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Hurt people hurt people, the saying goes, and nowhere is that more evident than in Hard Truths. Directed by Mike Leigh (Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake, Happy-Go-Lucky), Hard Truths follows two sisters who couldn’t be more different. One is Chantelle, a cheerful hairdresser who has raised equally ebullient daughters, and the other is Pansy, a hardened woman who lashes out at everyone from her family to the people queuing up in the grocery. Pansy is brutal, the sort of person you’d roll your eyes at if you were unlucky enough to encounter her in public. But Leigh gives us a glimpse into her internal struggle; nothing too obvious, as is the naturalistic director’s style, but we feel her pain whenever she goes out of her way to avoid the people closest to her, or when she savors a moment alone and hides her tears. There is no linear plot in Hard Truths; instead, it’s a collection of lived moments and ordinary joys and sorrows. It’s also a welcome reflection of our fractured reality. Loneliness, grief, anger, anxiety—these feelings are often inexplicable, and they come out of us in ways that are never immediately understandable or direct. So why should Pansy be? The film is an exercise in sympathy as well as a mirror to our own complicated and invisible hurt.

The first things that grab your attention in Nickel Boys are its beauty and technicality. Director RaMell Ross, a large-format photographer, ensures every frame relays something deep, intimate, and moving. Then there’s how he takes these shots: we see things unfold through the POV of Elwood and Turner, students at an abusive reform school in Tallahassee, Florida. The year is 1962, and even though the civil rights movement inspires Elwood and his peers to stand up for themselves, the political climate is as skewed and violent as ever. Nickel Boys tells the unfortunately common story of how Black men, in particular, had to endure unimaginable abuse during the Jim Crow era in the South. What is uncommon, though, is the sensitivity and boundless inventiveness with which Ross tells this story. Yes, violence is unavoidable in a story like this, but Ross swaps trauma porn with something more effective and chilling—a mixture of silence, archival photographs, time jumps, and that immersive POV, which forces you to be in Elwood and Turner’s shoes. The world before them may be brutal, but inside, they hold space for beauty, fun, relationships, and wonder, manifested in the film in dreamy visual sequences. What Ross does is art in the highest form, an unforgettable balance between style and substance.

“Art heals” is a cliche at this point, but if you want a rich example of how that aphorism is true, look no further than prison rehabilitation programs. And if you want an example of that, Sing Sing is a delicate yet gut-punching film about inmates participating in a theater program. We mainly follow Divine G, a seasoned thespian who truly believes that art heals, and Divine Eyes, a newcomer who is skeptical about the idea of it. Their relationship starts rocky—as Divine Eyes says, theater “doesn’t change the fact that [he’s] a gangster”—but they eventually help each other both in the play and their personal lives. Through their real-life stories, we learn about wrongful convictions, as well as the dehumanizing treatment and suffocating negligence inmates go through. But unlike most prison films, there’s a softness to Sing Sing that’s partly caused by the use of a 16mm camera and natural lighting (the facility is surprisingly open, with large glass windows reminding inmates, painfully, of what they’re missing out on) and by the film’s willingness to show characters in their most vulnerable state. Without sacrificing veracity, they open up about their feelings, hopes, and dreams, chucking preconceived notions of masculine toughness. It’s fascinating too how the film can elicit such powerful emotions without resorting to melodrama. A simple look from Divine G’s eyes is enough to devastate you. Whether art can fix a person is debatable, but Sing Sing proves it’s a question worth exploring for a lifetime.

Insiang is not an easy film to watch. It’s hard to look at, not because the sprawling slums of Manila itself are ugly– the scenes are excellently blocked, shot, and edited, actually– but because of the way poverty has further degraded the status of women in the area, with the lack of resources keeping them vulnerable to violence. It’s unrelenting. From the casual jokes made in the background, to the physical harm actually wielded against the title character, director Lino Brocka systematically outlines the way poverty has cut off Insiang’s options, being forced to rely on a resentful mother and lustful men. It makes for an unflattering, claustrophobic depiction of the capital, which is why it was temporarily banned from screening, but Insiang was a necessary, ugly portrait of what the then-administration allowed to flourish.

When the film publication Sight and Sound dubbed it “the greatest film of all time,” movie fans were quick to give their opinion. Those opposed complained about its simplicity, while those favoring the film praised the same trait. It’s true the film is simple—the camera is static and far away, and all it does is follow the titular Jeanne as she goes through the strict routines of her life. But nothing about it is plain or easy. You could mine a thousand things from a single scene alone, to say nothing about the woman at the center of it all. As Jeanne juggles her duties as a homekeeper, mother, and breadwinner, she eventually unravels, and the film rewards us with one of the most memorable climaxes of all time. There’s complexity in the ordinary, Akerman reminds us in her mundane epic, and there’s always something political motivating our choices, no matter how normal they seem.

You know how many films depict the magic and wonder of cinema in such gorgeous, magnificent scenes? Peeping Tom does the opposite. Sure, it has director Michael Powell’s signature flair, with excellently framed and colored shots, but he takes a much more violent route here, swapping spectacular fantasy with the psychological terror of how the act of filming and watching can be. Given the title, it won’t be a surprise that the film involves voyeurism, but rather than of the sexual kind, Powell hones into the morbidity of the camera gaze, the twisted pleasure that’s felt when the audience sees someone terrified, despite the violence done upon them. It’s because of this that the film was so controversial, but eventually, Peeping Tom garnered critical acclaim for breaking ground as the first slasher film ever made.

Directed by Sidney Lumet (12 Angry Men, Dog Day Afternoon), The Network is often referred to as a satire, but as someone who has worked in the broadcast news industry, I hesitate to call it one. Sure it’s amped up the rage and ridiculousness, but the desire for ratings at all costs? The power-hungry executives who don’t give a damn about ethics or public service? The nonstop onslaught of bad news turning people from concerned to desensitized? Those are real and rampant, even now almost 50 years later, Network remains a relevant cautionary tale against the corporatization of humans and the exploitation of tragedy. The whipsmart script is performed by an excellent cast (the leads of which went on to win Academy Awards) and has given us solid, lasting lines like “Even the news needs showmanship,” and “You’re television incarnate, Diana.” Aaron Sorkin can only hope to pen those words.

While initially commissioned to be an atomic bomb documentary, Hiroshima Mon Amour became something entirely different. For starters, it’s not a documentary, with director Alain Resnais recruiting author Marguerite Duras to write the screenplay, but it was pretty unusual for a narrative film at the time. It’s a love story, yes, but with such a poetic introduction of the two lovers going back and forth about what they know and don’t know about the bomb, pairing their discussion with archival footage and captivating scoring, Resnais created a new, non-linear cryptic style to capture how memory, grief, and loss irrevocably shaped a generation. Hiroshima Mon Amour was an unexpected shift, eventually becoming one of the most influential films of the French New Wave movement.

Nearly a decade after the Hays Code, the time for glorified gangsters was over. However, before Hollywood shifted their gaze to the European-inspired, shadowy film noir, the gangster bid one last adieu in High Sierra. It was this very concept that was the foundation of the story– bringing back a robber for one more heist– but with an excellent Humphrey Bogart and John Huston’s riveting script, the film was something else. It pushed the gangster genre into a different place, as Bogart’s thief reveals a sensitivity that was then uncommon in the genre, and Huston takes advantage of the Code to build up suspense and sympathy as his farm boy-turned-mobster tries to climb his way to freedom. Being their breakthrough moment, it’s no wonder then that Bogart and Huston continued their partnership in brooding, anti-hero film noir dramas, but High Sierra still holds up to this day, cementing some of the tropes that future crime thrillers draw inspiration from.