The 25 best biopics of all time – ranked

Move over Joaquin and Ridley, because Abel Gance’s iconic silent epic – all six-ish hours of it – is still the definitive depiction of the diminutive Corsican– yes, including Bill & Ted’s. Played by the gaunt Albert Dieudonné and taking in battles, politics and the young Bonaparte’s famous , it’s a tour de force of cinematic craft, with Gance employing an extraordinary array of techniques to bring this action-packed life to audiences in the late ’20s. Thanks to Kevin Brownlow’s loving restoration, it’s in fighting fettle nearly a century later. It doesn’t cover his entire life – Austerlitz, the retreat from Moscow and defeat at Waterloo were all destined to appear in further films Gance never got to make – but there’s enough Revolutionary-era detail for even the most dedicated sans culotte.

A bad biopic will just plod dutifully through history. For Andrei Tarkovsky, the form offered the chance to philosophise about creative and religious freedom, and explore the tension between his subject, the titular 15th century Russian icon painter, the chaotic medieval landscape he inhabited and the filmmaker’s own Communist homeland. In other words, to go full Tarkovsky. The result is one of the most stunning films of the ’60s, a black-and-white masterpiece embroidered with extraordinary visuals: the hot air balloon, the Tartars’ attack, the casting of the bell, and the weathered face of Rublev himself. Fun fact: his co-writer Andrei Konchalovsky went on to direct Tango & Cash. A tenner if you can find thematic overlap.

Some biopics cast such a long shadow they end up eclipsing their subject in public imagination. Old-school boxing fans know Jake LaMotta was a real fighter – and a real asshole – and not just a creation of Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro. But in the cultural consciousness, De Niro is Jake LaMotta. And really, he might as well be, given how deeply he inhabits the role of a violent man increasingly unable to differentiate between a prize fight and everything else in his life. It’s a brutal but necessary portrait of male ugliness, made beautiful by Scorsese’s equally operatic and hallucinogenic visual style.

If any figure’s life deserves the cradle-to-grave treatment, it’s Malcolm X – and if any director is qualified to film his story with the breadth it requires, it’s Spike Lee. Lee refuses to sand down the edges of the Civil Rights icon’s biography, and in the process revivifies the three-dimensional image of a complex leader that had been flattened into a militant caricature through decades of purposeful revisionism. But the ace, of course, is Denzel Washington, who so fully embodies the activist at each stage of his life – from hoodlum to revolutionary to martyr – that when younger generations think about Malcolm X, he’s the person they see. 

Miloš Forman’s opulent, stormy period piece about maverick musical genius Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is one of the great biopics. Adapting his own play, writer Peter Shaffer keeps the ingenious framing device of capturing Wolfie’s life in flashback through the eyes of his bitter rival Salieri. It lets us see what he sees, but encourages us to take a lot more pleasure in it all, until the charm wears off and the story sours. It’s as light and effortless as a fairy tale – all grand balls, OTT costumes and gossipy salons – but as immaculately constructed as a Mozart concerto. The brilliant Tom Hulce plays Mozart as a giggly manchild, while the equally formidable F Murray Abraham drips venom as the scheming Salieri.

Paul Schrader tackles the life, career and incredibly violent death of Japanese writer and artist Yukio Mishima in a film that shows a good biopic can make dramatic hay from even the most unlikeable figures. Because, make no mistake, Mishima is a bit of a douche: an avatar for toxic masculinity and regressive nationalism who’d no doubt be a social media superstar these days. Schrader’s cleverly constructed, wildly imaginative epic finds beauty in his art and lurid colour in his life, framing it via stagily avant garde dramatisations with Philip Glass’s legendary score lending it all added grandeur.

David Lynch tamped down his surrealist impulses for his first major studio film, but when the source material is the true story of a 19th century freakshow exhibit turned bon vivant, what dreamy embellishments do you really need? Born with severe physical deformities science still hasn’t fully explained, Joseph Merrick nevertheless became the toast of London in the late 1800s when he was discovered to be far more erudite than his appearance suggested. John Hurt works wonders under an intensely cumbersome amount of make-up, literally straining to bring Merrick’s humanity to the surface. And while it might play more conventionally than just about anything Lynch did after, the director still imbues the film with a signature sense of unease.

Flawed geniuses make great biopic subjects. Flawed heroes maybe even more so. General George S Patton, a hard-charging tank commander during World War II, is definitely one of the latter and depending on which historian you ask, maybe the former too. Embodied by the hardly mild-mannered George C Scott, a role for which he won, and subsequently declined, an Oscar, his wartime experiences make an electrifying case study of almost deranged drive and purpose. The film also makes a fascinating case study in leadership, with the screenplay, co-written by Francis Ford Coppola, never excusing the man’s brutal excesses – including the shellshocked G.I. he infamously slapped.

Condensing a great man’s life into a bum-friendly two-plus-hours is the kind of daunting task that David Lean’s widescreen epic makes no effort to attempt. Instead, over 227 minutes this remarkable film recreates the rise of TE Lawrence (Peter O’Toole) from humble army office to leader of the Arab tribes in World War I on the biggest imaginable canvas. That’s not to say it’s all strictly accurate. Despite being based on Lawrence’s own account of the war, ‘Seven Pillars of Wisdom’, it drew criticism for its depictions of Arabs in the story (Alec Guinness’s Prince Faisal, in particular), and it failure to include a single female character (British orientalist Gertrude Bell was a key figure in the story). But some British bias aside, much of what’s here is close to what happened IRL. 

Christopher Nolan’s doomy portrait of the father of the atomic age will be forever linked to a movie about a plastic doll come to life. But it’s not really such a harsh juxtaposition – for all its physics talk and Senate hearings and apocalyptic visions, Oppenheimer would still qualify as blockbuster movie-making even if it didn’t wind up half of the #Barbenheimer phenomenon. Cillian Murphy is simply that captivating as J Robert Oppenheimer, the inventor of the weapon that may still annihilate us all, and the movie is simply that big: a three-hour exploration of guilt, war, death and marriage that overwhelms your attention with sheer density.

This sweeping epic about Aisin Gioro Puyi, China’s last monarch, is one for all the they-don’t-make-’em-like-they-used-to heads out there. And Bernardo Bertolucci’s sweeping, nine-Oscars-winning movie really does feel like an offering from another era – not least because China is unlikely to be lending 19,000 soldiers to a Hollywood studio anytime soon, or handing over the keys to Beijing’s Forbidden City. That’s the backdrop to the film’s most famous shot: a toddler-aged Puyi standing before a vast crowd of his subjects. Despite being based on Puyi’s autobiography – or maybe because of it – The Last Emperor was called out for soft-soaking his cruelty. But as an depiction of 60 years of chaos and change, it’s still jaw-dropping.

Ed Wood is often laughed off as the worst director of all-time, but as time has gone on, and we’ve seen filmmakers do far worse with much bigger budgets, it’s easier to appreciate him as one of cinema’s truest believers, driven to serve his vision as best he could. That doesn’t make his movies any better, nor his technical ineptitude any less funny. But Tim Burton’s loving reappraisal manages to laugh with admiration rather than derision, to the point of looking and feeling like one of Wood’s films, at least in terms of vibe and not, like, visible boom mics. Johnny Depp is enthusiastically daft in the lead, and finds true warmth in his friendship with Martin Landau’s ageing, broken-down Bela Lugosi.

‘I’m Spartacus!’ ‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ The stand-up-and-cheer moment in Stanley Kubrick’s CinemaScope epic feels much more Tinseltown than Ancient Rome, but the film around it is all based on real events. Specifically, a slave revolt against the Romans led by a Thracian slave in 71 BC. Famously, Kubrick directed it as a hired gun at the behest of its star Kirk Douglas, and it’s Kubrickian more in spectacle than style or theme – with the big battles and colosseum scenes making it the Gladiator of its day. It came with uncanny historical resonance, too: screenwriter Dalton Trumbo was blacklisted as one of the Hollywood 10 and for a time, was denied credit on the film. His Spartacus moment took a lot longer to happen, but he got a much happier ending (and a Bryan Cranston film made about him). 

There’s not a load of animated biopics but those there are, are great. Studio Ghibli’s The Wind Rises, about fighter plane pioneer Jiro Horikoshi, is one such. Flee, about Afghan refugee Amin Nawab, is another. But Marjane Satrapi's adaptation of her own graphic novel about her childhood in Iran may be the best of the lot. It follows a young Satrapi as she tries to coexist peacefully with the Iranian Revolution, a feat made much tougher by her, a) being a woman, and b) having a mind of her own. The animation, aping the style of the book’s black-and-white illustrations, gives this touching, but punky coming-of-age story an aesthetic all of its own. 

It’s noteworthiness rather than just notoriety that drives a good biopic. Franz Jägerstätter, played with rugged stoicism by Inglourious Basterds’ August Diehl, probably wouldn’t have ended up with a film made about his life had fate not reached into his bucolic corner of the Austrian Alps in the early 1940s. But the sheer courage and spiritual principle displayed by this humble family man in the face of the moral depravity of the Nazi state provide Terrence Malick’s stirring  film with a chance to elevate him from history’s marginalia. A hidden life no more.

The tropes of the musical biopic had not yet been fully codified when Michael Apted adapted country icon Loretta Lynn’s rags-to-riches story, but even now that they’ve been trod into dust, Coal Miner’s Daughter remains uniquely moving. You know the major beats: a girl is born into poverty, marries young, survives abuse and myriad other hardships, then succeeds beyond anybody’s wildest expectations. But Apted and stars Sissy Spacek and Tommy Lee Jones string the familiar narrative together with such well-observed humanity that it feels less like standard Hollywood biography and something closer to a folk tale.

Casting is always crucial in biopics, but if you’re making a movie about Johnny Cash and June Carter, it’s everything: if the chemistry between your leads is less than electric, you’re done for. Thankfully, Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon just about set the screen ablaze, he as country music’s ultimate voice of the voiceless, she as the beacon of light guiding him through his own personal darkness. Their shared authenticity – in both their onstage duets and offstage quarrels – elevates the film above its ‘behind the music’ cliches. That didn’t prevent it from being cut in half pretty bad by the hilarious parody Walk Hard – but if it helped bring the world Dewey Cox, that only makes it better.

Dylanology has been an unofficial field of academic study since the ’60s, so there’s little anyone could possibly gain from a straightforward Bob Dylan biopic. Wisely, in I’m Not There, Todd Haynes does the exact opposite of ‘straightforward’, taking a more symbolic approach in examining the towering musician’s muses and mythos. Six different actors portray various Dylanesque personae, none of them actually named Bob Dylan. Most memorable is Cate Blanchett as folk singer Jude Quinn, basically an alternate-reality version of Dylan circa his electric conversion. It’s a fascinating experiment that’s sometimes also inscrutable – as anything truthful to this particular subject should be.

Actors have gone to great lengths in prepping to play historical figures before. Daniel Day-Lewis levelled up, however, as Abraham Lincoln, asking to be addressed as ‘Mr President’ on set and not breaking character for three months, even in the car to work. Which may, thinking about it, have been a carriage. But such is the burden of depicting a figure of the magnitude of Lincoln in Steven Spielberg’s serious-minded history, and the results are extraordinary. The film isn’t too shabby either. Tony Kushner’s screenplay, based Doris Kearns Goodwin’s famous Lincoln biography ‘Team of Rivals’, saupercharges Congressional debates and policy-making summits with the urgency of a thriller. Legislation drafting has never been this exciting.

Not even the trashiest Lifetime screenwriter could script a scandal as perfect as the one that enveloped US figure skating in 1994: all-American ice princess Nancy Kerrigan is clubbed in the knee by an unknown assailant. The suspect? Her chief rival, trailer park roughneck Tonya Harding. It was world-class tabloid fodder – but tabloids, of course, have little use for nuance or empathy. Director Craig Gillespie doesn’t rehabilitate Harding, exactly, but brings the circumstances of her life into better view, while still recognising the dark absurdity of the controversy that made her famous. Margot Robbie proved her range in the lead role, but it was Allison Janney, as her abusive, chain-smoking mother, who rightly won all the awards.

Anton Corbijn is uniquely suited to make a movie about late Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis: he jump started his photography career in the ‘70s by shooting the band for NME, and later directed a posthumous video for their song ‘Atmosphere’. No wonder, then, that the movie looks like how the band sounded: monochrome and austere, yet starkly beautiful. As you’d expect of a film about a musician who hung himself at age 23, the prevailing mood of Control is somber, but Sam Riley gives Curtis a detectable heartbeat, portraying him as a man capable of love (and even humour), but only from a distance.

Narratively, Taylor Hackford’s look at the life and times of Ray Charles is Music Bio 101, charting the legendary entertainer’s rise from blind prodigy to American icon, with all the attendant battles against sin and vice in between. What earns it a place on this list is Jamie Foxx, who doesn’t so much embody Charles but fuse with his DNA like the alien in The Thing. Foxx doesn’t just burrow under his skin – although the surface-level impression is uncanny – but into his heart, brain and everything else, drawing far more out of the performance than the script seemed to offer him.  

Self-described ‘song and dance man’ Andy Kaufman dedicated his life and career to inscrutability, to the point that the ‘real Andy’ became unknowable, perhaps even to the comedian himself. In lieu of separating fact from fiction, Milos Forman’s biopic simply reiterates the legend. Is there much to learn from restaging Kaufman’s greatest hits, like the wrestling matches and Mighty Mouse and the milk-and-cookies stunt from Carnegie Hall, even with the fine detail Forman provides them? Not really. But Jim Carrey famously poured himself into portraying Kaufman with such scary accuracy that it goes beyond movie acting and becomes a form of performance art in itself – perhaps the most appropriate tribute you can offer him.

If you only watch one biopic about a flamboyant British musical superstar who loves a party, make it Rocketman rather than Bohemian Rhapsody. Dexter Fletcher ended up working, uncredited, to finish the Freddie Mercury movie just before he tackled Elton John’s life. He saved all the magic for this one, sketching out a vivid fantasia that feels entirely in keeping with the pop star’s bonkers life, and adopting the grammar of movie musicals to swerve the tired clichés that blight so many biopics. Elton’s suicide attempt, flowing from swimming pool to hospital in one shot and accompanied by the title song, is sheer, drug-addled wonderment.

It might have been Harry Styles. It might even have been Miles Teller. The fact that it’s Austin Butler, a hitherto barely known actor with only a passing resemblance, who ended up playing Elvis demonstrates that charisma flows in both directions when you’re playing a superstar. Not to say that Butler doesn’t have the goods: he’s magnetic, whether gyrating on stage and rocketing up the hit parade, or being believably damaged during the crash landing of the Vegas years. Tom Hanks’s rubbery Colonel Parker aside, Baz Luhrmann’s rock ‘n’ roll Babylon is the best kind of gaudily OTT real-life spectacle.