Few filmmakers have grasped how cinema can distill the spirit of a nation quite like John Cassavetes, who once remarked, “Maybe there really wasn’t an America; maybe it was only Frank Capra.” I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment, but there’s more than a hint of truth lurking in the line. For countless people around the world, America has shimmered more brightly in the glow of the movie screen than in any atlas.

Growing up in a community of Cuban exiles and immigrants from across Latin America, I heard stories of how American movies flickered into living rooms carrying coded messages of freedom. Long before my mother-in-law ever set foot in the United States, she and her husband had devoured dozens of Westerns. She knew that a country capable of producing the likes of John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Clint Eastwood had to be good. For all his bluster, Castro never stood a chance against Hondo Lane riding off into the sunset.

This, I think, is the genius of American cinema: its gift for capturing not only how America appears from a distance but also how it feels up close, in all its contradictions. It holds together our soaring ideals and our stubborn flaws, reminding us that true patriotism lives in the space between the nation we are and the nation we strive to become.

In that spirit, this Fourth of July, I’ve chosen six films that shed light on that tension. They’re not routine patriotic spectacles but works of art that reflect our ambition, our endless capacity for reinvention, and our abiding faith that our flaws can be redeemed.

Each, in its own way, is a testament to why America is worth celebrating — and defending — as it stands on the threshold of its 250th birthday.

Stagecoach (John Ford, 1939)

Stagecoach elevated the Western from routine shoot-’em-ups to cinematic myth, launching John Wayne’s career into stardom with an entry that “marks the end of his B-movie purgatory and the beginning of his stardom,” as critic David Cairns wrote. Ford’s film follows a journey across hostile Apache territory, alongside gamblers, soldiers, ladies, and outcasts, each grappling with private burdens and social prejudices. It’s a master class in storytelling, blending action, humor, and character study while transforming Monument Valley into an enduring symbol of the American frontier. Even after all these years, it remains a thrilling ride, capturing how America’s fate has so often depended on unlikely people facing adversity side by side.

Nashville (Robert Altman, 1975)

Released on the cusp of America’s Bicentennial, Nashville tracks two dozen singers, politicians, dreamers, and drifters whose lives intersect over five days in the country music capital. Altman chose the city because it embodies America’s blend of show business and political ambition, crafting a mosaic as sprawling as the nation itself. As critic Molly Haskell wrote for the film’s Criterion edition, the Best Picture nominee “captured as no other film has ever done the full complexity of America, rich with contradictions, rife with neurosis, and convulsed by the celebrity madness of ambition and envy.” Decades later, its vision feels only more prophetic, reminding us that while the songs may change, our national spectacle plays on.

The Right Stuff (Philip Kaufman, 1983)

President Kennedy never lived to see Americans walk on the Moon, but the men he inspired carried the country there, driven by his conviction that “we set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won.” The Right Stuff tells the story of the test pilots and Mercury astronauts who pushed past fear, uncertainty, and the edges of the known world. Based on Tom Wolfe’s book, the film begins in the skies over Edwards Air Force Base and surges toward the stars, capturing the swagger, sacrifice, and sheer determination behind America’s leap into space. Other space movies may boast more dazzling effects, but none match this film’s sense of American “vigah” — as JFK would have said it — or its belief that a nation’s destiny can hinge on a few daring souls willing to risk everything for the unknown.

Glory (Edward Zwick, 1989)

When I lived in New York, I’d often pay the customary $1 fee as a city resident just to visit the Met and linger before one of my favorite works: Thomas Waterman Wood’s three-part painting A Bit of War History, which follows a newly freed black man as he becomes a laborer, then a Union recruit, and then a veteran. It has always struck me as a sign of America’s greatness that even those who had been most wronged were willing to fight and die for her promise. Glory brings that conviction to life, telling the true story of the 54th Massachusetts Infantry Regiment, the first all-black unit to fight in the Civil War. Anchored by one of Denzel Washington’s early great performances, it captures both the savagery of battle and the steadfast belief that this nation, however flawed, is worth the sacrifice.

Barcelona (Whit Stillman, 1994)

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I only discovered this one recently (though, in my defense, I was eleven when it came out, in one of the greatest years in movie history). Few films capture the experience of Americans living overseas quite like Whit Stillman’s Barcelona, where two cousins — one a salesman, the other a naval officer — navigate love, politics, and cultural misunderstandings in a city suspicious of American presence. It’s hilarious, dry, and filled with whip-smart dialogue about how the world views America and about how Americans try to explain themselves. At its heart, it’s a film about friendship and identity, but what makes it linger is the way it distills the awkwardness and occasional paranoia that comes with being far from home. If you’ve ever found yourself pressed to defend America’s problems, you’ll appreciate Fred’s blunt retort that Americans aren’t more violent than other people: “We’re just better shots.”

The Straight Story (David Lynch, 1999)

Though Lynch is often drawn to the darkness beneath American life, The Straight Story stands apart as his quiet tribute to its goodness. Based on a true story, it follows elderly Alvin Straight (an extraordinary Richard Farnsworth), who, upon learning that his estranged brother is gravely ill, sets out to cross 240 miles of Midwest farmland on a lawnmower that crawls along at three miles per hour. At its heart, it’s a film about fraternal reconciliation, but what holds the story — and Alvin’s journey — together are the decent Midwesterns he meets along the way: among them a bus driver who gives him a ride, a preacher who offers him food, and a fellow WWII veteran who buys him a round. In Farnsworth’s gentle performance and the kindness of strangers lies a reminder that sometimes the grandest American odysseys unfold at a pace slow enough to watch the fields go by.

Yes, I know. I know. No list — certainly not one limited to six films — can fully capture the breadth and contradictions of American cinema. There are countless other works that speak to the nation’s ideals, anxieties, and restless energy.

In Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939), for example, Capra reminds us that American political institutions, for all their flaws, remain capable of renewal through courage, virtue, and faith in the structures our Founders built. Jaws (1975) swims beneath the sunlit beaches of summer to expose the primal fears lurking in our subconscious and, perhaps more importantly, the courage that rises to confront them. In Blow Out (1981), a personal favorite, Brian De Palma reminds us that liberty depends on vigilance. Meanwhile, Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis (2022) chronicles not just the life of a legendary performer but also the feverish collision of culture, commerce, and charisma that could only have happened in America.

You could make this list a hundred different ways. This is mine. Let me know in the comments which films you turn to when you’re reflecting on the country that we are — and the one we hope to become.

Happy Fourth of July!