12 Best Burt Reynolds Movies, Ranked

Burt Reynolds was voted the number one box office star from 1978 through 1982, and he was consistently in the top ten from 1973 to 1984. The poll of theater owners ran for roughly a century, but shrinking theatrical windows and the advent of streaming (where there's no box office and we don't really know how many people are watching) have left such things to history.

But we're here to celebrate Reynolds, not decry the state of the movie business, so let's get into what made the man so darn appealing for so long. Far from an overnight sensation, Reynolds kicked off his screen career in the late 1950s with numerous appearances on television shows and in small films, but it was 1972's "Deliverance" that finally made him a household name. Charming, difficult, cocky, goofy — he took to action films while doing many of his own stunts, he embraced his silly side in broad comedies, and he quickly joined the ranks of Hollywood's most bankable stars.

Changing tastes and a series of poor choices (he turned down roles in "Star Wars" and "M*A*S*H") eventually led to a steep career decline in the mid 1980s, but Reynolds' later years hold some highlights, including an Oscar-nominated supporting role in Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights." Keep reading for a look at Burt Reynolds' twelve best movies (in lead roles).

We begin, naturally, with 1978's "The End." While it hit screens at the start of Reynolds' five-year reign at the top of the box-office, the darkly comic comedy remains a lesser-seen entry in his filmography. The film opens with a man called Sonny (Reynolds) being diagnosed with a rare, terminal illness that sends him into a spiral of depression and self-pity. Unable to face final days spent slowly dying in a hospital room, Sonny decides to kill himself — and he only grows more desperate when his first attempt lands him in a mental hospital.

Yes, it's a comedy. The film, Reynolds' second directorial feature, casts him as a selfish, sexist, racist guy who really only sees the world through the effect it has on him. Will he get on the right path and become a better person before he reaches his own end? Doubtful!

Very much a product of its time, the film is crass and offensive by today's standards, but the laughs are still frequent and plenty dark. One big source of humor comes with the arrival of Dom DeLuise as a giddy schizophrenic who makes it a goal to help Sonny die. Mental illness themes are typically more at home in horror and drama than in comedies, but Reynolds and DeLuise are such an underrated, comically talented duo that their banter and slapstick can't help but bring smiles.

Two years before delivering his masterpiece with 1968's "The Great Silence," director Sergio Corbucci delivered a one-two punch of spaghetti western thrills. One is the unforgettable cult sensation and franchise-starting "Django," and the other is "Navajo Joe." The story goes that Renolds signed on thinking it was to be directed by the legendary Sergio Leone, and Corbucci was thrilled because he thought he was getting Marlon Brando.

Director and star may not have hit it off, but their collaboration remains a mean, entertaining, and stylish tale of revenge that sees Corbucci finetuning his genre skills. Reynolds plays a Navajo man (the actor played Native Americans a few times and claimed Cherokee ancestry on his father's side) seeking vengeance against the Mexican gang who murdered everyone in his village. He picks them off, one by one, until he's left to face off against their leader in a cemetery.

It's standard fare in many ways, and few people have much good to say about it, but the film works despite any obvious shortcomings. Reynolds does his own stunt work and can be seen jumping and fighting with abandon, and the action sequences are crafted with an eye for impact and style. We also get an aggressive score by the great Ennio Morricone that keeps pace with the film's violent momentum.

Reynolds' third feature as director riffs on some unlikely inspirations including Alfred Hitchcock, Brian De Palma, and even a little Clint Eastwood (circa "Tightrope"), but it remains every bit a Reynolds film. "Sharky's Machine" follows a recently demoted detective whose latest case sees his surveillance of a woman become an obsession. It only grows more complicated when her past catches up with them both.

There are some solid action beats here, particularly in the first and third acts, but the film is at its best when Reynolds lets his cast just... be. Sharky watching Domino (Rachel Ward in full femme fatale mode) from afar in silence. The other cops (including Brian Keith, Charles Durning, and Bernie Casey) in Sharky's unit — the "machine" of the title — bantering and working together like old, familiar friends would. The shotgun-toting, drugged up madman (a terrific Henry Silva) who's tired of playing second fiddle to his kingpin older brother. There's a charismatic air to all of these scenes that's often preferable to the violence you know is right around the corner.

One fun side note on the film involves stunt performer Dar Robinson, who set a record on the movie that still stands today. He doubles a character at the film's end and does a 220-feet free-fall — the highest ever performed from a building for a movie stunt.

1986's "Heat" wasn't a hit, but don't let that dissuade you from giving in to its meandering, melancholic pleasures. Arriving at the tail end of his movie-star run, Reynolds plays a legendary bodyguard in Las Vegas working whatever gigs he can to save up for retirement. It's an unattainable dream because he'll never have enough money and he too often gambles it all away.

If the plot seems a bit slight, well, that's the charm of William Goldman's script (and novel, which was later adapted as "Wild Card" for Jason Statham), and it's likely why the film tanked at the box office. The 1980s were all about the excess, but the film feels like it escaped the 1970s. Nick's (Reynolds) interactions have a casual approach to them making it something of a noirish hangout film. It makes sense that Robert Altman was originally attached to direct before bailing during pre-production.

The musical chairs game didn't stop there as Reynolds came to blows with the film's director during production, leading to a trouble-free replacement. That punch to Richards' jaw is actually more action than the star manages to muster on the screen, and while Nick gets into some violent scrapes, Reynolds lets editing, slow-motion, and some highly unconvincing stunt doubles do all of the action work. It's the one area where the film disappoints, but everything else is a moody and charismatic good time.

"Hustle" reunited Reynolds and director Robert Aldrich one year after they scored big with the raucous fun of "The Longest Yard," but this is a wholly different ball game. Humorous beats add to a tonal wonkiness early on, but this is ultimately a grim, cynical look at life surrounded by bad people doing bad things. It's methodically paced and frequently mean-spirited, but it's also woven through with beautifully calm moments.

Reynolds plays a homicide detective investigating the death of a teenage girl, and it's a case that simultaneously goes nowhere and everywhere fast. Phil's (Reynolds) downtime is spent with the woman he loves, a high-priced call girl played by Catherine Deneuve, but he struggles to commit due to both the ugliness of the outside world and his own inner doubts. Their time together is alternately sweet and emotionally charged, and Reynolds' performance hits all the right notes.

Those evils are on display here, and while the film is far from sleazy or graphic, it doesn't shy away from some cruelly heart wrenching moments. The parents of the dead girl are painfully traumatized while the cops are brutally unfazed. Bad men get away with bad things, and even when some form of justice is found, it comes at a price. Conspiracy and collusion exist, but sometimes it's a random encounter that takes the heaviest toll.

"Fade In" is probably the least watched film on this list. Reynolds plays a smalltown rancher who meets and falls for a young woman (Barbara Loden) working as an assistant editor on a film production that's come to town. The two hit it off, share their lives with each other, and then say their wistful goodbyes when the production wraps. It's simple, sweet, and a terrific showcase of Reynolds' acting talents.

The bigger drama unfolded offscreen, though, as Paramount decided to shelve it for five years before eventually premiering it on TV in 1973. The reasons ranged from producers with poor taste to possible controversy as the first Hollywood film to show a woman taking a birth control pill. Both writer Mart Crowley and director Jud Taylor wanted their names removed, making this the earliest (shot) film with an Alan Smithee directorial credit. It's a shame because, as mentioned, it's a very good, intimately crafted story about two wholly different souls finding an unlikely connection with an end date.

One more interesting element about the film is that it was shot simultaneously and alongside a western called "Blue." Cast and crew from that film can be seen milling about in this one as "Blue" is ostensibly the film that Loden's character is working on. There's no other relation between them, but it makes for a fascinating double feature.

Reynolds' filmography features more than a few movies focused on fast cars and automotive stunts with his two best still to come below. 1973's "White Lightning" parks itself into their company, though, on the sheer thrill of its hicksploitation roots and good ol' boy energy. (And fans should immediately chase it with the sequel, "Gator," which adds more comedy into the mix.)

Bobby McKlusky (Reynolds), Gator to his friends, sees his prison sentence cut short after making a deal with the feds to aid their investigation into a corrupt Arkansas sheriff. They give him a souped-up Ford, but when Gator learns that the sheriff killed his brother, he becomes a man more focused on revenge than he is on helping the feds. That's good news for viewers as Gator tears into the sheriff's moonshine operation before finally confronting the man himself in the form of a wickedly good car chase and some satisfying vengeance.

This might just be the sweatiest movie you'll ever see as the Arkansas heat bakes everyone and everything in sight. You can almost feel the humidity seeping through your screen, and it adds to an atmosphere filled with rage and the smell of exhaust fumes. Reynolds lights up the screen, Ned Beatty radiates a sleazy evil, and the car action is frequently spectacular. This is a wildly entertaining action romp about men who only come in three flavors — bad, worse, and dead.

Reynolds played football in college and had hoped to head into the majors, but an injury sidelined him and instead opened the door for a career on screen. Those two loves collide in Robert Aldrich's "The Longest Yard," and the results are as dramatically satisfying as they are fun, cathartic, and thrilling. After all, who wouldn't want to see a team of affable, beleaguered convicts beat the snot out of an opposing team of sadistic, vindictive prison guards?

Paul (Reynolds) is a pro football player whose off-the-field antics result in his arrest. The prison's warden (a wonderfully vile Eddie Albert) manages a football team of guards and agrees to an exhibition game against the prisoners as both a power play and a chance to make the prisoners suffer, but he's about to learn that courage and revenge are stronger motivators than fear.

If you've only seen the Adam Sandler remake, you owe it to yourself to watch the original. Its comedic moments are well earned, and they're nestled into a story rich in character, drama, and consequence as Paul rides a compelling arc from start to finish. As with many of Aldrich's films, the supporting cast is loaded with familiar faces you love to see, the camaraderie feels authentic, and there's an engaging suspense to the action. It also makes for a fun double feature with Reynolds' slighter football film, "Semi-Tough." (See which one made our list of the best football movies.)

When people talk about movies that couldn't get made today, one that's often forgotten is Colin Higgins' "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." The title alone would see it stopped dead in its tracks, but it's also a musical? Headlined by two huge stars? With a cop helping sex workers who are under fire by a moral watchdog? All true, and happily it doesn't need to be made today because the 1982 feature exists and holds up as a celebration of goofy fun, kindness, and old-ish Hollywood.

The Chicken Ranch is a popular brothel for men looking to relax and women looking to help, and the local sheriff (Reynolds) is even dating the madam (Dolly Parton) of the house. They run into trouble, though, when a judgmental spotlight lands upon them, threatening the future of both the brothel and the duo's relationship. Of course, that's nothing a little song and dance can't fix.

While the topics at hand lean R-rated, the film eschews the raunchy in favor of the cheesy and the silly. Sex is on the table, but love is in its heart, and it winds up being a movie that just leaves you smiling and tapping along to the musical numbers. Parton and Reynolds are both having a grand time, and supporting turns by Charles Durning and Dom DeLuise keep the laughs coming.

It's a deservedly big deal when people like Tom Cruise do their own stunts, but cool actors have been doing it since the days of Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton. Reynolds did the same early on, and "Hooper" is the star offering up a sincere and hugely entertaining love letter to the stunt professionals (who absolutely deserve Oscar recognition each year).

Reynolds plays Sonny Hooper, a celebrated stuntman whose entrance into middle age comes with stark realizations — his body just can't take much more of the physical abuse required by the job. There's a scene here that's arguably the most affecting of Reynolds' career as Sonny stands before a mirror wearing only his underwear and forces himself to acknowledge his broken, scarred, and extremely tired body. It's incredibly sincere and effective, and it's the heart of a film filled with action, laughs, bar brawls, and good times.

Hal Needham, himself a veteran of the stunt community, directs his second collaboration with Reynolds and goes all-out in celebrating the world he knows and loves. There's genuine heart here amid the playful antics, beer swilling, and epic stunt work, and it's a beautiful thing. Add in Sally Field, Adam West, Jan-Michael Vincent, and you have a movie that can go toe to toe with any on this list.

Odds are, when most people picture Burt Reynolds, it's in the form of 1977's "Smokey and the Bandit." A mustachioed Reynolds grinning from the driver's seat of a Pontiac Trans Am is as iconic of a film image as you're likely to find, and that grin is shared by anyone who watches. This movie is the epitome of fun.

The Bandit (Reynolds) is tasked with helping transport beer across multiple state lines — the seventies were a lawless time, friends — and he's dealing with both a tight deadline and a vindictive sheriff (aka the Smokey, played by a pitch perfect Jackie Gleason). Sally Field pops in as a runaway bride scooped up by Reynolds while driving interference for Jerry Reed's beer-filled semitruck, and Paul Williams finds some ridiculous laughs as a man called Little Enos.

The dialogue has a lively, spontaneous feel to it, the entire cast is having a blast, and director Hal Needham ensures his feature debut is loaded with fast cars, vehicular mayhem, and plenty of stunts. It's arguably a far more immature riff on the themes in "White Lightning," but it's also a bigger, more polished take with just one thing on its mind — fun. It's one big chase film, like "Fury Road" on laughing gas, and it's equally rewatchable as every beat lands with a smile.

Four friends head out for a fun river rafting adventure in the wild backwoods of Georgia, but poor choices and bad luck see them in conflict with both the natural world and its locals. While the premise for John Boorman's 1972 classic might sound like the setup for a horror film involving backwoods atrocities and inbred cannibals, "Deliverance" is actually about a whole lot more.

To be sure, there are some terrifying and grotesque acts to be found here, but Boorman and writer James Dickey have more on their minds than just cheap thrills. Reynolds is joined by Jon Voight, Ronny Cox, and Ned Beatty as friends who each approach midlife and manliness in different ways. Pitting them against nature, other men, and their own limitations reveals a fascinating, thrilling commentary on a collision between class, confidence, and conflict.

Masculinity, it turns out, is a fragile thing. These men are facing challenges the likes of which they've never before experienced, and both their expectations and abilities are being put to the test. Survival means doing things — and enduring things — that they'll likely never speak of again, and each act, each offense, chips away just a little bit more of their manhood and their humanity. All four leads do strong work here with Reynolds finding the breakout role his career had been searching for (and, for once, not being a part of the offscreen scuffle).