The 40 greatest movie soundtracks of all time, ranked

Effectively a digital rendering of the cherished mixtape Peter Quill keeps to remind him of his home on Earth, Guardians Of The Galaxy: Awesome Mix Vol. 1 is filled with songs you know by heart: they’re the kind of songs that formed the core of oldies radio or Jack FM, their familiarity extended through use in movies. Indeed, a few of the cuts here are strongly identified with other films—Blue Swede’s gonzo reading of BJ Thomas’ “Hooked On A Feeling” played an indelible part in Reservoir Dogs—but when jumbled together on Star-Lord’s ancient cassette these super hits of the 1970s manage to keep Guardians Of The Galaxy connected to its gaudy B-movie roots.

Natalie Portman notoriously tells Zach Braff that the Shins will “change your life” in Garden State, so it’s not surprising that the Shins play a pivotal role on the soundtrack. Not only does it include two of their best songs, “Caring Is Creepy” and “New Slang,” but they act as a pivot to encompass such peers as Iron & Wine and folk-rock forefathers as Simon & Garfunkel and Nick Drake, with the moody trip-hop of Thievery Corporation, Zero 7, and Frou Frou acting as the stylish glue that places the soundtrack squarely in the early 2000s.

A bona fide pop culture relic of the time before MTV, the 1981 theatrical adaptation of the sci-fi comic magazine Heavy Metal boasts a soundtrack that’s only marginally less redolent of its era than the film itself. This is the sound of album-oriented rock at the dawn of the 1980s, a subculture filled with jean jackets, bongs, sexy aliens, and vans bedecked with murals. Some of the connections within the soundtrack can seem lost to time—why is Donald Fagen here with his first post-Steely Dan cut? Why is there so much music from former Eagle Don Felder?—but the fun of the album is to hear Sammy Hagar’s full-throated title track butt up against Journey’s power ballad “Open Arms” and a bunch of vaguely anonymous AOR from the aging Nazareth and a guy called Riggs.

Paul Thomas Anderson naturally relied on disco and yacht rock for Boogie Nights, his 1997 epic chronicling the porn underground of the 1970s, so it’s no surprise that the soundtrack plays a bit like a retro blast, containing nary a hint of the darkness within the film does. Almost everything on the soundtrack is from the satin-draped 1970s: the exceptions are Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian,” which doesn’t sound as menacing when it’s not playing behind a coked-up Alfred Molina, and the elegiac “God Only Knows” from the Beach Boys, as well as a coda from Michael Penn’s soundtrack. The rest is all spangly ’70s hits that are hard to resist.

A massive hit upon its release in 1983—it wound up spending a whopping 161 weeks on the Billboard charts—the soundtrack to Lawrence Kasdan’s reunion dramedy The Big Chill is the moment where the sound of young America turned into nostalgia. Relying heavily on Motown hits—in its original incarnation, six of the 10 songs hailed from Detroit—the soundtrack helped turn this once-groundbreaking music into comforting sounds of yesteryear. Decades later, The Big Chill can still sound like a good-time soundtrack to a perennial party.

The soundtrack to Alex Cox’s cult classic Repo Man acts as a time capsule, bringing back the grimy days of the early 1980s. Cox designed the soundtrack as a salute to the punk underground of Los Angeles, loading it up with cuts by the Circle Jerks and the Plugz, then getting the scene’s spiritual godfather Iggy Pop to write a theme song. With such classics as Black Flag’s “TV Party” and “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies anchoring the record, Repo Man can serve as a good introduction to this particular genre, but it also excels in capturing the nervous energy and sick humor of the film.

A film set in a record store is bound to have a good soundtrack and so it is with High Fidelity, Stephen Frears’ sharp adaptation of Nick Hornby’s 1995 novel. Moving the action from Britain to America—specifically Chicago, a city with a thriving indie-rock scene—meant that High Fidelity didn’t need to be assembled as a Britpop time capsule. Instead, this captures the sound of American record store culture in the late 1980s, balancing such staples as Bob Dylan, the Kinks, the Velvet Underground, and Love with such upstarts as Stereolab, Smog, Royal Trux, and the Beta Band. It’s a blend that still sounds deft and clever years later.

Designed as a silver screen vehicle for Eminem, 8 Mile wound up capturing lightning in a bottle, simultaneously mythologizing the rapper’s early years while putting a tidy bow on his first act. Anchored by the stirring “Lose Yourself”—the kind of believable hit this project needed, delivered with deceptive ease—8 Mile: Music From And Inspired By The Motion Picture doesn’t push Eminem to the forefront; it’s as much about launching Shady Records as its own viable entity, relying on tracks by Obie Trice, 50 Cent, and D12. 8 Mile also includes cuts by Nas, Macy Gray, Rakim, and Gang Starr—not to mention Taryn Manning’s alt-rock outfit Boomkat—helping to give the sense of a world that exists far beyond Detroit.

Like the film it accompanies, Forrest Gump: The Soundtrack effectively serves as a Cliffs Notes of the Baby Boom generation. Opening with Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” and ending with Bob Seger’s romantic “Against The Wind,” the soundtrack doesn’t hit upon every trend or phenomenon—there is no disco, for instance, plus not a lot of early R&B—but as it races from the folk revival through psychedelia and Southern rock to land at Fleetwood Mac, it seems as the album offers a cultural history in miniature.

One of the very first movies to have a soundtrack comprised entirely of rock music, Easy Rider suffered a bit from its pioneering status: Dennis Hopper managed to get the Band’s “The Weight” into his film but the soundtrack didn’t initially feature it due to licensing issues. The album didn’t need it, really, not with a pair of Steppenwolf songs establishing the film’s biker milieu, then the rest of the record expands into the sun-bleached country-rock of Roger McGuinn and the Byrds, balancing those tunes with such freaks as Electric Prunes, Jimi Hendrix, and the Holy Modal Rounders. It’s a snapshot of the rise of the hippie nation.

If all Bradley Cooper’s adaptation of the classic Hollywood myth A Star Is Born gave us was “Shallow,” a karaoke duet for the ages, it would earn its place on a list of great movie soundtracks, but this 2018 album is filled with sharply executed rockers that walk a line separating Americana and arena-rock. It helps to have songwriting contributions from Jason Isbell, Lukas Nelson, and Natalie Hemby, of course, but Cooper’s growl is convincing, lending an earthy context for Lady Gaga’s emotive tour de force.

Ice Cube made the leap to the silver screen with Friday, a raucous comedy designed to lighten his persona. Fittingly, the accompanying soundtrack plays like a party that won’t stop until Saturday night. Cube sets the pace with his theme song, establishing a deeply funky precedent continued by former NWA bandmate Dr. Dre’s “Keep Their Heads Ringin’,” which became a smash hit in 1995. By combining old-school funk by Roger, Rose Royce, and Rick James with newer cuts by Mack 10 and 2 Live Crew, Friday really winds up seeming like a soundtrack to a never-ending block party.

Singles wrapped production months before Nirvana’s Nevermind became a sensation in late 1991, so it was serendipity that the film and its Seattle-saturated soundtrack appeared in 1992’s summer of grunge. Director Cameron Crowe made sure to load the soundtrack with many of Seattle’s finest, including Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, Mudhoney, Chris Cornell, Screaming Trees, and the late Mother Love Bone, making nods to the city’s past by including an oldie by Jimi Hendrix Experience and having Heart masquerade as the Lovemongers. At the time, the pair of songs where ex-Replacement Paul Westerberg attempts to sing with a smile were the singles, but they now seem like artifacts whereas the rest of the record conjures the glory days of Doc Martens and flannel.

Reuniting with T Bone Burnett, the musician who masterminded the soundtrack to their 2000 hit O Brother, Where Art Thou, the Coen Brothers pulled off a minor miracle for Inside Llewyn Davis, their 2013 ode to New York City’s folk scene of the early 1960s: they get the sound and feel of the period exactly right. Burnett’s song curation goes a long way in capturing this authenticity but actors Oscar Isaac, Carey Mulligan, and Justin Timberlake—not to mention Adam Driver’s scene-stealing appearance on “Please Mr. Kennedy”—help convey both the dark brooding and collegiate optimism lurking within the scene.

An exercise in nostalgia that carries only a vague hint of period charm, the Dirty Dancing soundtrack does have a few genuine oldies among its 12 songs, such as Bruce Channel’s ebullient “Hey! Baby” and a pair of doo-wop standards by the Five Satins and Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. What made the album a phenomenon in the 1980s is how most of the soundtrack revived the feeling of the past with the sounds of the present: that’s the combination that fueled the film’s theme song “(I’ve Had) the Time of My Life,” a stirring duet between Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, plus such deep cuts as Doobie Brother Tom Johnston’s swinging “Where Are You Tonight?” The record’s romantic heart lies in Eric Carmen’s yearning “Hungry Eyes” and Patrick Swayze’s power ballad “She’s Like The Wind,” hit singles that helped turn Dirty Dancing into a phenomenon.

Disco maven Giorgio Moroder played a pivotal role in such early 1980s Hollywood hits as American Gigolo and Flashdance, yet his best pop soundtrack might be one that seems atypical at first glance: the songs for Tom Cruise’s runaway 1986 blockbuster Top Gun. With Tom Whitlock, Moroder wrote just under half the album’s songs—Beverly Hills Cop synth maestro Harold Faltermeyer wrote a good chunk of the rest—including the big hits of Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away” and Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone,” a pair of gilded rock tunes that are as relentless and insistent as the film itself. Strong period work from Loverboy, Cheap Trick, and Miami Sound Machine are overshadowed by these big ’80s masterpieces, but they nevertheless help make this album an excellent document of the overheated 1980s.

Mario Van Peebles’ slick update of Blaxploitation places New Jack Swing so squarely in the center it could almost be considered a sampler of the style. There are exceptions to the rule, flashy ones too: Ice-T’s theme song “New Jack Hustler” opens the soundtrack, firmly grounding the album in a gritty earthiness that hangs over the rest of the record. What’s remarkable about New Jack City is how the blend of old-fashioned soul, modern dance. and hip-hop still seems vibrant, a sharp and colorful blend of past and present that feels bracingly modern.

Public Enemy’s “Fight The Power,” the most galvanizing protest song of its generation, rightly looms over Do the Right Thing, giving a misleading impression that the soundtrack to Spike Lee’s masterpiece delivers nothing but catharsis. That’s not the case. Like the film itself, the soundtrack touches upon the bright cacophony of city life, matching reggae breezes with heavy go-go, romantic ballads with funk workouts, finding space for quiet storm—and New Jack Swing.

American Graffiti, George Lucas’ valentine to long summer nights filled with aimless adolescent cruising, was set in 1962—the period between the birth of rock and roll and its British Invasion revival. This turns the soundtrack into a double-LP celebration of the early days of rock and roll, wisely balancing R&B and doo-wop with soda fountain pop and a hint of rockabilly. Apart from Chuck Berry, nothing here rocks too hard—there’s no Little Richard or Jerry Lee Lewis—a deliberate choice that helps this create an endless sock hop fantasy.

The soundtrack to Mike Nichols’ The Graduate doesn’t consist entirely of Simon & Garfunkel music—the folk-rocker’s numbers alternate with the score by Dave Grusin—yet their songs so define both the film and record, it’s impossible to think of how it could exist without the duo. Listening to The Graduate as an album serves as a reminder that “Mrs. Robinson,” the song Paul Simon wrote for the film, wasn’t entirely finished until after the movie’s release. It’s heard here in two fragments, teamed alongside variations on “Scarborough Fair/Canticle,” “The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine ‘’ and “The Sound Of Silence,” which is heard in both its electric and acoustic arrangements. The variations and repetition contain a nearly spectral quality that pairs nicely with Grusin’s comparatively gregarious numbers; they feel like the interior monologue of Dustin Hoffman’s Benjamin Braddock.

Arriving squarely in the middle of the 1990s, Baz Luhrmann’s overheated William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet has a quintessentially alt-rock soundtrack, touching upon several different fads and sounds. Despite the appearance of Butthole Surfers, this doesn’t steer toward the ugliest aspects of alt-rock; only Everclear could conceivably be called grunge and even that’s a bit of a stretch. Instead, Romeo + Juliet piles up moody numbers by Garbage and Radiohead, while finding space for romance from Des’ree and the Cardigans, whose “Love Fool” became an international hit. It’s a combination that still sounds stylish and alluring years after the film’s release.

A teen comedy set in a record store released during the thick of the alt-rock explosion, Empire Records almost serves as a candy-colored retort to grunge: there’s no bad vibes here, just exuberance and romance. While a good number of the acts here didn’t have long careers, cuts by Lustre, the Meices, and Coyote Shivers are evocative period pieces, while power pop survivors Gin Blossoms, Edwyn Collins, Evan Dando, and Toad the Wet Sprocket give the album the tuneful backbone it needs.

There is no record more 1993 than Judgment Night, the soundtrack to a crime thriller starring Emilio Estevez, Cuba Gooding Jr., and Denis Leary. The concept for the soundtrack is simple and brilliant: pair alt-rockers with rappers, thereby cornering the market on two of the most popular sounds of the time. Rap-rock had been kicking around for a while—at least since Run-DMC invited Aerosmith to “Walk This Way”—but it had yet to be codified as lowest common denominator mook-rock, which means a revisit to Judgment Night can deliver some surprises. There’s some aggression here—witness the opening “Just Another Victim” from Helmet and House of Pain—but there’s a lot of thrilling weirdness coming from such pairings as Teenage Fanclub and De La Soul, Sonic Youth and Cypress Hill, Dinosaur Jr. and Del the Funky Homosapien, not to mention the gonzo bad taste of Sir Mix-A-Lot and Mudhoney’s “Freak Momma.”

Capturing the mess of an era as only a piece of slapdash product can, Clueless is filled with wannabe alt-rock hits, new wave covers, and throwaway rarities from the likes of the Beastie Boys and Radiohead. The Muffs tear into “Kids In America” with an adolescent abandon that’s matched by the muscled Mighty Mighty Bosstones, yet much of Clueless is quite light and tuneful, a sign that this has roots in an earlier era. Listen closely and it’s possible to hear a generation shift here, where the earnest college rock of World Party and Jill Sobule give way to the exuberance of Supergrass and Velocity Girl.

Footloose is all about teenage rebellion so it’s a little amusing that the soundtrack masterminded by screenwriter Dean Pitchford skews so heavily toward adult-oriented pop. Apart from Moving Pictures, whose closing “Never” feels like a coda, every act featured on Footloose is a 1970s survivor, giving the album a curiously retro flavor that’s readily apparent in retrospect; Karla Bonoff’s “Somebody’s Eyes” is yacht rock by any other name. All these studio pros did manage to convey a sense of adolescence, though, an emotion that ties together the exuberance of Kenny Loggins’ theme song and Deniece Williams’s “Let’s Hear It For The Boy” as well as Mike Reno and Ann Wilson’s power ballad “Almost Paradise … Love Theme from Footloose.” Then, there’s the record’s masterpiece, “Holding Out For A Hero,” a Jim Steinman co-write that is more cinematic than the film itself.

In some ways, the soundtrack to the 1994 basketball drama Above The Rim serves as a testament to the power of Death Row in the mid-1990s. Supervised by Dr. Dre, Above The Rim expands the hazy sound of G-funk to smoother territory, relying heavily on R&B vocal groups while also finding space for the film’s star Tupac Shakur. “Regulate,” the Warren G and Nate Dogg track that turned into the record’s signature anthem, hits the sweet spot of smooth soul and gritty hip-hop.

Tim Burton used a couple of old Prince songs on the temporary soundtrack for his eagerly anticipated adaptation of Batman, thereby opening the gates for the Purple One to write an entire collection of songs inspired by this big-budget version of the Caped Crusader. Burton already had a score from Danny Elfman in place, so Prince had the freedom to roam, which is exactly what he did: he swiped dialogue from the film, wrote “Partyman” as a tribute to Jack Nicholson, then assembled the album so certain songs were sung from the perspective of Batman or the Joker. The apotheosis of his mischief is “Batdance,” a collage of rhythms, jokes, and samples that only sounds stranger as the years pass, but the collection of fizzy funk and vibrant pop remains compelling.

Let’s face it: This Is Spinal Tap wouldn’t really work if it didn’t have a soundtrack filled with songs that seemed authentic, songs that seemed like ancient relics from the heavy mists of the 1970s. With the 11 songs on the original 1984 soundtrack, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, Harry Shearer, and Rob Reiner managed to do just that, creating the illusion of not only an aging metal band adrift in America in the early 1980s, but giving them a credible backstory with the bopping Merseybeat of “Gimme Some Money” and trippy psychedelia of “(Listen to The) Flower People.”

The Bodyguard soundtrack turned pub rock survivor Nick Lowe into a millionaire thanks to the revved-up rendition Curtis Stigers performs on the back half of the record. This unexpected windfall illustrates just how big The Bodyguard was in 1992: it was certified platinum 17 times by 1999, a phenomenal success that rests entirely on the back of Whitney Houston, who starred in the film and sang half of the soundtrack. Houston’s covers of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” and Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” fueled this phenomenon and they still sound like pinnacles of her career, capturing her ease at ballads and disco. Houston rightfully dominates the album but the cuts by Kenny G & Aaron Neville, Lisa Stansfield, Joe Cocker & Sass Jordan, and Stigers are immaculately crafted adult-oriented pop that helps tie the album together.

“Misirlou” existed for decades prior to Pulp Fiction but Quentin Tarantino’s decision to put Dick Dale’s 1962 recording at the front of his second film carried the power of a thunderclap—an experience replicated on record by how it follows a bit of a film dialogue from Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer; arriving after their banter, it still sounds seismic. The soundtrack is littered with dialogue snippets, all serving as reminders of how Tarantino was able to find something vividly cinematic in such familiar oldies as “Jungle Boogie,” “Let’s Stay Together,” “Son Of A Preacher Man” and “Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon,” here delivered by Urge Overkill in the record’s only nod toward the alt-rock-besotted 1990s. Pulp Fiction belongs to the 1990s but it’s stitched together from fragments of pop culture past, a magpie sensibility underscored by the abundance of surf-rock classics that help keep this album humming.

Both the film and soundtrack of Trainspotting open with the thundering drums of Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life,” a sound that serves as a rallying call for the dark satire of Danny Boyle’s theatrical adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s tale of Scottish heroin addicts. The film arrived in 1996, right at the height of Britpop but the brilliant thing about the soundtrack is that it doesn’t play into laddish bluster. Instead, it exists at the intersection of indie and electronica, balancing Underworld and Leftfield with Pulp, Blur, and Elastica, using Primal Scream’s epic title track as the bridge between the extremes.

Denied permission to use David Bowie songs in his glam rock fantasia, Todd Haynes opted to spruce up some glittery oldies with new covers by glam’s heirs, as well as a couple of made-to-order originals. Blending the past and present, authentic relics with canny replicas, turns out to be a masterstroke, emphasizing the sexy fluidity and kinetic kick of the glam era. It helps that the originals by Grant Lee Buffalo, Shudder to Think, and Pulp hold their own against vintage Brian Eno, Roxy Music, and Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel: it assists Haynes in his mission of blurring boundaries between reality and dreams.

Masterminded by Kendrick Lamar, Black Panther: The Album performs an unusual feat that mirrors its accompanying film: it finds a distinct artistic voice within the confines of a corporate-driven genre. Where Ryan Coogler was beholden to certain dramatic beats in his film, Lamar was able to roam somewhat freely, working alongside regular producer Sounwave on an album that, like Prince’s Batman before it, is as much “inspired” by the film as a soundtrack. Enlisting a cast of collaborators that includes Travis Scott, SZA, Khalid, Vince Staples, Anderson Paak, and The Weeknd, Lamar winds up with an album that captures the invigorating essence of the film itself.

With his carefully curated soundtracks, John Hughes helped introduce middle America to the arty, stylish sounds of British post-punk and new wave in the 1980s. Pretty In Pink crystallized this trait, its tight 10 songs serving as an overview of the sounds that didn’t quite fall into the confines of either mainstream radio or MTV during the mid-1980s. Hughes named his romantic drama after a Psychedelic Furs song—the group re-recorded it for the soundtrack—then hired synth-poppers Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark to write its romantic anthem “If You Leave.” With those anchors in place, a new New Order song was added to the mix alongside selections by Echo & the Bunnymen, the Smiths, and INXS, making for a 1980s sampler so good it’s almost excusable that Nik Kershaw’s delicate “Wouldn’t It Be Good” is here in a heavy-handed version by Three Dog Night’s Danny Hutton.

Curtis Mayfield found poetry within Gordon Parks Jr.’s Superfly, riffing upon the film’s ghetto crime saga to address societal ills. Mayfield doesn’t sound enamored by the hustlers and drug dealers he chronicles: “Pusherman” and “Superfly” bristle with anger, while “Freddie’s Dead” carries a real undercurrent of sorrow. Mayfield tempers his disdain with sumptuous arrangements, bold funk and silky vocals, a combination that has all the lush allure of early 1970s soul while also suiting the grittiness of the film’s story.

Thanks to T Bone Burnett’s masterful curation and production, O Brother, Where Art Thou—the Coen Brothers’ Southern fried interpretation of Homer’s Odyssey—became something more than a hit. With its wiley, heartfelt resurrections of Depression-era folk, country, and blues, O Brother, Where Art Thou became a touchstone for a generation of Americana artists, helping bring old-timey string bands and harmony groups back in fashion.

The first Beatles album to feature nothing but original compositions, A Hard Day’s Night marries one side of songs featured in their feature film debut with six songs they knocked out in early 1964. While none of the songs on the second side feature in the film—its country-ish number “I’ll Cry Instead” almost made the cut—all the music feels of the same piece because it captures the Beatles hitting their stride, not only as songwriters but as record-makers. A Hard Day’s Night crackles with inventive excitement that’s not only apparent on its surging title track or exuberant “Can’t Buy Me Love” but on such sweet ballads as “If I Fell,” where the band seems excited by their discoveries.

Prince crafted Purple Rain as a career-making blockbuster and he succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Not only did the film become an unexpected hit but his focus pushed him to create his tightest—and maybe best—album, one that is filled with formal invention and incandescent rock and roll. Purple Rain certainly benefits from the chemistry of the Revolution, who help elevate “Let’s Go Crazy” and “Purple Rain” to the point of transcendence, yet what gives the album its nervy energy is how Prince sneaks such experiments as the bass-less funk of “When Doves Cry” into the mix.

Forget soundtracks: back in 1977, Saturday Night Fever succeeded where few other pop albums did, moving so many copies it became the best-selling record in history at the time. The blockbuster success is all due to how Saturday Night Fever both chronicled and created a moment, picking up on the burgeoning disco underground and taking it into the mainstream through a collection of songs largely written by the Bee Gees. The brothers Gibb performed a good chunk of those tunes, including the film’s theme song, “Stayin’ Alive,” the ballad “How Deep Is Your Love,” and “More Than A Woman,” which finds romance on the dance floor. Saturday Night Fever is not without camp—witness David Shire’s “Night On Disco Mountain”—but by allowing Walter Murphy, KC and the Sunshine Band, the Trammps, and Tavares sit alongside the Bee Gees, the record winds up as a definitive moment of its time.

As the title suggests, Quentin Tarantino designed Once Upon A Time in ... Hollywood as a fantasy of an idyllic, swinging 1960s where L.A.’s studio system played a bigger role in the culture than hippies. It’s an era where AM Radio was ubiquitous, so naturally it makes sense that the soundtrack offers an idealized version of what a broadcast from 1969 might be—a collection of sugary pop, garage rockers, trippy interludes, earnest folkiness, and gritty funk, all tied together by commercials and jabber from hep-talking DJs. As an album, it’s ingenious: not only does it capture the spirit of the film, it provides the perfect soundtrack to endless hours of driving, an open-road sensibility that is inextricably tied to images of Cliff Booth cruising down the streets of Hollywood.

Batman Forever (1995): The reverse image of Prince’s idiosyncratic
Batman soundtrack, Batman Forever is a sleek, streamlined piece of
product designed to please every audience. Seal’s “Kiss From A Rose”
and U2's “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” were the hits but this
also offers such gems as PJ Harvey’s overdriven blues “One Time Too
Many.”

Jackie Brown (1997): Quentin Tarantino’s loving homage to ’70s
blaxploitation film gets the soundtrack it deserves, one filled with
funk and soul nuggets from the era.

I’m Not There (2007): The double-disc soundtrack to Todd Haynes’
kaleidoscopic treatise on Bob Dylan is an immersive collection of
inventive, passionate, even playful, Dylan covers from indie rockers
and folk troubadours.

Beverly Hills Cop (1984): Eddie Murphy’s silver screen breakthrough
boasted a soundtrack filled with gleaming new wave R&B from the
Pointer Sisters and Patti Labelle, gilded rock from Glenn Frey and, in
Harold Flatermeyer’s “Axel F,” a synth-pop instrumental for the ages.

Reality Bites (1994): Lisa Loeb’s sweet, yearning “Stay (I Missed
You)” became a number-one hit but the rest of the soundtrack for Ben
Stiller’s Gen-X romantic comedy dances around the zeitgeist in an
amusing fashion, splitting the difference between 1980s
college-rockers like Crowded House and Squeeze and such
1990s icons as Juliana Hatfield and Dinosaur Jr.

The Saint (1997): Val Kilmer’s 1997 update of The Saint was given a
thoroughly 1997 soundtrack, filled with trip-hop and electronica from
Orbital, Sneaker Pimps, Underworld, Daft Punk, and the Chemical
Brothers, who all share space here with their spiritual forefathers Duran
Duran and David Bowie.