All 10 Best Maya Hawke Movies Ranked (Best to Worst)

Pixar’s introspective sequel expands its psychic landscape into the turbulent trenches of adolescence, balancing bright metaphysical inventiveness with harrowing psychological realism. As puberty upends Riley’s emotional control center, the visual design tilts into frenetic, high-stakes kineticism, crystallizing the quiet dread of self-doubt into an urgent survival story. Maya Hawke completely steals the picture as Anxiety, infusing an orange tangle of manic nerves with disarming warmth, breathless vocal cadence, and frantic desperation. Rather than playing a standard cartoon antagonist, Hawke crafts a heartbreaking portrait of misguided protection that resonates deeply with audiences of all ages, securing her most celebrated and defining cinematic triumph to date.

Quentin Tarantino’s melancholic sun-drenched fable reimagines the twilight of 1960s Los Angeles through immaculate production design, sprawling dialogue, and revisionist history. The narrative floats effortlessly between Rick Dalton’s fading television career and Cliff Booth’s laconic wanderings, culminating in an audacious clash against the Manson family that rewires tragic cultural mythology. Even in an intensely brief cameo as Flower Child, Hawke makes a lasting impression. Fleeing Spahn Ranch’s deadly mission at the eleventh hour, her character's frantic, panic-fueled desertion injects a sudden pulse of raw, human cowardice into the gathering storm, showcasing Hawke’s ability to project visceral conflict with fleeting screen time.

Wes Anderson’s desert-bound, meta-theatrical puzzle box is an exquisite meditation on grief, artistic creation, and cosmic isolation. Set against a pastel-tinted 1950s Junior Stargazer convention, the production operates on synchronized rhythms and symmetrical framing, weaving nested layers of reality that dissect human vulnerability beneath formalist perfection. Hawke flourishes within this rigorous architecture as June Douglas, the earnest schoolteacher attempting to maintain curriculum decorum amid an extraterrestrial quarantine. Her deadpan sweetness, lilting Southern cadence, and endearing rapport with Rupert Friend’s wandering cowboy infuse Anderson’s porcelain dollhouse with genuine emotional warmth, demonstrating her instinctive harmony with idiosyncratic dialogue and ensemble blocking.

Jennifer Kaytin Robinson’s acid-hued teen satire resurrects the biting verve of Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train by way of late-nineties pop-culture maximalism. Featuring razor-sharp plotting, decadent costume design, and vicious social commentary on prep-school virtue signaling, the film crackles with vibrant visual flair and unhinged twists. Hawke delivers a sensational, bifurcated co-lead performance as Eleanor, gliding effortlessly from wounded, awkward wallflower to calculating sociopath. Her volatile chemistry with Camila Mendes anchors the chaotic energy, and Hawke attacks Eleanor’s villain monologues with delicious, razor-tongued glee, cementing her status as a premier comedic force capable of subverting teen-movie conventions.

Bradley Cooper’s monochrome-to-color portrait of Leonard Bernstein and Felicia Montealegre approaches the biopic form as a sprawling, polyrhythmic opera. The sound mixing, restless tracking shots, and emotional crosscurrents depict a complicated marriage tested by genius, closeted desire, and public adoration. Hawke steps into the second act as Jamie Bernstein, the maestro’s eldest daughter, navigating the crushing weight of family legacy and hushed rumors. In her pivotal, sunlit confrontation with Cooper, Hawke strips away theatricality, channeling wounded confusion and fragile filial loyalty with remarkable stillness. It is an understated dramatic turn that quietly proves her comfort within grand, Oscar-caliber historical realism.

Leigh Janiak’s slasher revival opens with unapologetic neon bloodletting, establishing a multi-generational curse in a mall that pays overt tribute to nineties teen horror. The film moves with relentless pace, blending crunchy practical gore with infectious needle drops to build a surprisingly rich mythology around the cursed town of Shadyside. Hawke assumes the pivotal cold-open mantle as Heather, echoing Drew Barrymore’s iconic prologue in Scream. Balancing bookish retail exhaustion with frantic terror, Hawke grounds the opening minutes in immediate, relatable stakes before the skull-masked killer strikes, setting an electric, dread-soaked bar that propels the entire trilogy forward.

Gia Coppola’s sensory-overload critique of influencer culture plunges into the garish absurdity of virality, complete with floating graphics and surreal, satirical skits. While the screenplay often slips into chaotic hyperbole, the visual aesthetic captures the hollow, neon-drenched alienation haunting the Los Angeles gig economy. Hawke commands the screen as Frankie, the lonely bartender seduced by Andrew Garfield’s reckless, unhinged content creator. She acts as the viewer's moral barometer, bringing bruised interiority and wide-eyed yearning to a character steadily corrupted by algorithm-driven validation. Hawke’s grounded melancholy prevents the film from collapsing under its own dizzying cynicism.

This understated independent drama hinges on quiet observational realism, exploring sensory deprivation and identity renegotiation within claustrophobic emotional spaces. As the protagonist copes with sudden hearing loss while inhabiting her ex’s new domestic life, the film prioritizes subtle audio design and deliberate pacing over manufactured melodrama. Hawke brings an austere, stripped-down sensitivity to the central dynamic, conveying complex undercurrents of jealousy, alienation, and adaptation without raising her voice. While the muted narrative reach holds the project back from broader critical resonance, Hawke’s restrained performance confirms her genuine willingness to tackle rigorous, non-commercial art-house material.

Constructed around a high-concept premise where romantic expression is legally restricted to a single evening, this indie romance seeks to subvert typical romantic comedy tropes through stylized dystopia. The central friction relies almost exclusively on dialogue rhythm and immediate stranger chemistry, though the worldbuilding occasionally strains credulity across its brisk runtime. Hawke leans into her natural eccentric charisma, elevating underwritten romantic beats with quick-witted banter and spontaneous emotional sincerity. It remains a lighter, transitional curio in her catalog, yet her magnetic presence single-handedly breathes warmth into an otherwise uneven speculative exercise.

Pulling back the curtain on one of the most culturally dominant streaming phenomenons in modern entertainment, this long-form production documentary chronicles the Herculean logistical scale, soundstage craft, and bittersweet farewells behind Hawkins’ final chapter. While strictly a behind-the-scenes companion piece rather than a narrative feature, it offers candid perspective on collaborative blockbuster filmmaking. Hawke provides thoughtful, self-aware reflections throughout her interviews, articulating Robin Buckley’s journey from sarcastic ice cream scooper to queer fan favorite. Though inherently lower-tier compared to scripted cinema, it captures Hawke’s grounded intelligence and gratitude toward the creative team that launched her career.