In celebration of the big, bold USA, we take a trip through all 50 states via 50 indelible American movies
When seeking the best American movies of all time, one could turn to Academy Award winners, sports movies, classic romantic comedies or the most patriotic movies of all time. Or you could break out the atlas and do what we’ve done here: go state by state to find the most emblematic film shot within the borders. The result: 50 of the most evocative pieces of Americana onscreen. Did we forget one? Write to your local chamber of commerce—and do let us know.
Harper Lee’s fictional Maycomb, AL, was generalized enough to register as a beautiful evocation of small-town life—yet specific enough to capture the uglier side of Deep South racism, bubbling just under the surface. It’s a place where you might need a good attorney (the mighty Gregory Peck).
Our nation’s northernmost state—craggy, rugged, unforgiving—is the perfect setting for a journey of spiritual discontentment, reckoned with by adventurer Christopher McCandless (Emile Hirsch). The movie is directed by Sean Penn with unusual respect and sensitivity.
The Coen brothers’ lunatic comedy about a loving trailer-park couple who kidnap one of five quintuplets to raise as their own captures the distinctive patois—a hybrid of local dialects—and arid poetry of the Grand Canyon State.
Billy Bob Thornton became a household name with this touching Southern drama, which he not only dominated as the mentally slow Karl, but wrote and directed. The overall picture—an Arkansas of crime, compassion and hope—was positively Clintonian.
It may be the birthplace of beach parties, the Summer of Love and Hollywood, but Roman Polanski’s noir tears the scab off California dreamin’: an L.A. detective story that exposes what lies beneath our go-west idealism, while simultaneously evoking nostalgia for the Golden State’s sunny facade.
In Sydney Pollack’s backcountry oater, a jaded Mexican War veteran (Robert Redford) seeks solace in the American West, only to discover that life in the Rocky Mountain State—with its harsh weather, craggy terrain and aggressive inhabitants—is more turbulent than transcendental.
Cubes clatter in Scotch tumblers as the emotional temperature plummets in Ang Lee’s portrayal of Nixon-era life in New Canaan, CT. Fine, these are the problems of wealthy white people, but stiffness yields something tragic and universal.
A tough one! The slender First State doesn’t have a lot of cinematic history, and authorities denied David Fincher permission to shoot his radical anticapitalist comedy in Wilmington, where it’s set. But enough clues are sprinkled throughout—business cards, license plates—to know we’re at the financial hub.
As tawdry and trashed as the collegiate tradition itself, Harmony Korine’s tale of girls gone wild presents a Florida that’s a neon fountain of youth—a version of the state’s sunbaked, garish resort-town vibe that feels only slightly exaggerated.
Frankly, my dear, we don’t give a damn that this classic Hollywood melodrama was shot mostly in Tinseltown. Between its extravagant plantation sets, the epic battle scenes, a Southern-fried romantic triangle and the unforgettable burning of Atlanta, this is the most iconic rendering of Georgia on film.
Go ahead and call this ultimate dad movie “corny”—we think that’s fully intentional, down to its Iowa setting. The field itself, where dead baseball heroes reunite and daddy issues get resolved, is a cornfield. And W.P. Kinsella’s original 1982 novel, Shoeless Joe, was written at an Iowa writer’s workshop, where he took local inspiration.
The movie shares a nickname with the state’s most celebrated city—and needless to say, this crime thriller’s plot is loaded with sleaze, sweat, sex and gumbo. The Cajun accent of detective Dennis Quaid? A little shaky. But not the pungent location shooting.
Any John Waters film would fit this slot perfectly: The Pope of Trash’s commitment to his home state—the setting for all of his movies—is just as famous as his taste for pink flamingos and Divine. But Pecker captures an especially vivid Baltimore—from its excruciating Hampden accents, pit-beef sandwiches and gentle, unofficial theme song in Dave Hardin’s “Baltimore, You’re Home to Me.”
Never mind the blue bloods: David O. Russell’s story of boxer “Irish” Micky Ward’s grab for the brass ring gives us a working-class Lowell community that’s pugnacious, vivacious and fiercely loyal to its own. In this Massachusetts microcosmos, everyone is a fighter.
See the film that catapulted documentarian Michael Moore from grassroots obscurity to a constant thorn in the side of conservatives worldwide. See what the fine folks at General Motors did to the citizens of ruined Flint, Michigan. See GM chairman Roger Smith defend his actions...not.
It’s never a bad time to return to Prince’s autobiographical pop melodrama—especially lately, to pay your respects. But you might be surprised to notice how fully Purple Rain captures many Minneapolis landmarks. Naturally, there’s First Avenue, the real-life nightclub where the Purple One forged his fame. But there’s also ice-cold Lake Minnetonka…or is it?
The town is fictional, but this Oscar-winning thriller about a white police chief and an African-American detective channels a very real Mississippi—one racked with hot temperatures, racial tensions and uneasy acceptance of the era’s tides of change.
Christopher Guest’s faux documentary about Blaine, MO (“stool capital of the United States”), and a community-theater troupe with delusions of Broadway grandeur beautifully captures small-town American eccentricity, always with a gentle wink.
Watch virtually any scene from Robert Redford’s fly-fishing family drama and you’ll get a sense of Montana’s majestic landscape; every time Brad Pitt casts his line into the Blackfoot River, you realize why they call it Big Sky country.
This pointed satire about a high-school student election is one of Alexander Payne’s finest satirical portraits of his home state, unearthing in the Nebraska suburbs a microcosmic portrait of American politics and all its wheelings and dealings.
Las Vegas and its barren outskirts provide the mythic meeting place for billionaire mogul Howard Hughes (Jason Robards) and service-station owner Melvin Dummar (Paul Le Mat). Melvin spends the rest of Jonathan Demme’s delightfully quirky comedy trying to prove the encounter took place; the arid Nevada desert haunts the film like a half-remembered dreamscape.
New Hampshire, with its quiet suburbs and picture-perfect scenery, is the setting for Gus Van Sant’s stone-cold black comedy about a career-obsessed woman (Nicole Kidman) who murderously manipulates her way up the ranks of a local cable station.
A strong contender for the scrappiest state in the union, “Dirty Jersey” gets the eloquently foulmouthed comedy it deserves in Kevin Smith’s indie classic about counter jockeys. They tell it like it is—in the funny, frank way you associate with the Garden State.
Also the No. 1 film atop our 100 NYC movies of all time, Martin Scorsese’s urban classic is a prowl through the decrepit streets of New York’s meanest years. Stream rises from manhole covers, prostitutes wobble on high heels and behind the wheel of a cab might be a monster. The film is an urban legend in and of itself.
Filmmaker David Gordon Green creates a nuanced, diffuse portrait of a rural North Carolina community in repressed turmoil, its inhabitants (portrayed by nonprofessional actors) consumed by anxiety, economic woe and lethargy in equal measure. As directorial debuts go, few are this localized to the pain of actual people.
As Philly as it gets: Sylvester Stallone’s breakthrough goes the distance with iconic shooting on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. (These days, they’re actually called the Rocky Steps.) So careful is this movie’s eye for local landmarks, Creed’s director Ryan Coogler insisted that his excellent sequel return to the city.
Kevin Costner’s offscreen death (his flashback sequences were cut) provokes a group of his friends—former student radicals now living in uneasy comfort—to talk about their lives and listen to one of the best-selling soundtrack albums of all time. Less remembered: the lovely antebellum mansion in Beaufort, SC, where all the boomer handwringing goes down.
What other film could we have possibly chosen? Apart from being an underrated horror classic—one that’s a lot less gory than you think—Tobe Hooper’s low-budget masterpiece also captures a sweltering Texas summer, complete with gas fumes rising from the highway and rural rest stops offering barbecue (or worse).
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