7 Star Films

Shadow of a Doubt (1943) is often described by Alfred Hitchcock himself as his personal favourite among all his films—and with good reason. In many ways, it’s one of his most psychologically disturbing works, despite lacking the overt violence or technical bravura of his later classics. This slow-burning thriller unfolds in broad daylight, on the sunny porches and quiet streets of small-town America, making its themes of corruption, duality, and evil all the more unsettling.

Blood Simple (1984) is a film that feels at once timeless and radical. As the feature debut of Joel and Ethan Coen, it is a genre-defining work that would become the foundation for one of the most distinctive and influential filmographies in American cinema.

Roman Polanski’s Knife in the Water (Nóż w wodzie, 1962) is a taut, minimalist psychological thriller that marks one of the most assured debuts in the history of cinema. Released during the height of the Polish Film School movement, it broke with the dominant trend of war and historical themes to focus instead on contemporary tensions and the theater of interpersonal conflict.

Brian De Palma’s Blow Out (1981) is a gripping political thriller that doubles as an intricate meditation on perception, media manipulation, and the existential weight of truth. Both an homage to Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow-Up (1966) and Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation (1974), Blow Out finds its own voice through De Palma’s signature stylistic bravado, razor-sharp editing, and a surprisingly powerful performance by John Travolta.

Penny Serenade (1941) is a quintessential example of Hollywood’s Golden Age melodrama: a tender, emotionally rich portrait of a marriage tested by time, tragedy, and the unpredictable turns of life. Directed by George Stevens, known for his mastery of both comedy and drama, and starring the formidable pairing of Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, the film is a deeply moving meditation on love, loss, and perseverance.

The Lady from Shanghai (1947) is one of the most dazzlingly strange and stylistically radical entries in the American film noir canon. Directed, written, and starred in by Orson Welles, the film is a baroque fever dream of betrayal, sexual obsession, and psychological disintegration, cloaked in noir trappings but pulsating with the director’s anarchic sensibility.

Fritz Lang’s The Big Heat (1953) stands as one of the darkest and most subversive entries in the American film noir canon. On the surface, it's a taut crime thriller about a cop battling a web of corruption—but beneath its hardboiled plot and terse dialogue lies a smoldering fury about systemic rot, male violence, and the cost of moral conviction. It’s a film as explosive as its title, seething with tension and uncompromising in its depiction of brutality—especially against w

Klute (1971) is a seminal work of American cinema that defies genre boundaries and expectations. On the surface, it’s a detective thriller—part of what would become director Alan J. Pakula’s "Paranoia Trilogy" alongside The Parallax View (1974) and All the President’s Men (1976). But beneath that noir-inspired veneer lies a penetrating character study of a woman negotiating her autonomy, trauma, and identity in a world dominated by male power.

Alan J. Pakula’s The Parallax View (1974) is a chilling masterpiece of American paranoia cinema—a film that captures the dread, disillusionment, and institutional mistrust that defined the post-Watergate, post-JFK era. Sandwiched between Klute (1971) and All the President’s Men (1976), it forms the central entry in Pakula’s unofficial “paranoia trilogy,” and is perhaps the most stylistically daring and psychologically disturbing of the three.

Wim Wenders’ The American Friend (1977) is a haunting and hypnotic meditation on identity, corruption, and fatal friendship, filtered through the distinctive lens of 1970s European cinema. Loosely adapted from Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley’s Game, the film represents an idiosyncratic and atmospheric take on the psychological thriller, prioritizing mood over momentum, and moral ambiguity over action.

Jules Dassin’s Night and the City (1950) stands as one of the bleakest, most relentless noirs of the postwar era—a shadow-drenched tale of ambition, desperation, and doom set in a seedy, nightmarish version of London.

Michael Mann’s Thief (1981) is a masterful debut feature—cool, precise, emotionally complex, and utterly distinctive. Though it’s nominally a crime film about a high-end safecracker and his attempt to escape “the life,” Thief is ultimately less about heists than about identity, masculinity, and the pursuit of control in a chaotic world.

John Mackenzie’s The Long Good Friday (1980) is a searing, stylish, and deeply political British gangster film that not only redefined the genre in its homeland but also offered a startling mirror to the social and economic turmoil of late 1970s Britain.

Orson Welles’s The Stranger (1946) is a taut and fascinating post-war noir thriller—part espionage procedural, part gothic melodrama—that deserves more recognition than it typically receives in the director’s filmography.

David Lynch’s Blue Velvet (1986) is a film that slithers beneath the manicured lawns of small-town Americana to expose a surreal and rotting underworld of violence, desire, and psychological disturbance. Bold, bizarre, and intensely provocative, Blue Velvet marked a turning point in Lynch’s career, solidifying his voice as one of modern cinema’s most original and transgressive.

Roman Polanski’s The Tenant (Le Locataire, 1976) is a slow-burning psychological horror film that crawls under your skin and lingers long after the credits roll. The third entry in what has been retrospectively dubbed Polanski’s “Apartment Trilogy” (following Repulsion [1965] and Rosemary’s Baby [1968]), The Tenant is perhaps the most subtle and unsettling of the three.

In 1969, amid the cultural thunderclap of the moon landing, the Woodstock festival, and the cresting waves of social revolution, a small animated film arrived in theatres with gentle colours and sad piano chords.

Of all the classic features to emerge from Walt Disney’s golden age of animation, Dumbo is perhaps the most paradoxical. It is at once the studio’s shortest feature and one of its most emotionally expansive. Born of necessity—crafted quickly and economically after the financial disappointment of Fantasia—Dumbo was never intended to be a major artistic statement.

Few animated films have captured the essence of romance, charm, and Americana as completely as Walt Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. Released in 1955, this landmark feature was not only a narrative triumph but also a technical one—it was Disney’s first animated film presented in widescreen Cinemascope, giving an unprecedented sense of scale and intimacy to the studio’s storytelling.

When One Hundred and One Dalmatians premiered in 1961, it marked a decisive departure from the lush, romantic fairy-tale aesthetic that had defined Disney’s animated features up to that point.