Growing up as a member of Generation Z, it often seems as though the technological advancements and cautionary tales from sci-fi classics of yesteryear have become commonplace ideas in the real-world, be it the rampant evolution of A.I., the invasive nature of mass surveillance and targeted advertising, or even just the means of communication in this digital age of internet connectivity and smartphones. The 21st century world is easy to view as nightmarish, but it comes with some perks here and there, especially for sci-fi lovers such as myself (being able to watch Interstellar in IMAX almost makes up for the imminent threat of A.I. stripping me of all future employment opportunities).
One of the best aspects of being a cinephile, science-fiction-loving Gen Zer is the century of cinematic masterpieces I can reflect on and revisit, with everything from Hollywood blockbusters to international gems adorning the annals of sci-fi movie history. The fact that many of these films have become somewhat prescient is as much a testament to the conviction and creative vision behind them as it is an unnerving sign of things to come. But why dwell and fret and worry when it is so much more enticing to revisit the greatest sci-fi movies ever made, with these being the ones I watch most prolifically.
‘Solaris’ (1972)
The first spot on this list was a tight contest between Solaris and Stalker, both of which stand as enduring masterpieces by Andrei Tarkovsky that highlight the poetic, philosophical allure of science fiction. While I would struggle to say which movie I love more, I feel that Solaris is the one I revisit more often, though, to be completely honest, I’m struggling to discover why. I suspect it is because of its compelling tapestry of memory, dreams, and nostalgia, the wafting spirituality with which it explores the human condition, and the violent clashing of mankind’s rampant industrialism and that natural environment.
Interestingly, this thematic idea is rarely something I find myself engrossed by, but in the case of Solaris, it is realized with such meditative brilliance that it becomes almost hypnotic. Granted, its extensive 167-minute runtime sometimes makes it difficult, especially as its moody atmosphere tends to linger long after the credits roll, but it is a stunning example of sci-fi at its most cerebral, and cinema at its most contemplative. I have come to adore its languid attitude that supplants plot-driven urgency with pondering depth, especially as it is complemented by hauntingly beautiful visuals and impressionable symbolism. Solaris is the kind of movie that will affect every viewer differently, making repeat viewings feel personal and powerful.
‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’ (1951)
My personal favorite of all the sci-fi movies released in the 1950s B-movie boom of the genre is The Day the Earth Stood Still. It flaunts a campy and rudimentary allure, but it delivers a powerful message of international hostilities and mankind’s dangerous dance with destruction. One of the earliest parables of the Cold War, it marries the genre intrigue of its tale of alien invasion and intergalactic monsters with an intellectual and urgent message that was relevant to its time, and yet has proven to be incredibly timeless as well.
I always admire films that take established tropes and put a spin on them to a narrative or thematic effect, reconfiguring the audience’s set understanding of an idea to illuminate a new point entirely. I find that The Day the Earth Stood Still does it incredibly well. It stands resolute in its anti-war convictions and refuses to reduce the political tensions of the world to the simplicity of good vs evil. Michael Rennie’s advisory alien Klaatu is one of the most compelling characters the genre has seen, a beacon of wisdom, morality, and power who, in the minds of many, is impossible to trust. Despite its age, The Day the Earth Stood Still is one of the most pointed and relevant science-fiction movies of our time, a masterpiece of the genre’s philosophical presence that I have seen several times now, and one I wish more people in my age bracket would watch.
‘Metropolis’ (1927)
While it is true that I have a great love for silent films, the caveat I would place on that claim is that it is the comedic works of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton I adore most. While there are exceptions to the rule, I find the more dramatic exploits of the era are easier to appreciate than they are to enjoy, especially as they often feature expansive runtimes and agonizingly slow story pacing. Metropolis is the grandest exception to that rule, thriving off the back of its enrapturing production, seismic sense of scale, and timeless tale of class disparity to be a commanding viewing experience even on multiple rewatches.
Almost 100 years on from its release, the thing that strikes me most about Metropolis is how eerily relevant its story is to today’s world, especially with its thematic overtones like the dehumanizing impact of technological advancement, the stark discrepancy between rich and poor, and the use of symbols and messaging to control—or at least subdue—the masses. Furthermore, its filmmaking and visual storytelling are feats worth studying. I find that most silent films have so much to teach just by the placement of characters and the use of imagery to convey meaning and plot, and Metropolis might just be the finest example, especially in terms of creating a sense of visceral grandiosity.
‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ (1968)
It wouldn’t be unfair to say my first viewing of 2001: A Space Odyssey came at an age when I was far too young to appreciate it. My second viewing, years later, was somewhat more intellectually involving, though the third viewing convinced me it was simply a heralded classic that wasn’t to my tastes. A few years later, I gave it a fourth chance, and while I still wouldn’t regard it as being my all-time favorite movie, I certainly acknowledge there is a richly compelling and cerebral quality to it that few other films can match.
Having watched it several more times since then, the thing that strikes me with 2001: A Space Odyssey is how different it is with each rewatch. It isn’t simply a case of picking up on a few hidden details or noticing something new in the background of a scene; it is a movie that feels as though it transforms with each subsequent viewing, depending on my state of mind. On my most recent rewatch, for instance, I was taken aback by the background of HAL 9000, that the quintessential evil A.I. wasn’t so much a monstrous entity but a technological byproduct of human negligence misfiring due to a programming error. On my next rewatch, I’m sure it will be something completely different that leaps out at me.
‘Alien’ (1979) & ‘Aliens’ (1986)
I know it is probably cheating to put two movies on in one entry, but in the case of Alien and Aliens, it is fairer than it may initially seem, and there is a dichotomy to it. When I was younger, Aliens was one of my go-to movies. Its marriage of action carnage, sci-fi horror, and the comedic brilliance of Private Hudson (Bill Paxton) offered the sort of entertainment that I would bask in joyfully. However, I find Alien to be the film in the franchise I have revisited most frequently in more recent years, with its stunning atmospheric suspense and immaculate set-up providing a richly absorbing viewing experience no matter how many times it is rewatched.
Needless to say, both movies are masterpieces. Ridley Scott broke new ground for both sci-fi and horror cinema with Alien, and I do feel that James Cameron deserves just as much praise for taking what was a monumental success and delivering a sequel that completely shifts genres while maintaining the core aura and intensity of the original. Granted, it isn’t uncommon that a rewatch of Alien spirals into a subsequent viewing of Aliens not long after, but I adore how boldly different these two movies are. One is a masterpiece of claustrophobic suspense, the other of action excess and spectacle, and yet both are defining titles of sci-fi cinema that have stood the test of time.
‘The Thing’ (1982)
There is very little I can say about The Thing that hasn’t been said already. It is a masterpiece of contained suspense, a perfect marriage of sci-fi and horror that thrives on the back of John Carpenter’s steady direction, Rob Bottin’s timeless practical effects and creature design, and the sense of dreadful, damning isolation conjured by its Antarctic setting. Furthermore, it is an exceptional parable of paranoia and the fear of the unknown, ideas that were incredibly relevant in the early ’80s as Cold War anxieties and the hysteria of the AIDS epidemic swept America.
I suppose if there is one thing I might try to add to the fold, then it would be this: for all the acclaim The Thing has received over the years, I feel not enough is made of just how fun it is to watch. It is horror at its high-octane best, a pulsating picture of panic and self-preservation that is given extraordinary life by the charismatic performances of the ensemble cast. I’ve always loved the famous blood testing scene in this regard. Not only is it a moment of outstanding suspense, but its inflections of character and even comedy define the greatness of The Thing, in my opinion. The joyful entertainment factor, like its visceral visual horror and simmering tension, never diminishes, no matter how many times you revisit it.
‘Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope’ (1977)
While every generation since 1977 has likely had the Star Wars franchise play a monumental role in their childhood, I selfishly feel Gen Z has a unique connection to the cinematic saga. We were young enough to enjoy the prequel trilogy as wide-eyed children, ignorant of its many flaws (for what it’s worth, Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace was my go-to Star Wars movie for a very long time) while also being graced with the wondrous awe of the original movies. While I grant it may be blasphemous not to have Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back as the greatest movie in the series, I have always found the very first foray into the galaxy far, far away to be the franchise’s best and most rewarding offering.
There is so much to laud about the movie, be it the immersive production design, the iconic brilliance of so many of its characters, the creatures, the music, the visuals, and the sense of sci-fi fantasy adventure. Since I’ve been old enough to appreciate it, I’ve loved how perfectly it tells its story, from the rousing realization of the plucky heroes standing against the tyrannical might of the Empire to finer details like the air of wisdom and composure surrounding Obi-Wan Kenobi (Alec Guinness). I find few movies capture the glee of escapist entertainment with the effervescence of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope, making it not only a timeless sci-fi classic, but an enduring masterpiece of Hollywood blockbuster filmmaking as well.
‘Back to the Future’ (1985)
I watched this movie repetitively as a child and later revisited it, dreading it wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as I remembered, only to then find a whole new appreciation for it as I was able to grasp the magnitude of what it achieves. Back to the Future simply does not waste a single second of its screentime. The screenplay, written by Bob Gale and director Robert Zemeckis, utilizes every single comedic moment, every ounce of adventurous spirit, every beat of romantic passion, and every whiff of sci-fi extravagance faultlessly, combining them into a seamless story of pure escapist majesty.
Complemented by such an array of note-perfect performances, Back to the Future’s narrative precision becomes so much more than just a tidy, tightly-paced movie. It shines as a spectacle of ’80s entertainment excellence that is as ceaselessly magnificent as it is ageless. It is a masterclass in making essential exposition feel natural, a triumph of genre-blending brilliance, and, of course, one of the most enjoyable rewatches in cinematic history.
‘Terminator 2: Judgment Day’ (1991)
With its story of robotic assassins and time travel, Terminator 2: Judgment Day is undeniably a triumph of sci-fi cinema, but that’s not necessarily why I watch it. Instead, I find myself coming back to it whenever I crave a fix of sheer action excess. While it is a marvel of innovative CGI—and quite a timeless one at that—I find there is hardly a movie that matches it in regard to the punchy, crunchy glory of practical effects, with every car crash and machine gun burst realized with a visceral gloriousness that never gets old.
Of course, there is so much more to the movie than pure action carnage. The heartfelt bond between the T-800 (Arnold Schwarzenegger) and young John Connor (Edward Furlong) provides an emotional grounding that imbues every action sequence with feeling and gravitas. Its 137-minute runtime is the epitome of propulsive entertainment, making for a movie of momentum and mayhem that is always a pleasure to revisit. The only gripe I have with having seen it so many times is I started watching it when I was young, long before I saw The Terminator, that the significance of the T-800 not being the villain never occurred to me. Oh, how I wish I could see that shopping mall hallway scene—where the T-800 marches towards John, shotgun in hand, only to save him from the T-1000 (Robert Patrick)—under the impression that the T-800 was still the antagonist. Still, it is a minor blemish in my history with this movie that stands as perhaps the single greatest and most rewatchable marriage of sci-fi and action in cinematic history.
‘Blade Runner’ (1982)
I am a huge fan of the cyberpunk aesthetic, the meshing of a neon-infused future with the gloomy, seedy shadows of noir intrigue to present a visually vibrant yet grimy dystopian landscape. I often find that the style alone can make movies enjoyable for me, but when it is combined with a brilliant story, it is a treat to behold. There is no movie that exemplifies this better than Blade Runner, with Ridley Scott’s genre-defining masterpiece representing a watershed moment for sci-fi cinema with regard to stylistic boldness and thematic gravitas.
The other element I love about Blade Runner is the nature of its antagonist, Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), an off-world android who leads a group of replicants back to Earth, hoping to garner longer life spans than their four-year limit. Beautifully encapsulated by his unforgettable “tears in rain” monologue, Batty stands as an absorbing embodiment of sci-fi’s quintessential question: “What does it truly mean to be human?” I’m certainly not the first to call Blade Runner a masterpiece, nor am I the only person to rewatch it at nauseam, but I do consider myself lucky to be among the masses who enjoy watching the movie again and again, embracing it as the pinnacle of sci-fi cinema and one of the greatest pictures ever made.