Biographical Films: Which Biopics to Watch

The biopic is one of cinema’s most beloved and, at the same time, most complex genres. The collective imagination is marked by monumental works that have transformed the lives of iconic figures into an epic, following the rise, the fall, and the redemption. These films have the merit of having cemented the myth and brought us closer to history.

But the biographical narrative is also a more rugged territory. It is a cinema that doesn’t just ask “what happened?” but digs deeper, asking “what did it feel like?”. In this space, form becomes content: the narrative structure, the cinematography, and the editing are not simple tools, but become an integral part of the biography itself.

It abandons the pretense of objective historical truth to embrace a deeper and, ultimately, more honest emotional truth. This guide is a path that unites the great masterpieces of the genre with the independent films. It does not seek to build a monument, but to capture a soul, with all its fractures, its contradictions, and its irreducible, complex beauty.

👤 Portraits from Life: The New Biographical Cinema

Forget the old glossy “hagiographies” celebrating saints on earth from cradle to grave. Contemporary biographical cinema has stopped being an illustrated Wikipedia page to become pure psychological investigation. In 2023 and 2024, great auteurs like Nolan, Mann, and Sofia Coppola took untouchable icons (from nuclear physics to rock, down to engines) to dismantle their myths and show their human fractures, often focusing on a single decisive period rather than a whole life. It is no longer about knowing “what they did,” but understanding “who they really were” when the spotlights went out. Here are 5 recent works where reality burns brighter than fiction.

Priscilla (2023)

While the world idolizes Elvis Presley, a 14-year-old girl named Priscilla Beaulieu meets him at a military base in Germany. Thus begins a love story that leads her to Graceland, the King of Rock’s palace, where she lives locked in a gilded cage made of pills, loneliness, and strict rules on how to dress and wear makeup. In Priscilla, based on the protagonist’s memoirs, the myth of Elvis is deconstructed and relegated to the background to give voice to the one who always remained in the shadows.

Sofia Coppola signs the quintessential anti-biopic, mirroring Baz Luhrmann’s frenetic Elvis. Here there are no triumphant concerts, but the muffled silence of a bedroom where a woman waits. It is a delicate and unsettling film about emotional manipulation and the loneliness of fame seen through the eyes of those who suffer it by reflection. Cailee Spaeny is extraordinary in showing the painful growth of a doll who finally decides to become a person.

The Iron Claw (2023)

In the 1980s, the Von Erich brothers are the undisputed kings of Texas wrestling, trained by their father-master Fritz who pushes them beyond every physical limit to achieve the success he never obtained. But the family seems haunted by a curse: accidents, suicides, and tragedies strike the brothers one after another. In The Iron Claw, Kevin (Zac Efron), the sole survivor, must fight not in the ring, but against the toxic legacy of a family that confused love with brute force.

This A24 film is a Greek tragedy masquerading as a sports movie. You don’t need to love wrestling to be devastated by this true story. Director Sean Durkin investigates toxic masculinity and the weight of parental expectations with heartbreaking empathy. Zac Efron, physically transformed, delivers the performance of a lifetime: a body sculpted for fighting that hides a soul terrified of losing those he loves. A powerful, physical, and deeply moving film.

Ferrari (2023)

Modena, 1957. Enzo Ferrari (Adam Driver) is a man on the brink: his company risks bankruptcy, his marriage to Laura (Penélope Cruz) is destroyed by grief over the death of their son Dino and the discovery of his double life with mistress Lina. To save everything, Ferrari must bet his entire future on a single race: the deadly Mille Miglia. In Ferrari, the red cars are not just vehicles, but instruments of death and glory speeding through a beautiful and cruel Italy.

Michael Mann returns to directing with a film that is not a chronicle of Ferrari, but the opera of a summer of blood. Far from glossy glamour, the film shows the dirt, danger, and maniacal obsession of the “Drake.” It is a film about death as a constant work companion for the drivers of that era. The direction is visceral: you feel the heat of the engines and the fear in the drivers’ eyes, in a portrait of a flawed man who built an empire on the ashes of his private life.

The Apprentice (2024)

In decadent 1970s New York, a young and insecure Donald Trump (Sebastian Stan) tries to make his way in the real estate market but lives in the shadow of a powerful father. His destiny changes when he meets Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong), the ruthless and manipulative lawyer who will become his mentor. In The Apprentice, we witness the creation of the “monster”: Cohn teaches Trump the three fundamental rules (always attack, never admit anything, declare victory even if defeated) that will shape not only the businessman but the future President.

Presented at Cannes, Ali Abbasi’s film is a political body horror. It is not a parody, but a cold analysis of how ambition can devour humanity. Jeremy Strong is terrifying in the role of Cohn, the true architect of Trumpism, while Sebastian Stan achieves an impressive transformation, showing the slow loss of Trump’s soul. An urgent and controversial biopic explaining the present by looking at the dark roots of American power.

📜 Beyond the Biography: The Faces of Cinema

True stories have unique power, but cinema is also imagination, mystery, and legend. If, after exploring the lives of history’s great protagonists, you are looking for different emotions, here is where to head to continue your journey through genres.

Drama Movies

Every biography is, at heart, a drama. If you are looking for stories that dig into the depths of human feelings, family conflicts, or personal crises, this is the parent selection. Here, reality gives way to the pure emotional power of storytelling, free from the constraints of historical record.

👉 GO TO THE LIST: Drama Movies

Cult Movies

Many of history’s best biopics have become Cult classics, from Lawrence of Arabia to Raging Bull. But this section goes further: here you will find the immortal masterpieces that, whether inspired by reality or pure fantasy, defined the rules of the seventh art.

👉 GO TO THE LIST: Cult Movies

Spy Movies

Reality often surpasses fiction, especially when it comes to state secrets. If you were fascinated by the political tension of Oppenheimer or The Imitation Game, this is the natural evolution: stories of men and women living in the shadows, amidst double-crossing and international intrigue.

👉 GO TO THE LIST: Spy Movies

Biopics and Indie Movies

Not all extraordinary lives end up in history books. Independent cinema is a master at telling the minimal, intimate, and powerful stories of common people or forgotten artists. Explore our streaming catalog to discover auteur biographies you won’t find in multiplexes.

👉 BROWSE THE CATALOG: Stream Independent Movies

🏛️ The Weight of History: Biographical Classics

Before the biopic became a mainstream staple, these films were epic events. This is the era when cinema didn’t just recount facts, but sculpted collective memory. From Lawrence of Arabia to Scorsese’s violent parables, here are the masterpieces that defined the rules of the game. Monumental works where visionary direction and legendary performances transformed men and women into myths, making their lives on screen truer than reality itself.

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

During World War I, British Lieutenant T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole) is sent to Cairo and then into the Arabian desert as an observer. Disobeying orders and falling in love with the vastness of the desert, Lawrence succeeds in the impossible feat of uniting rival Bedouin tribes to fight against the Ottoman Empire. In Lawrence of Arabia, we follow the transformation of an eccentric and cultured man into a messianic and ruthless leader, until his inevitable political disillusionment.

David Lean signs the biopic par excellence, an immense work where the landscape (the desert) is as much a protagonist as the man. It is not just the story of a military campaign, but the psychological study of an outsized ego trying to shape reality in his own image. Peter O’Toole’s blue eyes, Maurice Jarre’s score, and the editing (the famous cut from the match to the sunrise) make this film a mystical visual experience that must be seen on the biggest screen possible.

Andrei Rublev (1966)

In 15th-century Russia, devastated by Tatar invasions and internal struggles between princes, the monk and icon painter Andrei Rublev traverses the country. Faced with brutality, torture, and paganism, Rublev enters a deep spiritual and artistic crisis, taking a vow of silence and stopping painting. In Andrei Rublev, the protagonist’s journey becomes a meditation on the role of art: can beauty exist and save such a horrible world?

Andrei Tarkovsky’s masterpiece is the opposite of the Hollywood biopic: slow, episodic, visually shocking, and deeply spiritual. We are not told the life of the painter (about whom little is known), but his time and his soul. The famous final sequence of the casting of the bell is one of the greatest cinematic metaphors on faith and artistic creation. A difficult but necessary film, elevating the biographical genre to metaphysical poetry.

Raging Bull (1980)

Jake LaMotta (Robert De Niro) is an Italian-American boxer from the Bronx with devastating strength and paranoid jealousy. His violence, which makes him an unbeatable champion in the ring, is the same that systematically destroys his private life, alienating his brother-manager (Joe Pesci) and his wife (Cathy Moriarty). In Raging Bull, we witness the dizzying rise and ruinous fall of a man unable to fight his own demons, ending up alone and overweight reciting monologues in sleazy nightclubs.

Martin Scorsese directs the greatest sports movie ever, which however is not about sports, but about self-destruction and redemption. The high-contrast black and white, the brutal editing of the boxing scenes (where the camera is inside the ring), and De Niro’s shocking physical transformation set a standard. It is a ruthless portrait of toxic masculinity and human animality, a painful and perfect work of art.

The Elephant Man (1980)

In Victorian London, surgeon Frederick Treves (Anthony Hopkins) discovers John Merrick (John Hurt) in a freak show, a man with physical deformities so severe he is called the “Elephant Man.” Treves takes him to the hospital, initially for scientific interest, but soon discovers that behind that monstrous appearance lies a sensitive, cultured, and gentle soul. In The Elephant Man, Merrick tries to claim his human dignity in a society that sees him only as a monster or a clinical case.

David Lynch directs his most “classic” and moving film, while maintaining his industrial and dreamlike atmospheres. Shot in a Gothic black and white, the film avoids easy pity to focus on the horror of the gaze of others. John Hurt’s performance, buried under pounds of makeup, is heartbreaking and communicates everything through eyes and voice. The cry “I am not an animal! I am a human being!” remains one of the most powerful moments in cinema history.

Amadeus (1984)

Vienna, 18th century. The elderly court composer Antonio Salieri (F. Murray Abraham), now forgotten and locked in an asylum, confesses to a priest that he killed Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Tom Hulce). The film is a long flashback recounting Salieri’s one-sided rivalry: a devout man who dedicated his life to God in exchange for talent, but sees himself bypassed by a vulgar and obscene boy who nevertheless possesses the divine gift of absolute music. In Amadeus, biography becomes a theological duel between mediocrity and genius.

Milos Forman transforms Peter Shaffer’s play into a sumptuous visual and sonic feast. It matters little that the story is historically inaccurate: the film works perfectly as a metaphor for artistic envy. Mozart’s hysterical laugh and Salieri’s suffering gaze are unforgettable. It is a film about the unfair nature of talent, masterfully edited to the immortal music of the true protagonist.

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985)

The film explores the last day in the life of the celebrated Japanese writer Yukio Mishima, intertwining this event with black-and-white flashbacks of his past life and three dazzling, color dramatizations from his novels. The narrative culminates in his attempted coup and subsequent ritual suicide, or seppuku.

More than a biopic, Paul Schrader’s masterpiece is a form of cinematic seppuku. The director does not try to explain Mishima’s final act but to make it understandable from within, adopting the same philosophy as his subject. For Mishima, life was nothing more than an artistic performance, a path toward the perfect union of “pen and sword.” Schrader translates this vision into a film structure that is itself a ritualized work of art. The theatrical stylizations, almost like Nō theater, and Philip Glass’s magnificent score are not aesthetic affectations, but the necessary language to tell the story of a man who transformed his own existence into his final, violent masterpiece.

The Last Emperor (1987)

Beijing, 1908. At only three years old, Pu Yi is torn from his mother and crowned Emperor of China, becoming the “Lord of Ten Thousand Years” but living as a prisoner in the Forbidden City, unaware that outside the walls the empire is collapsing. In The Last Emperor, we follow his surreal life: from god on earth to pro-Western playboy, from puppet in the hands of the Japanese to a gardener re-educated by Mao’s communist regime.

Bernardo Bertolucci signs an auteur blockbuster of stunning visual beauty, the first Western film authorized to shoot inside the Forbidden City. It is the story of a man who could never choose his own destiny, always a hostage to History with a capital H. Storaro’s cinematography uses colors (from the red and gold of childhood to the gray of imprisonment) to tell the emotion, creating an intimate and political fresco that won 9 Oscars.

Sid and Nancy (1986)

Sid and Nancy chronicles the tumultuous and self-destructive relationship between Sid Vicious, bassist of the Sex Pistols, and his American groupie, Nancy Spungen. Their love story, fueled by heroin, leads them into a downward spiral of addiction and despair, culminating in Nancy’s tragic death at the Chelsea Hotel in New York and Sid’s subsequent overdose.

Alex Cox deliberately chooses not to shoot a factual chronicle but to stage the myth, the pulp legend of Sid and Nancy. The film captures the essence of punk not by documenting its history, but by adopting its ethos: it is a messy, romantic, and tragic narrative that, despite its historical inaccuracies, feels emotionally more “true” than the squalid reality. Roger Deakins’ cinematography finds moments of lyrical beauty amidst the filth, elevating their story to an iconic love tragedy. Cox doesn’t tell their life story, but the idea the world has of them, and therein lies its brutal honesty.

An Angel at My Table (1990)

Based on the autobiographical trilogy of New Zealand writer Janet Frame, An Angel at My Table traces her life, from a difficult childhood to a misdiagnosis of schizophrenia that led her to spend eight years in psychiatric institutions. Her salvation was writing, the success of which allowed her to escape a lobotomy and finally find her voice in the world.

Originally produced as a television miniseries, Jane Campion’s work has the epic scope and intimate depth of a great novel. Its status as an international co-production allowed for a sprawling narrative that follows Frame across decades and continents. Campion’s direction is visually poetic and deeply empathetic, focusing on female subjectivity and the struggle for self-determination. The film is a powerful tribute to the resilience of the human spirit and the redemptive power of art, told with a sensitivity that only auteur cinema can offer.

Malcolm X (1992)

From his youth as a small-time street criminal named “Detroit Red” to prison, where he discovers Islam and is reborn as Malcolm X, up to his rise as a radical voice of the Nation of Islam and his assassination. In Malcolm X, we see the complex evolution of one of the most important and misunderstood leaders of the 20th century, a man who preached racial separation first and then, after his pilgrimage to Mecca, universal brotherhood, paying for his truths with his life.

Spike Lee realizes his magnum opus, a torrential and passionate film that is fundamental to understanding contemporary America. Denzel Washington offers a titanic performance, disappearing into the character and restoring his magnetic oratory and private vulnerability. Not a holy card, but the portrait of a man in constant intellectual evolution. A political masterpiece that still burns today with its relevance.

Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould (1993)

Inspired in its structure by Bach’s “Goldberg Variations,” Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould paints a portrait of the brilliant and iconoclastic Canadian pianist Glenn Gould through thirty-two short vignettes. These fragments mix dramatic reconstructions, documentary interviews with people who knew him, animated sequences, and abstract reflections, composing a mosaic of his life and art.

Glenn Gould’s life did not possess the conventional drama required by a traditional biopic; his most significant moment was an act of subtraction, his withdrawal from the concert stage to dedicate himself exclusively to the recording studio. Director François Girard understands that a linear narrative would be inadequate and chooses a form that mirrors his subject’s mind: analytical, fragmented, and musical. The thirty-two vignettes function as variations on a theme, exploring his obsessions, his humor, and his artistic philosophy. The result is a much richer idea of his life than a conventional film could have offered, because it prioritizes his inner world over external events.

Ed Wood (1994)

Hollywood, 1950s. Edward D. Wood Jr. (Johnny Depp) is a talentless director but full of unshakable optimism, determined to make movies at all costs. Surrounding himself with a court of miracles of outcasts—including the elderly and drug-addicted Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau) and wrestler Tor Johnson—he makes disastrous sci-fi films with flying saucers made of paper plates. In Ed Wood, failure becomes an art form and passion counts more than the result.

Tim Burton shoots his most personal and affectionate film, a love letter to all the weird dreamers of the world. Shot in crisp black and white, the film does not laugh at Ed Wood, but with him. Martin Landau is moving in the role of old Lugosi, giving us one of the sweetest and saddest portraits of a star’s twilight. It is a biopic celebrating the joy of creating, even when the world considers you “the worst director of all time.”

Crumb (1994)

Crumb, a documentary by Terry Zwigoff, offers an intimate and unfiltered portrait of the controversial underground artist Robert Crumb. The film not only explores his provocative art but delves deep into his family life, revealing the traumas and neuroses that bind Robert to his two brothers, both reclusive and mentally disturbed artists.

Crumb transcends the biographical documentary to become a psychological study of rare power. Zwigoff’s proximity to his subject, achieved over years of filming, allows for a raw and at times shocking intimacy. The film does not judge but observes, revealing how R. Crumb’s artistic genius is inextricably linked to profound family trauma. It is a work that explores the roots of creativity in pain, suggesting that for the Crumb brothers, art was not a choice, but the only, desperate escape from an unbearable reality.

Basquiat (1996)

Basquiat traces the meteoric rise and tragic fall of Jean-Michel Basquiat, from street artist to star of the 1980s New York art world. The narrative explores his explosive creativity, his relationships, his friendship with Andy Warhol, and his struggle with fame, racism, and the heroin addiction that led to his death at just 27.

As a prominent painter of the 1980s art scene himself, director Julian Schnabel offers an insider’s portrait, subjective and steeped in melancholy. More than a biographical chronicle, the film is an elegy for a friend and an era. Schnabel focuses less on the facts and more on the emotional experience of being a young black artist catapulted into a predominantly white and ruthless world. Using evocative editing techniques and a superb soundtrack, the film immerses us in Basquiat’s inner world, exploring his need for expression and his alienation.

Man on the Moon (1999)

Andy Kaufman (Jim Carrey) is not a comedian, he is a “song and dance man” who hates jokes and loves to confuse, irritate, and manipulate the audience. From his appearances on Saturday Night Live to mixed wrestling matches against women and the creation of his obnoxious alter ego Tony Clifton, Kaufman lives his life as continuous performance art. In Man on the Moon, the line between reality and fiction disappears, leaving everyone (including his loved ones) wondering when the joke ends.

Milos Forman returns to the biopic to tell of another misunderstood genius. Jim Carrey doesn’t play Kaufman, he becomes Kaufman (as later documented in Jim & Andy), in a frighteningly methodical performance. It is a film about identity and the nature of entertainment, challenging the viewer to understand what is real. The finale, to the tune of R.E.M., is one of the most touching and mysterious farewells in biographical cinema.

The Pianist (2002)

Warsaw, 1939. Wladyslaw Szpilman (Adrien Brody) is a talented Jewish pianist who sees his world collapse with the Nazi invasion. From the creation of the Ghetto to the deportation of his family, Szpilman manages to escape the death trains and survives for years hiding among the ruins of the bombed city, fighting against hunger, cold, and absolute loneliness. In The Pianist, music is the only thread keeping him tied to humanity.

Roman Polanski confronts his past (having survived the Holocaust) with a film of devastating rigor and sobriety. There are no Hollywood heroics: Szpilman survives by chance, by luck, and thanks to the unexpected help of a German officer. Adrien Brody, who won the Oscar, acts with his body, becoming a living skeleton wandering in a ghostly city. A painful but necessary work on the resilience of art in the face of barbarism.

24 Hour Party People (2002)

Through the figure of television presenter and Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, 24 Hour Party People traces fifteen years of Manchester’s music history. From the punk of the Sex Pistols to the post-punk of Joy Division, to the rave scene of the Happy Mondays, Wilson, an unreliable narrator, constantly breaks the fourth wall to guide us on a chaotic and ironic journey.

This is not the biopic of a man, but of an entire music scene. Michael Winterbottom adopts a postmodern approach that mixes facts, myths, archival footage, and cameos by real characters. The protagonist, Tony Wilson, addresses the audience directly, comments on the film’s inaccuracies, and constantly reminds us that we are watching a construction, a legend. This unstable and self-aware structure is the perfect way to capture the anarchic energy and “do it yourself” ethos of Factory Records, where chaos was an integral part of the creative process.

American Splendor (2003)

American Splendor tells the life of Harvey Pekar, a Cleveland file clerk who becomes an underground icon by turning the frustrations and banalities of his daily life into an autobiographical comic book series. The film mixes fiction, with Paul Giamatti as Pekar, with appearances by the real Harvey, animations, and documentary footage.

American Splendor is the ultimate tribute to its subject because it adopts the exact same aesthetic philosophy. A conventional biopic about a “file clerk” would have been a paradox. Directors Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini solve the problem by structuring the film like an issue of Pekar’s comic. They layer different levels of reality—Giamatti’s performance, the real Harvey’s commentary, animated vignettes—just as Pekar used different artists to illustrate his stories. This immersive approach doesn’t just tell Pekar’s story; it validates his entire artistic project, proving that an unfiltered look at everyday life can be compelling, funny, and deeply moving cinema.

Capote (2005)

Capote focuses on the period when writer Truman Capote researched and wrote his “non-fiction novel” masterpiece, In Cold Blood. While investigating the brutal murder of the Clutter family in Kansas, Capote develops a complex and manipulative relationship with one of the killers, Perry Smith, a bond that will bring him success but morally corrode him.

Far from sensationalism, Bennett Miller’s film is a cold and measured psychological study of the moral corrosion that can accompany the creative process. The independent production allowed for an approach that prioritizes character over chronicle. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s monumental performance is not a simple imitation but a total immersion into the soul of a man whose ambition consumes him. The sober direction and desaturated cinematography create an oppressive atmosphere, reflecting Capote’s emotional landscape as he delves into an ethical abyss to get his story.

Last Days (2005)

In Last Days, inspired by the last days of Kurt Cobain’s life, the film follows Blake, an alienated and introverted rock musician, as he wanders aimlessly through his large, dilapidated house and the surrounding woods. Avoiding friends, managers, and responsibilities, Blake moves in a state of torpor, mumbling fragments of songs and eluding any attempt at human contact.

Gus Van Sant concludes his “Death Trilogy” with a minimalist and abstract work that rejects any psychological explanation or conventional narrative. The film is not “about” Kurt Cobain, but an evocation of his state of mind. The observational style, with long takes and almost non-existent dialogue, immerses us in the protagonist’s emptiness and isolation. It is a non-judgmental portrait, almost a sensory experience, of the silent and solitary journey toward the end, made possible only by the freedom of independent cinema.

I’m Not There (2007)

In I’m Not There, six different actors, including Christian Bale, Cate Blanchett, Marcus Carl Franklin, Richard Gere, Heath Ledger, and Ben Whishaw, embody different aspects of Bob Dylan’s life and music. The film abandons a linear narrative to explore the multiple public personas and mythologies surrounding the enigmatic singer-songwriter, from folk singer to rock prophet.

Todd Haynes‘ film is the most radical and honest refutation of the biopic’s central promise: to find and reveal the “true” individual behind the public mask. Haynes argues, with intellectual audacity, that in the case of a figure like Dylan, there is no “true” individual to be found, only a collage of myths, performances, and cultural reflections. The use of six actors is not a simple gimmick but a statement of intent: a single actor attempting to give coherence to such a mutable figure would be a lie. The film becomes an intertextual game, a puzzle that shows not Dylan, but the very process of creating the myth of Dylan.

Control (2007)

Shot in sharp, grainy black and white, Control traces the final years of Ian Curtis, the enigmatic frontman of Joy Division. The narrative explores his marriage, fatherhood, his extramarital affair, his growing epileptic seizures, and the crushing pressure of fame, which led to his suicide on the eve of the band’s first American tour.

The choice of black and white by director Anton Corbijn, a photographer who immortalized the band in its early days, is not a mere stylistic whim. It is the visual translation of Joy Division’s sound and Ian Curtis’s state of mind: a desolate, claustrophobic, and desperately mundane emotional landscape of late ’70s Macclesfield. The film avoids the clichés of the rock biopic to focus on an intimate and quiet portrait of a tortured genius. The austere photography and Sam Riley’s restrained performance perfectly capture the existential anguish of a man forever cut off from the rest of the world.

Persepolis (2007)

Based on the autobiographical graphic novel of the same name, Persepolis tells the story of Marjane Satrapi, a young Iranian girl growing up during the Islamic Revolution. Through her eyes, we witness the fall of the Shah, the rise of a repressive regime, and her subsequent experience of exile in Europe, a coming-of-age journey marked by rebellion, loss, and the search for identity.

Animation, with its essential and almost entirely black-and-white graphic style, proves to be the perfect tool for a work of personal and political memory. Persepolis is not just the story of a girl, but the chronicle of a nation seen through a subjective and feminist lens. The film creates a powerful counter-narrative to mainstream representations of Iran, humanizing a people and a culture often reduced to stereotypes. Animation allows Satrapi to merge the personal and the political with a freedom that live-action cinema would not have permitted, transforming her memories into a universal epic about freedom and identity.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is the true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, editor-in-chief of the French magazine Elle, who in 1995 suffers a stroke that leaves him almost completely paralyzed, afflicted with locked-in syndrome. The only thing he can move is his left eyelid, through which he dictates an entire memoir, communicating letter by letter.

Director Julian Schnabel, a painter before he was a filmmaker, accomplishes an extraordinary cinematic feat. For much of the film, the camera adopts Bauby’s subjective point of view, forcing the viewer to experience his same physical imprisonment. We see the world through a blurred eye, hear his thoughts, share his fantasies and memories. This radical choice, made possible by an independent production, is not a virtuosity, but the only honest way to tell the story of a consciousness trapped in an immobile body. The film becomes an immersive experience that celebrates the unstoppable power of imagination and memory.

Bronson (2008)

Bronson tells the story of Michael Peterson, a man who, after an initial seven-year prison sentence, spends thirty years in solitary confinement due to his violent nature. During his detention, Peterson reinvents himself, creating the alter ego Charles Bronson and turning his life into a brutal and artistic performance for an imaginary audience.

Nicolas Winding Refn’s film is not interested in the man Michael Peterson, but in the violent and theatrical creation of the persona “Charles Bronson.” The approach is operatic, almost Brechtian: Bronson, played by a monumental Tom Hardy, performs on a stage, narrating his own legend. The violence is not depicted with raw realism but is stylized, choreographed, and accompanied by classical music, transforming it into an aesthetic act. Refn suggests that for some individuals, violence is not simply an action but a desperate form of artistic expression, an extreme performance in search of an audience.

Love & Mercy (2014)

Love & Mercy explores the life of Beach Boys leader Brian Wilson through two distinct periods. In the 1960s, a young Wilson (Paul Dano) struggles to create his masterpiece, Pet Sounds, as his mental health falters. In the 1980s, an older, broken Wilson (John Cusack) is under the control of a manipulative therapist until he meets his future wife, Melinda Ledbetter.

The dual narrative structure is not a simple device but a direct representation of Brian Wilson’s fragmented psychological state. The unconventional approach allows the film to create emotional connections between the two eras, showing how creative genius and pain were two sides of the same coin. The 1960s studio scenes are a masterful reconstruction of the creative process, while the 1980s timeline functions as a psychological thriller. It is a complex portrait that captures both the ecstasy of creation and the agony of mental illness.

Frank (2014)

In Frank, Jon, an aspiring musician, joins an avant-pop band led by the enigmatic Frank, a musical genius who never takes off a huge papier-mâché head. Retreating to an Irish cabin to record an album, Jon clashes with the band’s eccentric nature and its leader’s fragile mental health.

Loosely inspired by the experiences of co-writer Jon Ronson, Frank is a dark, bizarre, and surprisingly moving comedy. The film uses its eccentric premise to sincerely explore themes such as mental illness, artistic authenticity, and the myth of the tortured artist. Far from clichés, it manages to be deeply empathetic without ever losing its black humor. It is a work that celebrates the outsider and criticizes the music industry that seeks to commodify creativity, a bittersweet reflection made possible by its fiercely independent spirit.

Christine (2016)

Christine is an intense portrait of Christine Chubbuck, a television journalist in Sarasota, Florida, in the 1970s. Ambitious and determined, but socially awkward and afflicted by debilitating depression, Christine clashes with the sensationalist drift of her news station. Her professional and personal frustration will lead her to a final, shocking act on live television.

Christine is an example of how independent cinema can tackle difficult stories with an intimacy and seriousness that commercial productions would avoid. Director Antonio Campos avoids all sensationalism, focusing instead on a rigorous and compassionate character study. Rebecca Hall’s performance is a tour de force, capturing the complexity of Christine’s depression without ever making it a cliché. The film is a heartbreaking exploration of ambition, loneliness, and mental illness, made possible by a production approach that prioritized psychological truth above all else.

My Friend Dahmer (2017)

Based on the autobiographical graphic novel by Derf Backderf, My Friend Dahmer recounts the adolescence of the future serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer from the perspective of one of his high school classmates. In 1970s Ohio, a young Dahmer struggles with a dysfunctional family, social isolation, and his growing, macabre obsessions, before committing his first murder.

The film’s strength lies in its unique perspective. By telling the story through the eyes of a friend, the film avoids creating a “monster” and instead presents a humanizing, albeit deeply disturbing, portrait of a disturbed teenager. The independent production allowed for a nuanced approach that explores the warning signs and the environment that contributed to Dahmer’s formation, without ever justifying him. Ross Lynch’s performance is extraordinary in capturing the awkwardness and growing menace of a young man whose interior is rotting.

The Death of Stalin (2017)

Moscow, 1953. In The Death of Stalin, when the dictator Joseph Stalin suddenly dies, his closest collaborators in the Council of Ministers launch into a chaotic and ruthless struggle for power. Amid plots, betrayals, and blunders, the battle to succeed the tyrant turns into a grotesque and lethal farce.

Armando Iannucci applies his satirical genius to one of the darkest moments of the 20th century. The result is a brilliant black comedy that uses absurdity to critique the brutal and irrational nature of totalitarianism. The film is not a biopic about Stalin, but about the power vacuum his death unleashes. The choice of an Anglo-American cast acting with their natural accents accentuates the universality of the farce, showing how the lust for power makes men both ridiculous and terrifying in equal measure.

I, Tonya (2017)

I, Tonya traces the life of the controversial figure skater Tonya Harding, from her difficult childhood under the control of an abusive mother, to her rise in the elite world of skating, up to the infamous “incident” involving her rival Nancy Kerrigan. The story is told through mockumentary-style interviews with the various, unreliable protagonists.

I, Tonya shatters the conventions of the sports biopic. Using fourth-wall breaks, contradictory narratives, and a black comedy tone, the film does not seek to establish a definitive truth but to explore how truth itself is constructed and manipulated by the media and public opinion. It is a sharp analysis of social class, abuse, and the way America creates and destroys its idols. Its irreverent and fragmented structure perfectly reflects the chaotic and scandalous nature of the story it tells.

American Animals (2018)

In American Animals, four young men from Kentucky, bored with their suburban lives, decide to shake things up by planning a daring heist: stealing some of America’s rarest and most valuable books from their university library. The film mixes dramatic reconstruction with interviews with the real protagonists of the crime.

American Animals is an innovative hybrid of docu-drama and heist movie that questions the very nature of storytelling and memory. Director Bart Layton doesn’t just tell a true story; he deconstructs it, contrasting the contradictory memories of the protagonists with their cinematic representation. The film explores how cinema itself, with its myths of perfect heists, can influence reality, pushing four boys to confuse life with a movie, with disastrous consequences.

Stan & Ollie (2018)

In Stan & Ollie, set in the 1950s, the career of Laurel and Hardy is in decline. To revive it, the two embark on a grueling theatrical tour of the United Kingdom, hoping it will lead to a new film. Amid half-empty theaters and health problems, their deep friendship and artistic partnership are put to the test.

Instead of telling the entire life of the comedy duo, the film focuses with melancholic wisdom on their twilight years. This choice allows for an intimate and touching exploration of the bond between two artists, a friendship that was the true engine of their comedy. The performances of Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly are extraordinary not only for their physical resemblance but for how they capture the affection, frustrations, and mutual dependence of two men whose partnership was more like a marriage. It is a tender and bittersweet biopic about the end of an era.

Colette (2018)

In Colette, at the end of the 19th century, the young Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette marries a charismatic Parisian publisher known as Willy. He convinces her to write novels based on her life, which he publishes under his name, achieving tremendous success. Tired of being a ghost, Colette begins a battle for her creative and personal emancipation.

This biopic is a vibrant and lavish celebration of artistic and female liberation. The film focuses on Colette’s struggle to reclaim her own voice and identity in a male-dominated society. It is not just the story of the creation of a literary work, but the tale of the birth of a feminist icon who challenged the social and sexual conventions of her time. Keira Knightley’s performance perfectly captures the writer’s intelligence, sensuality, and determination.

The Souvenir (2019)

In The Souvenir, set in the 1980s, Julie, a young and privileged film student, begins a relationship with Anthony, an older, charismatic, and mysterious man. What starts as a first love slowly transforms into a toxic and dependent relationship as Julie discovers the devastating truth about Anthony’s heroin addiction.

Joanna Hogg creates a work of autobiographical cinema with disarming sincerity. The film’s structure is fragmented, elliptical, like a memory resurfacing. There is no conventional plot, but a series of moments, conversations, and silences that make up the mosaic of a relationship. This personal and non-linear narrative approach is made possible by an independent production that allowed the director to explore her own memory without compromise. The result is one of the most honest and painful portraits of a toxic relationship and the formation of an artist.

Honey Boy (2019)

Honey Boy, written by Shia LaBeouf during a period of rehabilitation, is an exploration of his tumultuous relationship with his father, a former rodeo clown and drug addict. LaBeouf plays a version of his own father, while his alter ego, Otis, is played by two different actors in two stages of his life: as a young star and as an adult in crisis.

Honey Boy is an act of cinematic exorcism. It is a meta-autobiographical film in which the artist not only tells his own trauma but stages it by playing the very source of his pain. Such a radical and vulnerable choice would be unthinkable outside the independent circuit. Alma Har’el’s direction is lyrical and sensitive, transforming potentially raw material into a touching work of art. The film is a testament to the power of cinema as a therapeutic tool and as a means to confront and renegotiate one’s past.

The Velvet Underground (2021)

The Velvet Underground, Todd Haynes’ documentary, explores the birth and influence of the legendary band The Velvet Underground, born from the avant-garde New York of the 1960s. Through exclusive interviews with surviving members, rare archival footage, and a split-screen editing style that evokes Andy Warhol’s Factory screenings, the film captures the band’s revolutionary spirit.

Once again, Todd Haynes demonstrates that form must mirror the subject. To tell the story of a band that shattered musical conventions, Haynes creates a documentary that is itself an avant-garde work. The kaleidoscopic editing, the use of experimental footage, and the total immersion in the artistic ecosystem of the Factory serve not only to document but to make the viewer experience the Velvet Underground. It is an approach that transcends the music documentary to become a visual essay on art, rebellion, and the birth of a sound that changed everything.