Emma.

Emma Woodhouse has money, beauty, intelligence and absolutely no fucking business meddling in anybody's love life. And Anya Taylor-Joy understands that contradiction beautifully. Emma isn't cruel so much as spectacularly convinced that her intelligence automatically makes her right, so every matchmaking scheme becomes another tiny demonstration of how little she understands the people she's supposedly helping. De Wilde makes that arrogance delicious to watch: the symmetry, pastel interiors, elaborate costumes and almost storybook compositions turn Highbury into Emma's personal dollhouse, right up until reality starts fucking with the furniture. Mia Goth's Harriet is wonderfully awkward, Josh O'Connor is having a feast as the disastrously pompous Mr. Elton, and Bill Nighy somehow turns Mr. Woodhouse's hypochondria into an entire comedic ecosystem. The romance takes its sweet-ass time, but that actually suits the material; Emma has to learn humility before she can understand what she feels for Knightley. It's gorgeous, funny, very British, occasionally twee as hell, and basically a two-hour reminder that being rich does not automatically make you emotionally literate. The production is ridiculously polished—no surprise it landed Oscar and BAFTA recognition for its craft.