaptation succeeds in turning familiar tropes into something freshly terrifying.

Katie Douglas proves to be a phenomenal lead. As Quinn, she’s cautious, smart, and strong-willed without falling into the archetypal “final girl” clichés. She feels like a real person—someone who wants to move on, connect, and survive. Her dynamic with Carson MacCormac’s Cole—an outcast teen trying to push back against his authoritarian father—is tender and believable, giving the film a quiet emotional current even as the body count rises.

Clown in a Cornfield is a lean, mean, and thoughtful slasher that offers both genre thrills and biting commentary on generational conflict. With strong performances, inventive kills, and a timely message hidden beneath its blood-soaked clown mask, Eli Craig delivers one of the most memorable slasher entries in recent years. It’s a tale of tradition versus transformation—told with a sickle, a scream, and a little sinister smile.

Reprising his role as the singularly observant Southern sleuth, Daniel Craig gives his most shaded performance as Benoit Blanc to date. Here, Blanc is less the flamboyant raconteur of past entries and more a quietly probing presence, a man searching not only for truth but for grace within a morally wounded community. Craig’s performance is slyly humorous, as always, but it carries a new weight—his pauses linger longer, his eyes register doubt more often, and his empathy feels hard-earned. This tonal recalibration is key to why Wake Up Dead Man feels so distinct within the franchise while remaining fully recognizable.

The film’s setting, a remote, decaying church community steeped in resentment, secrets, and buried history, marks a dramatic shift from the opulent estates and billionaire playgrounds of earlier entries. Johnson leans into a Southern Gothic mood, favoring shadows, candlelight, stormy skies, and creaking architecture over sun-drenched luxury. The cinematography frames faith and corruption within the same narrow beams of light, creating an atmosphere where every character seems haunted by something unseen. It’s the most visually textured Knives Out film yet, and it perfectly complements the story’s darker philosophical concerns.

Josh O’Connor anchors the ensemble as the deeply conflicted Reverend Jud Duplenticy, a role that requires both vulnerability and suppressed fury. O’Connor brings remarkable nuance, portraying a man wrestling with guilt, redemption, and the suffocating weight of other people’s projected sins. His performance is quietly devastating, especially in moments where silence communicates more than dialogue could. The film smartly positions him not merely as a suspect within a mystery but as an emotional axis around which the entire narrative turns. His spiritual crisis becomes inseparable from the criminal one, and that fusion gives the story an uncommon depth.

As a standalone sequel to Glass Onion, the film works beautifully for newcomers, requiring no prior investment to be fully engaging. Yet for longtime fans, it offers a fascinating evolution of the series’ philosophical spine. Where earlier films criticized wealth, ego, and performative morality, Wake Up Dead Man turns its gaze toward spiritual hypocrisy, communal complicity, and the seductive danger of believing one’s own narrative of righteousness.

In the end, Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery stands as the most audacious and emotionally resonant film in the franchise. It proves that the modern whodunit can be more than a clever clockwork toy—it can also be a vessel for serious inquiry into how we judge one another and ourselves. With commanding performances, a flawlessly constructed mystery, and a thematic richness rare in the genre, Rian Johnson has crafted not only a thrilling detective story but a film of rare moral and artistic confidence. This is a mystery that lingers in the mind long after the final reveal, haunting, questioning, and quietly illuminating.

Set in 1982, the film picks up with Gwen Blake (McGraw) as she begins to experience vivid, terrifying dreams tied to a series of murders that took place at Alpine Lake Camp decades earlier. These aren’t just nightmares—they’re psychic transmissions from her late mother, whose own spiritual connection shaped the events of the first film. Together with her brother Finney (Mason Thames) and Robin Arellano’s brother Ernesto (Miguel Mora), Gwen sets out to uncover the truth buried in the snow-covered remnants of the camp.

What follows is a brilliantly woven supernatural mystery that shifts effortlessly between grounded emotional drama and pure nightmarish terror. Derrickson and co-writer C. Robert Cargill smartly avoid repetition; Black Phone 2 isn’t about another kidnapping or another killer. Instead, it’s about legacy—how evil lingers and how trauma echoes across generations. The story’s structure, balancing Gwen’s dream sequences with the claustrophobic dread of being trapped in a blizzard, lends the film an unsettling rhythm that feels like slipping between sleep and waking life.

If the first Black Phone announced Mason Thames as a breakout, its sequel belongs entirely to Madeleine McGraw. As Gwen, she commands the screen with a depth and intensity that’s nothing short of staggering. Her performance is the emotional and spiritual engine of the film—she’s no longer the precocious little sister but a young woman grappling with inherited trauma and supernatural responsibility.

McGraw’s acting here feels almost supernatural itself; she moves between ferocity and fragility with seamless precision. Her portrayal of fear is not wide-eyed or theatrical—it’s internalized, coiled, ready to explode. When she’s channeling her dreams or facing forces beyond comprehension, McGraw radiates authenticity. You believe every tear, every shiver, every defiant moment of strength.

There’s one extended sequence—a dialogue between Gwen and her mother within a surreal dream—that is simply extraordinary. Without delving into spoilers, it’s a moment that transcends genre, tapping into pure emotional catharsis. If there’s any justice, McGraw should be mentioned in the same breath as Toni Collette in Hereditary or Florence Pugh in Midsommar. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance that turns a supernatural thriller into something profoundly human.

Black Phone 2 is a remarkable achievement—a sequel that surpasses its predecessor not through excess, but through depth. Derrickson and Cargill craft a film that is simultaneously terrifying, mystical, and profoundly moving. Every element—from McGraw’s transcendent performance to Ekberg’s poetic visuals and Atticus Derrickson’s hypnotic score—works in harmony to create a complete emotional experience.

5. Frankenstein

If there was anybody who could make an absolutely electric and thrilling Frankenstein reimagining, it was Guillermo Del Toro, and boy did he ever deliver. His long-awaited film has finally arrived, and it is everything one might expect from a filmmaker whose visual and emotional language has long been steeped in the macabre, the melancholic, and the magnificent. Both grand and deeply human, del Toro’s Frankenstein is a breathtaking gothic epic that marries spectacle with sorrow, bringing Mary Shelley’s timeless tale of creation and consequence vividly to life with visual artistry, emotional resonance, and an ensemble of extraordinary performances.

With Oscar Isaac as the obsessive Baron Victor Frankenstein and Jacob Elordi as his tragic creation, del Toro crafts an operatic vision of the classic novel that feels both faithful and fearlessly reimagined. It is a film of sweeping scope and aching intimacy — a story of ambition, grief, and the agony of existence that lingers long after the credits fade.

From its opening moments amid the frozen wasteland of the Arctic, Frankenstein declares itself a work of grandeur and melancholy. Cinematographer Dan Laustsen, a longtime del Toro collaborator, bathes the film in chiaroscuro splendor — icy blues and pallid whites give way to candlelit golds and shadowy reds, as the story oscillates between scientific ambition and emotional ruin. The film’s design evokes the great gothic traditions: crumbling towers, flickering laboratories, and storm-lashed graveyards. Yet within its lavishness lies an unrelenting sadness.

Del Toro’s direction is characteristically meticulous — every frame feels hand-crafted, like an illuminated manuscript of madness and mourning. But what elevates this Frankenstein above previous iterations is its empathy. While the spectacle of reanimation remains, del Toro’s fascination lies not in the act of creation but in the pain that follows. His version of Victor Frankenstein is no mere mad scientist; he is a wounded visionary, shaped by loss and arrogance, blinded by the illusion of godhood. His Creature, by contrast, is a being of innocence and anguish, cursed to feel too much and belong nowhere.

Mia Goth, as Elizabeth Harlander, gives the film its moral and emotional counterpoint. Far from a passive love interest, she is the conscience of the story — compassionate, intelligent, and unafraid to challenge Victor’s cruelty. Goth’s ethereal presence carries both tenderness and quiet strength, grounding the narrative’s grand tragedy in moments of fragile intimacy.

Frankenstein is not just another adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel; it’s a resurrection of its soul. With its haunting performances, sumptuous design, and emotional intelligence, the film cements Guillermo del Toro as one of cinema’s great mythmakers — a creator who understands that monsters, in the end, are mirrors of ourselves. It’s a visually stunning, emotionally shattering epic that redefines the legend for a new generation.

4. Avatar: Fire and Ash

With Avatar: Fire and Ash, James Cameron delivers not only the most emotionally ferocious chapter of the Avatar saga so far, but also its most thematically ambitious. Expanding the mythos of Pandora while deepening its characters and moral conflicts, Fire and Ash stands as a towering achievement in epic science fiction filmmaking. This is a sequel that refuses to coast on spectacle alone, instead forging a bold, often devastating meditation on grief, faith, colonialism, and spiritual evolution. The result is a rare blockbuster that feels both colossal and intimate.

Picking up after the events of Avatar: The Way of Water, the film places Jake Sully and his family in a fragile emotional state. Loss hangs heavily over the narrative, shaping every decision and fueling every conflict, yet Cameron wisely avoids turning the film into a somber dirge. Instead, grief becomes the catalyst for transformation. Characters respond to trauma in wildly different ways—some with rage, others with introspection, and still others with dangerous ambition. This emotional fragmentation gives Fire and Ash its driving tension, allowing the story to feel personal even as it sprawls across continents, oceans, and skies.

What truly distinguishes this installment is its introduction of new cultures within Pandora. The Mangkwan—often referred to as the Ash People—are among the most striking additions to the franchise. Their volcanic environments, scorched aesthetics, and militant worldview provide a sharp counterpoint to the lush blues and greens audiences associate with Pandora. Cameron and his collaborators never reduce them to simple antagonists; instead, they are portrayed as a people shaped by scarcity, fire, and survival. Their philosophy clashes violently with the spiritual harmony of Eywa, creating one of the richest ideological conflicts the series has explored.

This is where Varang emerges as one of the film’s most compelling figures—and unequivocally one of my favorite characters. Portrayed with commanding intensity by Oona Chaplin, Varang is neither villain nor hero in the traditional sense. She is a leader forged by hardship, whose pragmatism and fury feel tragically understandable. Every scene featuring her crackles with menace and intelligence, and the film wisely allows her agency to exist independently of human interference. Varang represents what Pandora could become if balance is replaced by domination, making her presence feel thematically essential rather than narratively convenient.

Equally captivating is Kiri, once again played with astonishing sensitivity by Sigourney Weaver. Kiri’s arc is the spiritual backbone of Fire and Ash, pushing the series deeper into metaphysical territory. Her connection to Eywa evolves in ways that are awe-inspiring, unsettling, and profoundly moving. Kiri embodies the idea that Pandora itself is changing, adapting to the existential threats it faces. She is my other favorite character in the film, not just because of her power, but because of her empathy. Where others react with violence, Kiri responds with understanding—sometimes to terrifying effect.

By the time the credits roll, Avatar: Fire and Ash feels less like a sequel and more like a turning point. It reshapes the emotional and philosophical landscape of the series, setting the stage for future chapters while standing firmly on its own. Anchored by unforgettable characters—especially Kiri and Varang—this is blockbuster filmmaking with purpose, passion, and vision.

James Cameron has once again proven that when he returns to Pandora, it is not simply to entertain, but to challenge, provoke, and inspire. Avatar: Fire and Ash burns brighter than any entry before it—and leaves an indelible mark on the soul of the franchise.

3. The Long Walk

Francis Lawrence’s The Long Walk, adapted from Stephen King’s 1979 novel (originally published under his Richard Bachman pseudonym), is an unflinching, devastatingly effective dystopian thriller that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll. Working from a screenplay by JT Mollner, Lawrence crafts a story that transcends its bleak survival premise and evolves into a searing character study about endurance, morality, and what it means to remain human in a world designed to strip away compassion. With a powerhouse cast of young actors and a tone that marries spectacle with harrowing intimacy, this film stands as one of the most faithful and haunting King adaptations to date.

Unlike many post-apocalyptic thrillers that rely on explosions and large-scale destruction, The Long Walk places its focus on a singular, cruelly simple concept: keep moving, or die. This stripped-down conceit is the bedrock of the story, and Lawrence leans into its austerity to chilling effect.

The America depicted here is not so much ruined as it is regimented. A totalitarian regime controls its people through fear and spectacle, and the annual Long Walk contest serves as both punishment and entertainment. The world-building is subtle but potent; we are never drowned in exposition, yet every soldier’s rifle, every roaring crowd, and every glimpse of authority communicates volumes about the state’s iron grip. Lawrence’s vision of this dystopia feels disturbingly plausible, making the contest not just a survival game, but a reflection of authoritarian cruelty masquerading as public ritual.

Cooper Hoffman as Raymond Garraty delivers a turn brimming with vulnerability and quiet resilience. Hoffman portrays Garraty not as a hardened hero, but as a teenager thrust into an impossible situation, torn between survival and empathy. His performance embodies the exhaustion and fragile hope at the story’s core.

David Jonsson as Peter McVries is equally compelling. McVries emerges as the emotional counterweight to Garraty, cynical yet deeply human. Jonsson plays him with sharp wit and undercurrents of pain, crafting a character who challenges Garraty’s worldview while forming one of the most touching relationships in King’s canon.

It is a grueling, heart-wrenching exploration of endurance, morality, and the human spirit under oppressive control. Yet in its brutality lies a strange beauty: fleeting moments of connection, courage in the face of despair, and a meditation on sacrifice that lingers long after the credits.

2. Bring Her Back

In Bring Her Back, Danny and Michael Philippou (the energetic twin duo behind Talk to Me) return with a chilling and unforgettable supernatural horror experience that marries raw psychological terror with a harrowing examination of loss, guilt, and the lengths a parent might go to reclaim what’s lost. With a screenplay co-written by Danny Philippou and Bill Hinzman, this film cements the Philippou brothers as fearless visionaries in modern horror—a title they’ve more than earned with this nightmarish, atmospheric piece.

Bring Her Back is a tale of grief gone awry—a narrative that finds horror not just in the supernatural but in the human heart. The story follows Andy (Billy Barratt) and his younger, visually impaired stepsister Piper (Sora Wong) as they navigate the aftermath of trauma, having recently lost their father in a tragic accident. Placed in foster care with the seemingly compassionate Laura (Sally Hawkins), the siblings soon find themselves at the center of a sinister plot rooted in occult rituals and desperate attempts to resurrect Laura’s deceased daughter.

From the film’s chilling cold open—a disturbing glimpse into a cult’s ritualistic practices—to its final, jaw-dropping moments, the Philippou brothers demonstrate a masterful grasp of tension and dread. Atmosphere saturates the film: the constant sense of something lurking just beyond the frame, the near-unbearable anxiety as the characters unravel, and the way dread seeps through every shadow and silence.

The direction feels precise yet feverish, with cinematographer Aaron McLisky capturing the claustrophobic interiors of Laura’s home with a grim, decaying beauty. Every hallway, every dimly lit corner feels like a character in itself—an extension of Laura’s fractured psyche and the lurking horrors waiting to pounce. The use of handheld shots in key moments lends the film an urgent, documentary-like feel that places the viewer in the center of the chaos, while judicious long takes stretch the tension to nearly unbearable levels.

Sally Hawkins is devastatingly good as Laura—a foster mother whose grief curdles into something monstrous. Hawkins brings an unsettling complexity to the role; her Laura is at once heartbreakingly vulnerable and deeply menacing, oscillating between maternal warmth and terrifying fanaticism. The script wisely avoids turning her into a cartoonish villain; instead, it portrays her as a mother so consumed by loss that she’s willing to cross any boundary to fill the void left by her daughter’s death. Hawkins’ performance is the film’s emotional linchpin, grounding even the most surreal and horrific moments in a deeply human pain.

Billy Barratt, as Andy, delivers a raw and compelling performance that anchors the film’s emotional core. He captures Andy’s resentment, fear, and reluctant protectiveness with remarkable nuance, especially in his interactions with Piper. Sora Wong, meanwhile, is excellent as Piper, lending the character an affecting vulnerability that makes her plight all the more heartbreaking. Her portrayal of a visually impaired child feels authentic and respectfully rendered, never exploitative.

Bring Her Back is a triumph of modern horror—a film that refuses to choose between psychological depth and unflinching terror, and instead delivers both in equal measure. It’s a searing, nightmarish journey into the darkness of grief, obsession, and the fragile ties that bind us to the living and the dead. Danny and Michael Philippou prove they are among the genre’s most exciting voices, crafting a horror film that not only shocks and terrifies but also moves and devastates.

1. Companion

Some films in the science fiction horror genre lean heavily on their high-concept premise, while others focus on humor or character-driven thrills. Companion, the latest genre-bending offering from writer-director Drew Hancock, masterfully blends all these elements, delivering a film that is equal parts darkly comedic, terrifying, and emotionally engaging. With a stellar cast led by Sophie Thatcher and Jack Quaid, and produced by Zach Cregger (Barbarian), Companion is an electrifying ride that subverts expectations at every turn.

From the outset, Companion presents itself as a familiar horror setup: a group of friends heads to an isolated cabin for a weekend getaway, and things inevitably take a turn for the worse. However, Hancock quickly reveals that this is far from a conventional slasher or home invasion thriller. Instead, Companion unfolds like a twisted psychological game, where hidden agendas—and advanced technology—manipulate loyalty and trust.

The film’s protagonist, Iris (Sophie Thatcher), is introduced as an intelligent but seemingly ordinary young woman, excited to reunite with her boyfriend Josh (Jack Quaid) and their friends Kat (Megan Suri), Eli (Harvey Guillén), and Patrick (Lukas Gage). Their host, Sergey, played by Rupert Friend, is an enigmatic figure with wealth and influence, adding an underlying tension to the group’s dynamic. But when an act of violence sets off a chain reaction of deception and paranoia, the film takes an exhilarating left turn, throwing the audience into a gripping narrative about control, free will, and the nature of identity itself.

The genius of Companion lies in its seamless integration of horror, science fiction, and biting social commentary. The revelation that Iris is actually a highly advanced companion robot gut-punches viewers and redefines the film’s entire trajectory. Hancock takes this premise and runs with it, exploring the ethical dilemmas of AI autonomy and the dark impulses of those who seek to exploit it.

Sophie Thatcher, fresh off her success in Yellowjackets and Heretic, delivers a career-defining performance as Iris. She masterfully conveys the nuances of a character grappling with artificial limitations while striving for genuine agency. Her transformation from an unassuming companion into a force of nature is both compelling and deeply satisfying. Thatcher’s performance ensures that Iris never feels like a mere machine; instead, she is a character brimming with emotional complexity, intelligence, and even humor.

One of Companion’s greatest strengths is its tonal balance. Hancock crafts a film that is genuinely terrifying in moments of intense suspense, yet effortlessly funny when it wants to be. The humor never undercuts the horror; instead, it enhances the experience, making the film feel refreshingly original in a genre that often leans too heavily in one direction. The dark comedic elements, particularly in Josh’s delusions of grandeur and the film’s commentary on human arrogance, provide a satirical edge reminiscent of The Cabin in the Woods or Barbarian.

Drew Hancock’s Companion is a triumphant blend of horror, science fiction, and dark comedy, delivering a film that is as intellectually engaging as it is wildly entertaining. With a razor-sharp script, stellar performances—especially from Sophie Thatcher—and a deeply original take on AI horror, Companion stands as one of the most exciting and thought-provoking films in recent memory.