Oscars: The 25 Greatest Best Actor Winners in Movie History

Since Emil Jannings won the first Academy Award for Best Actor in 1929, 87 other Oscars have been handed out to the year’s best male performance on the silver screen. To win an Oscar is a life-changing honor, and every such performance is, by definition, great. But which are the best, the crème de la crème? For Entertainment Weekly’s writers and editors, it was a challenge we couldn’t refuse. 

With the 88th Academy Awards on the horizon, EW looked back on nearly a century of excellence to determine which Best Actor’s greatness shines brighter than his Oscar-winning brethren, performances that were instant classics and have stood the test of time. 

The Theory of Everything (2014), directed by James Marsh

Eddie Redmayne is not the first actor to win an Oscar for playing a man with physical or mental challenges. But his ability to transform physically yet never lose the beautiful mind and mischievous spirit of handicapped genius Stephen Hawking, a prisoner of his own failing body, is what’s supremely remarkable about his performance. His facial contortions and cramped muscles, increasing incrementally as his condition worsens, are essential — and punishing — elements of the performance, but Redmayne doesn’t rely on them as a crutch. He scopes the light and the darkness within, the hope and the fear that live in all of us. —Nicole Sperling

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), directed by Michael Curtiz

By the early ’40s, James Cagney had found a niche playing tough guys — so much so that he practically invented the hot-headed archetype. But Cagney had roots in song and dance, and it was his 1942 performance in Yankee Doodle Dandy that unleashed his many talents. The musical about George M. Cohan let Cagney sing, tap-dance, and charm his way across the composer’s life. The role won Cagney, then 43, his only Oscar and was often cited as the star’s favorite. It’s easy to see why: a more energetic, enjoyable Best Actor performance would be hard to fathom. Nearly 75 years later, the movie still puts a skip in your step.  —Christopher Rosen

Ray (2004), directed by Taylor Hackford

Few could have predicted that stand-up comedian-turned-actor Jamie Foxx would have portrayed Ray Charles with such remarkable depth. Foxx — whose extensive auditions for the role included a piano session with Charles himself — brought a vivacity to an otherwise standard biopic chronicling the singer’s tumultuous life. He mastered Charles’ verbal and physical mannerisms, and played the piano and lip-synced with a fervor few actors have ever mustered. Charismatic and complex, Foxx’s portrait of a beloved, but deeply flawed, man set a new standard for music biopics. —Nina Terrero

Gandhi (1982), directed by Richard Attenborough

How does one play a saint or deity, or a man treated as one? That was the challenge for Ben Kingsley in this great-man epic about Gandhi, the martyred Indian independence leader who preached non-violent disobedience against British oppression. Oh, and throw in that the film spans 55 years, beginning with Gandhi’s days as an angry young lawyer being tossed off a South African train. Humble but strong, philosophical but pragmatic, Kingsley’s interpretation of the leader manages to balance both his spirituality and shrewdness, simultaneously demystifying an icon while also adding another layer to the legend. —Will Robinson

Wall Street (1987), directed by Oliver Stone

Gordon Gekko is a slick and unscrupulous corporate predator who crystallized the Reagan-era ethos into three words. With the slicked-back hair and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Michael Douglas intimidated and seduced, delivering a portrayal that not only influenced other actors’ subsequent takes on bullying high-rollers (See: The Wolf of Wall Street), but trickled down to the actual Street drones who still quote Gekko’s credo like it’s gospel. Greed is good — and Douglas’ performance is even better. —Shirley Li

Training Day (2001), directed by Antoine Fuqua

Denzel Washington was already an Oscar winner and one of Hollywood’s biggest stars when he seized with both hands the role of ferocious L.A. cop Alonzo Harris. Tasked with breaking in Ethan Hawke’s naïve rookie, Alonzo is the devil (barely) in disguise, a self-described wolf who is the unchallenged alpha of his turf. It’s a huge, colorful, over-the-top role, one that Washington never shrinks from. Yet it’s a testament to Washington’s on-screen powers — his charm, energy, sex appeal, and rage — that Alonzo is so seductive and beguiling. And yes, King Kong ain’t got s–t on him. —Kevin P. Sullivan

Hamlet (1948), directed by Laurence Olivier

Thousands of actors have tackled the Bard’s most tragic and ambivalent hero, but Laurence Olivier’s eerie, atmospheric adaptation — the first major non-silent film version — makes the 400-year-old prince of Denmark seem devastatingly real. The Shakespearean actor had famously played Hamlet on stage at the Old Vic in London, and his magnetic cinematic incarnation would come to personify the character — and in fact, Shakespeare — for a generation of filmgoers. Of course, purists will quibble that his stage Hamlet was better, but Olivier’s mastery of the material allowed him to get inside the prince’s slowly deteriorating mind. —Devan Coggan

The French Connection (1971), directed by William Friedkin

The right role at the right time can open all the locked career doors for an actor, and for Gene Hackman, that role was Popeye Doyle, the bad-news New York narcotics detective with the porkpie hat obsessed with smashing a heroin ring. Bigoted and vicious, with a bite to match his bark, Doyle was a new kind of cop — beating Dirty Harry to movie screens by two months — and Hackman completely inhabited the character so that he felt as real as the film’s verite surroundings. Dirty Harry was an agenda-driven caricature; Popeye Doyle lived and breathed. Clint Eastwood and Hackman united decades later for Unforgiven, and Hackman won another Oscar for playing Little Bill, the black-hat sheriff infused with Popeye DNA. —Jeff Labrecque

Milk (2008), directed by Gus Van Sant

Sometimes, an actor and a role were made for each other. Sean Penn, on the other hand, wasn’t necessarily born to play Harvey Milk, the openly gay San Francisco politician who was assassinated in 1978 while fighting for equal rights. Somehow, though, the passionate, extroverted character triggered something deep inside Penn; his Milk is occasionally awkward, incredibly warm, and fearlessly energetic. It’s a role worlds apart from Mystic River Penn and Dead Man Walking Penn, proving the actor’s awesome prowess that delivers a beautifully refined performance in the process. —Ariana Bacle

Reversal of Fortune (1990), directed by Barbet Schroeder

The most fascinating aspect of Jeremy Irons’ performance as Claus von Bülow, an aloof aristocrat accused of trying to murder his heiress wife, is that he manages to evoke more than grim fascination for a character described in one scene as a “prince of perversion.” Acting on a knife’s edge but never slipping into caricature, Irons elicits genuine empathy portraying a man whose mannered air barely masks his fear of an uncertain future. The film, which is based on a true story that became a media sensation in the ’80s, never renders definitive judgment on von Bülow (who was acquitted in court), leaving him an indelible enigma that Irons teases but never tells. —Oliver Gettell

Amadeus (1984), directed by Milos Forman

It’s tempting to say that Milos Forman’s Amadeus is an exquisite prestige drama about the life of Mozart. But that’s a bit like saying Moby-Dick is a book about fishing. What it really is, is a movie about the morally destructive nature of envy. As the composer Salieri, F. Murray Abraham seethes with a wannabe’s ambition that’s frustrated at every turn by his rival’s seemingly tossed-off brilliance. You can see his jealousy devouring him from the inside like a cancer. Tom Hulce is daffy and delicious as the airhead prodigy, Mozart, but few of us can identify with that kind of genius. Salieri, on the other hand, is someone we can see in ourselves, albeit our worst selves. Every repeat viewing of Abraham’s performance reveals some new moment of humiliation — some fresh, sickening glimmer of anguish that feels all too familiar. —Chris Nashawaty

The Silence of the Lambs (1991), directed by Jonathan Demme

Have the years diminished Anthony Hopkins’ star turn as Hannibal the Cannibal? Maybe. Hopkins returned to the part twice — gleefully unrestrained in Hannibal, altogether too restrained in Red Dragon. Also not helping matters: Every fictional serial killer and practically every fictional psycho post-Silence owes some debt to Hopkins’ radical performance — wry, polite, delicate, demonic. Hopkins’ Hannibal appears in shockingly few scenes, but every millisecond of screen time is tattooed in scar tissue on pop culture. There’s not an unmemorable line reading, not one physical movement wasted. Demme often shoots Hopkins straight on, making for an unusually intimate performance: His Lecter stares straight into our eyes, and we, horrified, can’t help but stare back. —Darren Franich

It Happened One Night (1934), directed by Frank Capra

Frank Capra’s screwball comedy was the first film in Oscar history to sweep the five major Academy Awards (Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay), and Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable’s verbal sparring set the tone for every quick-witted romantic comedy that followed. As a savvy reporter and the original rom-com cad, Gable helped establish the template that every leading man from Cary Grant to George Clooney would follow: witty, tender, and, of course, charming, whether he’s explaining how to properly undress or fruitlessly trying to hail a ride. Legend has it that when Gable stripped off his shirt in the film and audiences saw him bare underneath, undershirt sales plummeted. —Devan Coggan

Capote (2005), directed by Bennett Miller

Philip Seymour Hoffman looked and sounded nothing like Truman Capote. But he understood the famous writer deeply, since both men were at similar pivotal points in their careers: accomplished artists who hungered for greatness. For Capote, it was In Cold Blood, the non-fiction novel that changed American literature. For Hoffman, it was Truman, a conflicted outsider no matter if he was in New York or Kansas. The actor slimmed down and heightened his voice for the part, but he never needed to aim for an exact physical impression. Ambition, obsession, and a convenient humanity were enough, and Hoffman etched those turbulent emotions in every frame. —Christian Holub

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), directed by Robert Mulligan

Forget about orphaned aliens saving mankind or dark knights with cool gadgets — Atticus Finch may very well be the greatest hero ever depicted on screen. Gregory Peck, tall and broad-shouldered in cream suits and tortoiseshell glasses, effortlessly embodied Atticus’ quiet dignity and noble ideals — a moral compass defending a black man framed for rape in the Depression-era South, while quietly teaching his motherless children about tolerance and the ugliness of bigotry and ignorance. Has there ever been a better marriage of character and actor? When Scout is urged to stand up with the rest of the courtroom gallery — “Your father’s passing” — you’ll want to salute him as well. —Sara Vilkomerson

There Will Be Blood (2007), directed by Paul Thomas Anderson

Either the scariest or funniest performance of the 2000s, Daniel Day-Lewis is Daniel Plainview at his most scenery-gnashing. Actor-director John Huston was a key reference point for Plainview’s oft-imitated diction, but the only obvious comparisons are literary. There’s an Ahab quality to Plainview’s obsessive hunt for the Earth’s treasures — an obsession that begins in the prologue, when he drags himself out of a mine and crawls on a broken leg to a claims office, and that reaches its glorious epiphany in the film’s epilogue. Only Day-Lewis could transform this material into meme fodder — a thousand “I drink your milkshake!” imitations followed — but only Day-Lewis could have made such a potentially cartoonish character feel so devastatingly real. Daniel Plainview is only human, despite his best efforts. —Darren Franich

Network (1976), directed by Sidney Lumet

“I’m as mad as hell,” soaking wet news anchor Howard Beale screams, live on air in his trench coat, “and I’m not going to take this anymore!” The moment has been so baked into America’s cultural cake that Tea Party Republicans parrot the phrase, not realizing that the film is a satire of sheep mentality and the man who authored it (screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky) was a political lefty. Much of Finch’s raging wildfire of a performance is delivered in extended monologues, but the nuanced Australian actor portrays the man’s brokenness even during his horsepower speeches. Beale’s death is ironic, but Finch’s was no joke:  He died of a heart attack at age 60 while promoting Network, and two months later his widow accepted the Oscars’ first posthumous acting award. —Joe McGovern

Lincoln (2012), directed by Steven Spielberg

First came the stories — that Daniel Day-Lewis had stripped his life of all modern conveniences and was trying to inhabit the mindset of a man from the mid-19th century. Then came the first breathtaking image — a photo of the actor in full Lincoln make-up and costume. Gaunt. Pensive. Haunted. Finally, we heard him speak, with a reedy delivery that contradicted the stentorian voice subsequent generations applied to Lincoln’s almighty presence in the history books. But according to historians, that higher pitched voice contributed to his power as an orator in that pre-microphone era, since the sound would carry further in a large crowd. Day-Lewis (along with director Steven Spielberg and screenwriter Tony Kushner) cut through the mythology of the Civil War commander in chief to give us such a true portrait of Abraham Lincoln, we almost didn’t recognize him. Now, it’s Day-Lewis’ portrayal that belongs to the ages. —Anthony Breznican

The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), directed by David Lean

A proud and proper English officer tortured at a Japanese POW camp during World War II, Alec Guinness’ Nicholson is the soul of David Lean’s still-fresh epic. His personal fog of war twists his priorities so that he supervises the construction of a strategic bridge that will serve the Japanese but stand forever as a monument to the British fighting spirit. Standing next to his Japanese rival on the completed bridge, he reminisces about his life. “There are times when suddenly you realize you’re nearer the end than the beginning,” he says. “And you wonder, you ask yourself, what the sum total represents.” Nicholson accidentally drops his cane and it stops him from completing a thought that every human being who’s a cog in a wheel has considered — or someday will. The afterthought, “What have I done?” tragically comes later.  —Joe McGovern

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), directed by Milos Forman

Prior to Cuckoo’s Nest, Nicholson had been nominated four times in six years, without a win. But his triumph at the 1976 ceremony was not simply a recognition of his remarkable hot streak. Nicholson’s portrayal of a rebellious mental hospital inmate is a phenomenal combination of sly intelligence and impish braggadocio, best showcased during the scene where, thwarted in his attempt to watch the World Series on TV, McMurphy ad libs a commentary in front a blank set. Nicholson’s fireworks would be subsequently aped, and amped up to over-the-top proportions, by other actors and by the Batman star himself. Here, however, his anti-authoritarian antics perfectly light up one of cinema’s great masterpieces. —Clark Collis

The Godfather (1972), directed by Francis Ford Coppola

Marlon Brando had semi-coasted through the ’60s on reputation, and he was in need of a creative and popular comeback when Francis Ford Coppola came calling with Mario Puzo’s Mafia page-turner. The studio preferred Ernest Borgnine or George C. Scott — anyone but the mercurial Brando — to play the Godfather, but Coppola got his way. As the Don, the 46-year-old Brando got aged up and gave a performance that became ingrained with American culture practically the day after the film opened. Despite four-plus decades of cheap parody, it’s an inimitable acting achievement. —Kevin P. Sullivan

Patton (1970), directed by Franklin J. Schaffner

George C. Scott didn’t attend the Oscars to collect his honor. He considered the show a “goddamn meat parade,” and didn’t feel acting should be turned into a sport. His refusal to even allow the statue be sent to him is a kind of grit and integrity seldom found in an industry fueled by ego. Still, there’s no denying that his performance as the eccentric, explosive World War II general was one of the greatest ever filmed. Patton was not constrained by such humility. Vain, ambitious, and intolerant of the suffering of others, he pushed the U.S. Seventh Army through the Mediterranean and into the hellfire of Europe through sheer force of will. At times, Scott’s Patton seems insane with zeal; other times we see the tender cluster of neuroses shielded by this hardened, bellicose exterior. While most old soldiers, like Karl Malden’s superb, empathetic Gen. Omar Bradley, absorb the senseless loss of life of war with regret and resolve that the sacrifice was necessary, Scott’s Patton reveals the darker side of humanity that craves conflict, that lives for it. Surveying a smoldering battle scene, he is moved not to tears, but to a grim satisfaction: “I love it. God help me, I do love it so.” –Anthony Breznican

My Left Foot (1990), directed by Jim Sheridan

It should be challenging to identify an absolute “best performance” from an actor as distinguished as Daniel Day-Lewis, who owns three Oscars. But as cerebral palsy-afflicted artist and writer Christy Brown, Day-Lewis completely disappeared into a role that requires him to be excruciatingly vulnerable and impossibly charming — all without the use of his limbs, save his titular foot. Though Brenda Fricker went on to win an Oscar for her performance as Christy’s mother, our favorite scenes are those with his doctor, played by Fiona Shaw, which ultimately crescendos during a dinner party held after his first art opening when he professes his love for her. Day-Lewis’ equally feral and fragile delivery keeps the entire movie from teetering off a cliff of sentimentality, if only until the film’s ending ultimately takes that plunge for him. —Bill Keith

Raging Bull (1980), directed by Martin Scorsese

Playing boxer Jake LaMotta, Robert De Niro gave all of his mind and body to this portrait of a man destroyed by his anger, his jealousies, his pride, his retrograde notions of manhood. Not everyone was awed by the performance, although Pauline Kael’s famous denunciation (“a swollen puppet with only bits and pieces of a character inside”) may have ironically summed up everything poignant and terrifying about De Niro’s imagining of this jaundiced soul. Taking Method acting to a new extreme, De Niro famously put on 60 pounds to play pudgy, post-prime LaMotta. In theory, we shouldn’t be too impressed by this. Oscars shouldn’t be given for “Most Eating” or “Most Willing To Hurt Themselves For Art.” And yet, watching De Niro in Raging Bull, you can understand why serious actors abuse themselves for greatness: it’s a staggering achievement of transformative truth seeking, inside and out.  —Jeff Jensen

On the Waterfront (1954), directed by Elia Kazan

So much has been said about Marlon Brando’s simmering Method genius during the early ‘50s that watching his revolutionary approach to acting now couldn’t possibly live up to the hype, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. In Elia Kazan’s still-explosive working-class morality play about an palooka-turned-longshoreman who stands up to union-boss corruption on the docks, Brando is both hypnotic and heartbreakingly human. In every scene, he’s being devoured by regret, torn apart about doing the right thing, and simmering with an existential anxiety that could blow at any second. You needn’t look any further than the film’s most iconic and quoted scene, Brando’s “I coulda been a contender” speech in the back of car with his brother Charley (Rod Steiger). Sixty-two years later, it still feels anguished and vital … and it still gives you glorious goosebumps. —Chris Nashawaty