An Appreciation of Pandemic Cinema

For years now, I’ve looked for a chance to discuss a subject in cinema that has largely gone unnoticed. Despite everyone who is reading this text having lived through this period, it feels like 2020 has become a year that’s quickly forgotten. On the one hand, we are culturally designed to move forward and always be onto the next thing. There is no time for retrospect, and I think it speaks to how the greater discourse around The Pandemic has slowly faded into obscurity, where even the positives have been swept away in favor of believing that Covid-19 isn’t a thing anymore. It’s true that it’s not AS BAD of a thing, but I struggle to escape certain traumas that period brought upon the world if just because it reshaped a lot of my worldview.

With today’s release of Ari Aster’s latest Eddington (2025), I finally have a chance to address a topic that I assumed would take another decade or two to cover. After all, most of the great 9/11 cinema didn’t take shape until the dust had been settled for a considerable time. The controversial, divisive nature of Covid-19 has brought a lot of great talking points worthy of addressing in pop culture. If not the disease, then the modes of entertainment that were used to compensate for social distancing. What about watching The NBA take to “The Bubble,” or seeing Stephen Sondheim get what amounted to a three-hour clip show of celebrities singing in their living room? There are a lot of oddities worthy of encapsulating for future generations, though none quite as curious as Phoebe Bridgers singing “Kyoto” in a skeleton onesie in what looked like an empty karaoke room.

The art I associate with this time is a subject I like to call “Pandemic Cinema.” In broad strokes, it is any story set in 2020 or 2021 that emphasizes how society reacted to the virus. Even then, it becomes difficult to fully create boundaries for what is and isn’t a valid topic given that many turned their creative juices on and made worlds that looked nothing like our own, but felt far more real than turning on the news. A major reason I am intrigued by Eddington is that it’s one of the few major films released in the past five years that looks to actually want to address the rifts caused by mask mandates and a culture that is increasingly divided.

Though, of course, that isn’t to say that any film about social ostracization is automatically Pandemic Cinema. For example, many significant conflicts involving Black Lives Matter occurred in 2020 and are associated with that period. Even so, it would be inappropriate to include the protests, for example, surrounding George Floyd’s death, because it wasn’t directly motivated by the lockdown. In order to be Pandemic Cinema, there is a need to tap into something that feels wholly organic to the experience and helps the viewer, now too detached to comprehend that world, understand what it was like to be alive during one of the most devastating periods in global history, where thousands died daily and people couldn’t be sure if they’d ever shake hands again.

To ease readers into the conversation, I start by exploring Pandemic Cinema defined in the literal sense. The documentary that I most recommend is Alex Gibney’s boots-on-the-ground approach in Totally Under Control (2020), where he recounts the entire year as it’s happening. There’s a study of leadership that may not be the most developed, but it speaks to what felt relevant at that exact moment. It’s a story full of death and uncertainty, where a president encouraged people to drink bleach while riding around in his limo after testing positive. It was, for lack of a better word, a circus… and a depressing one at that. For those who want something more in-depth, I highly recommend Spike Lee’s more elaborate NYC Epicenters 9/11-2021 ½, which does an incredible job of tying The World Trade Center Attacks to the changing morale around trust in politics and society. It’s the most immersive and harrowing option out there. For those who want some raunchy humor that plays more into the fever dream, the messy but sometimes insightful Borat 2 (2020) goes even further as Sacha Baron Cohen captures the pandemonium of a culture lacking unity during its most crucial period. It also has the distinctive honor of being one of the dominoes that helped to lay Rudy Giuliani’s career in a permanent coffin. In the realm of fiction, Dumb Money (2023) best captures the period when people were most in need of hope and turning to any cause they could in a story that’s at times Frank Capra by way of a less cynical Adam McKay. It may be dated, but it’s hard not to cheer on the small accomplishments as they unfold. 

Of course, there’s an endless array of other media to choose from for smaller glimpses into life during the pandemic. A lot mentioned above emphasized the political fallout that came with 2020. It was a period prior to when vaccinations were slowly rolled out to the general public, and my personal belief was that everything would carry out for another few years. Ideally, it would’ve led to a rebranding of society that better captured human value. For a brief window, it felt like this was to be the case, as free time meant people used their ingenuity to create and cope by not focusing on how dark it was outside their safety bubble.

That may be why older films turned out to be comfort zones for certain viewers. The big talking point was Steven Soderbergh’s Contagion (2011), which many noted seemed a bit too optimistic in how the health administration worked together. Elsewhere, I’d argue that the Natalie Portman drama Annihilation (2018) also emphasized the surrealism of a contaminated world with some of the most visually stunning genre work of the decade. It could be argued that its director, Alex Garland, has been more keen on exploring contemporary society since, though I struggle to see how Men (2022) or Civil War (2024) perfectly fit into the box outside of melancholic tones. Other films, like The Pink Cloud (2021), possessed ironic timing as it explored a society in quarantine that came out near the start of events. The filmmakers claim that any similarities are coincidental. 

Some found creative outlets during this time. Chief among them was Charli XCX, whose album “How I’m Feeling Now” became one of the first pieces of pandemic media released. What makes it especially interesting is that she documented the creative process in the documentary Alone Together (2021), where she discusses working with her collaborators as well as getting input from her fans. There was a level of transparency and immediacy to the project that allowed Charli XCX to be her rawest self and, in the process, make art that spoke so much to the moment that its flaws are essential to the larger experience. Most of all, it captured the way that the internet united everyone in a search for solace.

That isn’t to say that every piece of Pandemic Cinema came out that close to the epicenter. Last year, Rachel Bloom paid tribute to Crazy Ex-Girlfriend collaborator Adam Schlesinger with Death Let Me Do My Special (2024). Throughout the show, she mixes ribald humor and eccentric pop tunes with mature self-reflection on the passage of time. She even has a recurring bit where “Death” is seen in the audience heckling her, leading to many existential debates over whether art truly matters in a world where life can be taken away at a moment’s notice. It may not be the only special to reflect on death in the past few years, but Schlesinger’s high-profile passing from Covid-19 makes it especially hard to not read the subtext in Bloom’s aching nature. Though in fairness, it is offset by a fun bit where she pokes fun at Dear Evan Hansen (2021) for having a confounding view on mental health. 

Elsewhere, audiences can turn to the Jonah Hill documentary Stutz (2022) in which he reflects on his anger issues with renowned therapist Phil Stutz. While many have observed that Hill’s behavior wasn’t automatically cured following this, it was part of a wave of cathartic entertainment for those trying to find healthy ways to address internal demons. In fiction, Euphoria dedicated an episode to troubled teen Jules called “Fuck Anyone Who’s Not a Seablob,” in which she also bears her soul in an intimate space. Efforts to escape the pain could be seen in the slow unraveling of ideas leading to something resembling clarity.

It feels important to recognize the value of personal change. Many people came to terms with different conflicts within their lives, which included sexuality. Given that this was a period famously mocked for “TikTok made me gay” as Dylan Mulvaney counted down her days of girlhood, it made sense that a larger perception of sexuality was growing. Among the most prominent was The People’s Joker (2022), which is more aesthetically indebted to the limitations of social distancing and lockdowns, as the creative team was hired out to animate and produce different segments in front of a noticeable green screen. Also, the shameless anarchy of Vera Drew’s writing and performance feels both like a relic of Millennial ennui and the sledgehammer madness of hyperpop’s androgyny. 

Also key among them is Will & Harper (2024). While again not directly about the pandemic, the postscript to those years can be seen in the discussions had between comedian Will Ferrell and friend Harper Steele. There’s a discussion of insecurity and the various struggles one faces when accepting their transgender identity. However, it’s also about the joys that come with being honest with oneself and seeking a better life. Given that the pandemic found many having these personal conversations, it also works as the sun poking through after a dark period, and reflects the value of talking with others. 

That isn’t to say that every film produced during this time about lockdown was necessarily great. Judd Apatow’s The Bubble (2022) felt like a rush job that was more of an excuse to make art with friends during a rough time. Even then, the meta commentary of a movie shoot gone wrong led to some of the director’s worst work behind the camera and also his least personal. Other films also did a better job of capturing the claustrophobic nature of the period, with Skinamarink (2022) playing like a never-ending nightmare while stuck in some godforsaken house. Malcolm & Marie (2021) found Sam Levinson creating a two-actor drama about a dysfunctional couple that results in some delightful camp and tacky artistry. Also among the most obtuse of Pandemic Cinema is Strasbourg 1518 (2020), which was a short created by Jonathan Glazer that found actors dancing to erratic electronic music in a feverish manner that may have been referencing 1518, but spoke to the allegorical insanity many were facing at the time. 

With that said, Shiva Baby (2020) might have the edge solely because it mines comedy from the awkward duality of being at a shiva and encountering people in the most uncomfortable way possible. It should be noted that, based on its timeline, it’s doubtful that the Rachel Sennott comedy was designed to feel like a cathartic outlet for pandemic paranoia, but it has since become the gold standard for wanting to kick down the back door and run as far away as possible.

Another subject that was greatly explored was the general study of death. While some of these projects may predate events, the timing made it easy to understand how many people’s minds were on mortality. In the literal sense, there is David Cronenberg’s recent masterpiece The Shrouds (2024), where he uses his real-life wife’s passing to comment on how using technology to cope is ultimately a dark and comedic hindrance. Elsewhere, you find Tilda Swinton with the musical The End (2024), where a wealthy family attempts to survive an apocalyptic event with some of the most depressing and deviant melody choices since Leos Carax’s Annette (2021). Even still, my favorite of these is Petite Maman (2021), which finds the beautiful side of death in a very unassuming and small form. 

Another area where this humanity is perfectly captured is in documentaries and shorts. Lynne Sachs perfectly captures a study of her dad in Film About a Father Who (2020), in which certain secrets come to light and she gets a greater understanding of herself. This can also be seen in her artistic short Maya at 24 (2021), which finds the passage of time playing out through silent images. Elsewhere is Sophy Romvari’s excellent short Still Processing (2020), which explores the passing of her brother through archival materials. 

Returning to fiction, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention I’m Totally Fine (2022), which stands head and shoulders above the rest as my favorite from direct Pandemic Cinema. The comedy focuses on the passing of a friend who returns in the form of an alien. Their short window of time together leads to some serious bonding, and things slowly unfold from there. It’s maybe the most touching example of grieving that I’ve seen if just because of how well it exemplifies the messiness and codependence on technology to escape our problems. While it can be argued that Asteroid City (2023) is better executed, I’m Totally Fine embodies the unrequited pain that many faced during this time and seeks catharsis in beautiful and poetic manners. Elsewhere, you can find His Three Daughters (2023) and Aftersun (2022) approaching further intimate studies of love and loss in unique places. 

Another field that is worth considering is the personal growth section. While Dear Evan Hansen and Turtles All the Way Down (2024) explore the complications of mental health, many films released since 2020 have explored the value of emotional breakthroughs. The Outrun (2024) finds Saoirse Ronan playing a recovering alcoholic who learns to appreciate life again. A Real Pain (2024) turns a trip to Poland into a family bonding moment. Then there’s My Old Ass (2024), which takes the familiar trope of an older self looking upon youth with bittersweet payoffs. While Past Lives (2023) ranks as the best among these, it could be because the emotional breakthrough is found in accepting the good times that came before while understanding the need to move forward and live a life that’s more true to who you are now. 

There’s also Pearl (2022), which, while not directly about the pandemic, always struck me as being essential because of how it portrays loneliness. Mia Goth’s top-tier performance finds her fantasies colliding with the reality of living in a small Midwest town where she’s not respected, and her inability to branch out into a successful career drives her mad. While some have seen her as an unsympathetic character, it’s hard for me not to notice Goth’s portrayal as having some recognizable desperation in her. She needs something to go right. Because this is horror, it can’t be so. This may be a story of delusion, but there’s truth even in the cracked stare that ends the film.

Another title in this bucket could be Clerks III (2022), which finds Kevin Smith concluding his beloved series with a look back into the past. Protagonist Dante Hicks decides to recreate his glory days through film in a fourth-wall-breaking premise that suggests a desire to explore his mortality. This may be because of a heart attack, based on real-life events, that makes him notice the preciousness of life. Even if Smith has mostly turned into someone who rewards fans over newcomers, it’s a story about legacy that felt indicative of a larger trend.

Not all Pandemic Cinema feels indebted to disease and isolation. Even if it’s the most interpretive branch, I’d argue that the recent wave of pseudo-biographical titles like The Fabelmans (2022), Bardo (2022), Empire of Light (2022), and Belfast (2022) all speak to a desire to reflect on what came before and plant a flag in the ground that says, “I was here!” Spielberg’s Fabelmans feels especially sensitive to his legacy and attempts to turn it into the missing piece of his career by overpowering the text with “magic of cinema” talk and a downright mythic ending. Do these stories get made without the pandemic? More than likely. However, I’d argue that watching millions die tends to make one question their place within the larger framework.

It would be easy to branch out from there and include a bunch of hypotheticals. In my opinion, Red Rocket (2021) and Friendship (2025) are the most American films of the modern era because they reflect the ways we feel disconnected from each other. But is that solely because of Covid-19, or behaviors adjacent to it? Can Italian Studies (2022) make the list just for capturing the dissociative ways that we navigated through those months and years? Should I count Robert Zemeckis’ hat trick Here (2024) because of how it captures legacy within a confined space? Also, should Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021) make the cut solely because it’s the one film that united the larger public during a time of growing division? I don’t, but then again, the fantasy of living your own It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) through a pandering nostalgia is not that out of pocket.

To be honest, I may have extrapolated this idea far beyond the confines I had set for myself, but even then, I think there is something to making a canon for this era. Objectively, the pandemic is over. The public has moved on, and some act like it was much less significant than it was. There is a need to recognize the art that was used to express that period, and I think a lot of the titles I’ve mentioned get at the heart of something relevant to the moment. Maybe it’s not the whole picture, but it’s enough to show that it was more than a time when everyone stayed at home. It was a lot more unnerving than that. 

It was a search for connection and trying to start a dialogue. Everyone needed an outlet, and the best created art that has resonated in the short window of existence. To me, Pandemic Cinema is less about what was popular then and more about what the greater feeling is. Will Eddington capture some of that? I sure hope so. Even then, Ari Aster tends to be a fairly dark and demented dude. Maybe it won’t be the way I remember things, but something will hopefully shine through and make me remember the pain I felt not too long ago. In my mind, it’s important to document so that we never forget, so that those who have experienced it can have something to show future generations. It’s better than letting someone who wasn’t there tell the story.