Must-See Fantasy Movies For People Who Hate Fantasy

Many people find themselves averse to fantasy because they may have a narrower view of what the genre actually is. Sometimes, the most fantastical world is only about 140 millimeters wide: the one inside someone's head.

The Science of Sleep is bemusing, to say the least, one of the most innocent-but-perturbing, whimsical, and tragic movies out there. The 2006 film blurs the line between reality and imagination in a sensitive, meandering love story, which begins when the main character, a demure man named Stéphane, moves to Paris from Mexico to be with his newly widowed mother. He meets Stéphanie, who lives in the apartment next to him, and initially forms an attraction to her roommate, Zoé, while suspecting anyway that it is Stéphanie who is interested in him. Over time, he begins to realize his greater compatibility with the latter, but his vivid imaginary and dream life interferes with his ability to perform socially (and in general), leaving him, and the audience, confused as to which is which.

This sense of fantasy, rather than making the conflicts too grand and unbelievable, simply exacerbates the tension that inherently exists in each character's personality. Like the little inventions Stéphane builds (including the One-Second Time Machine), the elements of fantasy are tools of his own creation as well, highlighting his neuroses and lending a ginger genuineness to the way the main characters hurt and heal each other.

Princess Mononoke, from 1997, is not only incredibly beautiful in terms of aesthetics, but it explores deep themes with a splash of gore, resulting in something a little more intense than typical folklore or fantasy. For those worried about the god in the machine threatening the integrity of the story, this cinematic machine offers a demon instead.

While the film absolutely does explore the well-trodden ground of the good-vs.-evil formula, it does so in a subtle and moving way. When the last Emishi prince protects the village from a demon boar attack and is corrupted himself through his wounds, he seeks the help of the Great Forest Spirit. Along the way, he encounters a human girl who was raised by wolves and who exposes him to the corruption of Irontown, which was built by clear-cutting forests to produce iron from ironsand. It was an iron bullet made by the firearm manufacturers of this town that wounded and corrupted the boar god from the beginning of the tale.

But even though the people and leadership of Irontown cause so much chaos, they are themselves the victims of oppression and alienation by others: Lady Eboshi created the town as a haven for social outcasts, like lepers. Thus, the film explores the tenuous space between the interests of vulnerable areas of society. In this way, at the very least, Princess Mononoke is much more relevant to "real" life than we typically give fantasy credit for.

The good-vs.-evil paradigm might seem a bit predictable by now, but the evil-vs.-good premise still has some mileage left on it. This 2014 film, Maleficent, is about the villain, not the whimsical princess heroine. The most impressive piece of magic in this movie, though, is that it separates the villain from the villainous: Yes, Maleficent is guilty of vengefulness and destruction as in the classic fairy tale, but these issues arise from a protective nature, fear, and a broken heart.

Maleficent was the protector of the Moors and had her wings severed in an invasion, causing her to turn the land into an evil kingdom and swear vengeance (the familiar finger-prick curse of eternal sleep) on the daughter of the man who took her wings. As she surveils Aurora in anticipation of her 16th birthday, when the curse will be realized, she begins to care for her maternally and attempts to undo what she has done.

In a way, the evil queen is actually the hero, taking on the mammoth task of protecting someone else against herself – and in the process, letting go of the resentment of the past in order to open the future to true love. This kind of personal growth is something we'd all like to believe is real.

Kevin Smith's irreverent 1999 comedy Dogma is about fallen angels, human prophets, and indulgences. These things aren't just the stuff of religion, legend, or history in this film: Smith brings to life the classic elements of religious tradition in a satirical, no-holds-barred way.

The fallen angels in question, Bartleby and Loki, are trying to make it back into heaven, but Bethany, a counselor at an abortion clinic and the last, distant living relative of Jesus Christ, learns that if the two are allowed to re-enter the pearly gates, it will throw God's omnipotence into question and threaten all of existence.

Though it has elements of both, this film is not simply a fantasy movie or a religious movie. It is informed enough to be clever and offer creative takes on classic ideas of religion, such as the angels' resentment that humans were gifted with free will while angels were forced into servitude. No matter what your background, you can appreciate something about this film, from the satire to the creativity.

One of the most supernaturally gifted "characters" in 2014's Birdman is the camera. The film is presented as a single shot, set in a theater, and designed more as a comedy than the habitual drama and tragedy of award-winning director Alejandro G. Iñárritu (like his previous film, Biutiful, from 2010). The single-shot appearance of the production mirrors the nonstop stream-of-consciousness mockery and torment visited upon the main character, Riggan Thomson, by his former superhero alter ego, Birdman.

This is another film that blurs the line between identity, imagination, and reality while also exploring the intricacies of a mid-life crisis through its unique filming style. Ambiguity, then, is also a fantasy hero in this instance, mystically allowing each member of the audience to take something different from the film's climax. With all this talk of genre, the Birdman himself deplores labels. One reviewer uses this hatred of labels to call on the nature of Riggan's powers: No matter their degree of realism, they offer us, and him, the freedom to move beyond labels and expand our personal realm of the possible.

An uncommon response to the qualms about fantasy's removal from anything that could actually happen to a human being, even in the distant future, is Richard Linklater's 2001 experimental film Waking Life. This film, according to many interpretations, shows us not something that couldn't happen, not something that might happen, but something that will happen to every single person: We will die. What the film leaves to fantasy is speculation about what that will look like.

Linklater didn't make the film until long after he had the idea because releasing it in live action would have been "too realistic." He needed to make an unreality based in the real world. In its final form, this unreality follows a protagonist through a series of seemingly unrelated interactions. These conversations center around themes of reality, lucid dreaming, identity, the collective unconscious...

And slowly the protagonist realizes, through a series of tests like flicking the light switch (if it's unresponsive, that's a bad sign), that he is not living in the real world. At first, he is unnerved, thinking he is stuck in a dream and can only wake into another dream. Then the conversations take a turn. We start getting implications, and at one point, he himself muses aloud that he might actually be dead or in the final moments of his life, a time in which we don't really know what the mind does. Perhaps it creates a fantasy.

Premiering in 1999, Being John Malkovich was a fantasy comedy that went beyond weird, asking deep, dark questions about humanity, identity, and the universe, at once making you uncomfortable and full of laughter. When a dejected Craig finds work as a clerk on the seventh-and-a-half floor of a building and doesn't seem to question it as much as he should, the audience knows they should buckle in for a ride.

Craig's ride begins when he finds a small door in one of the filing rooms. Upon entering, he is sucked through a moist, unappetizing tube and lands, by all appearances, in the mind and body of actor John Malkovich. He becomes increasingly able to control the body because of his skills with puppeteering. After this, we watch many other characters take on the adventure of "being John Malkovich," including Craig's wife, Lotte, who awakens her transgender identity through the experience. The story escalates from there, through themes of cultism, eternal life, and hive minds. It's safe to say that the film doesn't play out like a typical fantasy. It originates in an office building, like many of our mundane days, but it's easy to forget that by the end.