For every person who adores Shakespeare, there are probably a dozen more who wonder why.

We get it; his writings, composed in a past when the predominant worldview was built around beliefs and ideologies that now feel as antiquated as the blend of poetry and prose in which he wrote them, can easily feel tied to social mores that are in direct opposition to our own, often reflecting the classist, sexist, and racist patriarchal dogma that continues to plague our world today. Why, then, should we still be so enthralled with him?

The answer to that question might be more eloquently expressed by Chloe Zhao’s “Hamnet” – now in wide release and already a winner in this year’s barely begun awards season – than through any explanation we could offer.

Adapted from the novel by Maggie O’Farrell (who co-wrote the screenplay with Zhao), it focuses its narrative on the relationship between Will Shakespeare (Paul Mescal) and his wife Agnes Hathaway (Jessie Buckley), who meet when the future playwright – working to pay off a debt for his abusive father – is still just a tutor helping the children of well-to-do families learn Latin. Enamored from afar at first sight, he woos his way into her life, and, convincing both of their families to approve the match (after she becomes pregnant with their first child), becomes her husband. More children follow – including Hamnet (Jacobi Jupe), a “surprise” twin boy to their second daughter – but, recognizing Will’s passion for writing and his frustration at being unable to follow it, Agnes encourages him to travel to London in order to immerse himself in his ambitions.

As the years go by, Agnes – aided by her mother-in-law (Emily Watson) and guided by the nature-centric pagan wisdom of her own deceased mother – raises the children while her husband, miles away, builds a successful career as the city’s most popular playwright. But when an outbreak of bubonic plague results in the death of 11-year-old Hamnet in Will’s absence, an emotional wedge is driven between them – especially when Agnes receives word that her husband’s latest play, titled “Hamlet,” considered an interchangeable equivalent to the name of their dead son, is about to debut on the London stage.

There is nothing, save the bare details of circumstance around the Shakespeare family, that can be called factual about the narrative told in “Hamnet.” Records of Shakespeare’s private life are sparse and short on context, largely limited to civic notations of fact – birth, marriage, and death announcements, legal documents, and other general records – that leave plenty of blank spaces in which to speculate about the personal nuance that such mundane details might imply. What is known is that the Shakespeares lost their son, probably to the plague, and that “Hamlet” – a play dominated by expressions of grief and existential musings about life and death – was written over the course of the next five years. Shakespearean scholars have filled in the blanks, and it’s hard to argue with their assumptions about the influence young Hamnet’s tragic death likely had over the creation of his father’s masterwork. What human being would not be haunted by such an event, and how could it not impact every aspect of their experience in the world forever after?

In their screenplay, O’Farrell and Zhao imagine an Agnes Shakespeare (most records refer to her as “Anne” but her father’s will uses the name “Agnes”) who stands apart from the conventions of her town, born of a “wild woman” in the woods and raised in ancient traditions of mysticism and nature magic before being adopted into her well-off family, who presents a worthy match and an intellectual equal for the brilliantly passionate creator responsible for some of Western Civilization’s most iconic tales. They imagine a courtship that would have defied the customs of the time and a relationship that feels almost modern, grounded in a love and mutual respect that’s a far cry from most popular notions of what a 16th-century marriage might look like. More than that, they imagine that the devastating loss of a child – even in a time when the mortality rate for children was high – might create a rift between two parents who can only process their grief alone. And despite the fact that almost none of what they present to us can be seen, at best, as anything other than informed speculation, it all feels devastatingly true.

That’s the quality that “Hamnet” shares with the ever-popular Will Shakespeare; though it takes us into a past that feels almost as alien to us as if it took place upon a different planet, it evokes a connection to the simple experience of being human, which cuts through the differences in context. Just as the kings, heroes, and fools of Shakespeare’s plays express and embody the same emotional experiences that shape our own mundane modern lives, the film’s portrayal of these two real-life people torn apart by personal tragedy speaks directly to our own shared sense of loss – and it does so with an eloquence that, like Shakespeare’s, emerges from the story to make it feel as palpable as if their grief was our own.

Yes, the writing and direction – each bringing a powerfully feminine “voice” to the story – are key to the emotional impact of “Hamnet,” but it’s the performances of its stars that carry it to us. Mescal, once more proving himself a master at embodying the kind of heartfelt, masculine tenderness that’s capable of melting our hearts, gives us an accessible Shakespeare, driven perhaps by a spark of genius yet deeply grounded in a tangible humanity that underscores the “everyman” sensibility that informs the man’s plays. But it’s Buckley’s movie, by a wide margin, and her bold, fierce, and deeply affecting performance gives voice to a powerful grief, a cry against the injustice and cruelty of what we fumblingly call “fate” that resonates deep within us and carries our own grief, over losses we’ve had and losses we know are yet to come, along with her on the journey to catharsis.

That’s the word – “catharsis” – that defines why Shakespeare (and by extension, “Hamnet”) still holds such power over the imagination of our human race all these centuries later. The circumstantial details of his stories, wrapped up in ancient ideologies that still haunt our cultural imagination, fall away in the face of the raw expression of humanity to which his characters give voice. When Hamlet asks “to be or not to be?,” he is not an old-world Danish Prince contemplating revenge against a traitor who murdered his father; he is Shakespeare himself, pondering the essential mystery of life and death, and he is us, too.

Likewise, the Agnes Shakespeare of “Hamnet” (masterfully enacted by Buckley) embodies all our own sorrows – past and future, real and imagined – and connects them to the well of human emotion from which we all must drink; it’s more powerful than we expect, and more cleansing than we imagine, and it makes Zhao’s exquisitely devastating movie into a touchstone for the ages.

We can’t presume to speak for Shakespeare, but we are pretty sure he would be pleased.

The 83rd annual Golden Globes awards are set for Sunday (CBS, 8 p.m. EST). One of the many bright spots this awards season is “Hedda,” a unique LGBTQ version of the classic Henrik Ibsen story, “Hedda Gabler,” starring powerhouses Nina Hoss, Tessa Thompson and Imogen Poots. A modern reinterpretation of a timeless story, the film and its cast have already received several nominations this awards season, including a Globes nod for Best Actress for Thompson.

Writer/director Nia DaCosta was fascinated by Ibsen’s play and the enigmatic character of the deeply complex Hedda, who in the original, is stuck in a marriage she doesn’t want, and still is drawn to her former lover, Eilert. 

But in DaCosta’s adaptation, there’s a fundamental difference: Eilert is being played by Hoss, and is now named Eileen.

“That name change adds this element of queerness to the story as well,” said DaCosta at a recent Golden Globes press event. “And although some people read the original play as Hedda being queer, which I find interesting, which I didn’t necessarily…it was a side effect in my movie that everyone was queer once I changed Eilert to a woman.”

She added: “But it still, for me, stayed true to the original because I was staying true to all the themes and the feelings and the sort of muckiness that I love so much about the original work.”

Thompson, who is bisexual, enjoyed playing this new version of Hedda, noting that the queer love storyline gave the film “a whole lot of knockoff effects.”

“But I think more than that, I think fundamentally something that it does is give Hedda a real foil. Another woman who’s in the world who’s making very different choices. And I think this is a film that wants to explore that piece more than Ibsen’s.”

DaCosta making it a queer story “made that kind of jump off the page and get under my skin in a way that felt really immediate,” Thompson acknowledged.

“It wants to explore sort of pathways to personhood and gaining sort of agency over one’s life. In the original piece, you have Hedda saying, ‘for once, I want to be in control of a man’s destiny,’” said Thompson.

“And I think in our piece, you see a woman struggling with trying to be in control of her own. And I thought that sort of mind, what is in the original material, but made it just, for me, make sense as a modern woman now.” 

It is because of Hedda’s jealousy and envy of Eileen and her new girlfriend (Poots) that we see the character make impulsive moves.

“I think to a modern sensibility, the idea of a woman being quite jealous of another woman and acting out on that is really something that there’s not a lot of patience or grace for that in the world that we live in now,” said Thompson.

“Which I appreciate. But I do think there is something really generative. What I discovered with playing Hedda is, if it’s not left unchecked, there’s something very generative about feelings like envy and jealousy, because they point us in the direction of self. They help us understand the kind of lives that we want to live.”

Hoss actually played Hedda on stage in Berlin for several years previously.

“When I read the script, I was so surprised and mesmerized by what this decision did that there’s an Eileen instead of an Ejlert Lovborg,” said Hoss. “I was so drawn to this woman immediately.”

The deep love that is still there between Hedda and Eileen was immediately evident, as soon as the characters meet onscreen.

“If she is able to have this emotion with Eileen’s eyes, I think she isn’t yet because she doesn’t want to be vulnerable,” said Hoss. “So she doesn’t allow herself to feel that because then she could get hurt. And that’s something Eileen never got through to. So that’s the deep sadness within Eileen that she couldn’t make her feel the love, but at least these two when they meet, you feel like, ‘Oh my God, it’s not yet done with those two.’’’

Onscreen and offscreen, Thompson and Hoss loved working with each other.

“She did such great, strong choices…I looked at her transforming, which was somewhat mesmerizing, and she was really dangerous,” Hoss enthused. “It’s like when she was Hedda, I was a little bit like, but on the other hand, of course, fascinated. And that’s the thing that these humans have that are slightly dangerous. They’re also very fascinating.”

Hoss said that’s what drew Eileen to Hedda.  

“I think both women want to change each other, but actually how they are is what attracts them to each other. And they’re very complimentary in that sense. So they would make up a great couple, I would believe. But the way they are right now, they’re just not good for each other. So in a way, that’s what we were talking about. I think we thought, ‘well, the background story must have been something like a chaotic, wonderful, just exploring for the first time, being in love, being out of society, doing something slightly dangerous, hidden, and then not so hidden because they would enter the Bohemian world where it was kind of okay to be queer and to celebrate yourself and to explore it.’”

But up to a certain point, because Eileen started working and was really after, ‘This is what I want to do. I want to publish, I want to become someone in the academic world,’” noted Hoss.

Poots has had her hands full playing Eileen’s love interest as she also starred in the complicated drama, “The Chronology of Water” (based on the memoir by Lydia Yuknavitch and directed by queer actress Kristen Stewart).

“Because the character in ‘Hedda’ is the only person in that triptych of women who’s acting on her impulses, despite the fact she’s incredibly, seemingly fragile, she’s the only one who has the ability to move through cowardice,” Poots acknowledged. “And that’s an interesting thing.”

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After her last-minute addition in the Zack Snyder film Army of the Dead, audiences everywhere thirsted over lovable actress/comedian Tig Notaro like a cold bottle of Gatorade in the Arizona desert. Tig is now teaming up with the famed director yet again to bring the people exactly what they want:

A Hot Lesbian Action Movie!

But what exactly does a “Hot Lesbian Action” movie entail?

You’re in luck, my friend. I am proficient in all things Action Movie (I saw Taken once) and all things Lesbian (I made two female Sims kiss on multiple occasions)! So here, for your convenience, is a cohesive and authoritative list of what 11 things this movie is GUARANTEED to include.

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1. A Finger Pulling the Trigger Will Not Be the Only “Finger Bang”

If there’s no wuh-luh-wuh (WLW) intimacy, then what did I buy my AMC A‑List for?!

2. There Will Be Multiple Straps

One for her gun.

And one in her backpack for later. (wink!)

You can’t have that cool slow‑motion moment where our hero reaches toward her armpits only to pull out two guns unless she’s wearing a strap—to hold the gun.

PERVERT.

And because lesbians, our lesbian action hero should also wear a strap—to hold her dildo.

PERVERT (again).

3. This Is a Zack Snyder Film. So, Much Like Lesbian Sex, It Will Be Like, Four Hours Long

And like lesbian boinking, this movie will reach multiple climaxes. It is an action movie, after all. 

The Breakdown:

Hour One: Foreplay. We meet the characters, learn their deal, and ease into the story.

Hour Two: Carnal knowledge. Action-packed chaos—chases, gunfire, sweaty lesbians.

Hour Three: Someone finishes. We take a little break (from the story, duh). Maybe we explore a B‑plot. Maybe the characters hydrate? Idk

Hour Four: The climax. Conflicts resolve. You order DoorDash as a treat.

4. The Soundtrack Will Include Taylor Dayne

Any Tig fan knows the Taylor Dayne bit. Naturally, a Dayne song will appear…preferably at a moment where it does NOT fit tonally.

5. A Nod to the Church

The working title is Deviants, which is a totally the first nod to “the church.”

Deviant: “Killers, deviants, and those whose actions are beyond most human comprehension.”

The runner‑up title was Jenny Schecter, but they gave it a “hard pass” for some reason.

6. The Villain Will Be Her Toxic Ex

The true villain in every lesbian story.

You know her:

She shows up at Dyke Day near your tent

She’s constantly angling to be interviewed at FUTCH

And yes, she kept the cat

Of course she’s the villain here too.

7. Chaotic Lesbian TikTokers Will Appear

I’m not naming names because there are actually too many to name (and also because I do not know any of their names; I’m bad with names), but they will be there, adding drama to every side quest on our hero’s journey.

9. The MacGuffin Will Be a Euphemism for Vagina

For those who don’t know:

A MacGuffin is a plot device that motivates characters but is often unimportant in itself.

Example: the briefcase in Pulp Fiction (I know, I know, No Tarantino, sorry).

In this film, the MacGuffin is a euphemism for vagina, so they will:

chase it

protect it

worship it

get it safely across the finish line

And to be clear: in this movie, the MacGuffin is VERY important.

10. The Whole, “Is She Flirting or Is She Just Being Nice?” thing will be woven into a chase scene

One character is in a high‑speed car chase.

The other is ordering coffee and making meaningful eye contact with the barista.

The car swerves.

The barista smiles. 

The engine revs.

The cafe banter escalates.

The car clears a tough corner.

“Got any plans with your girlfriend tonight?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Yes

“But I do have a boyfriend.”

NOOOOOOO!

Both scenes crash and burn simultaneously.

Minor scrapes. Emotional bruises. We live to chase another day.

11. Nail Clippers Will Save the Day

Probably to cut a bomb wire or something.

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Final Thoughts

No matter how this Hot Lesbian Action Movie shakes out, one thing is certain:

I’ll be there opening weekend—popcorn in hand, wearing my “I ♥ ️ Lesbians” T‑shirt.

And I hope you will too.

Follow Allison Reese on IG

There’s something about a calendar milestone that seems to demand the making of lists.

Whether it’s a list of resolutions for the future or a list of high points for the past, we are happy to oblige – so as we move past the first quarter of our current century, here’s our list of the top 25 queer films since the end of the last one, listed in order of their release, and chosen through a blended consideration of overall critical consensus, cultural impact, and yes, individual tastes.

Our favorites might not be the same as yours, because taste is always subjective, so look at this as an inspiration to celebrate yours by making a list of your own.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)

John Cameron Mitchell’s screen adaptation of his own genderqueer musical about a third-rate rock singer with a botched sex-change made his jubilantly rebellious off-Broadway hit accessible to uncountable queer audiences for whom its comically-tortured pseudo-autobiographical tale of empowerment through rebellious self-expression felt like “being seen,” and the rest is history. 

Mulholland Drive (2021)

Late revered auteur David Lynch’s neo-noir Hollywood mystery – delivered in his famously incomprehensible style – is also a film that strongly centers a same-sex love affair between naive Hollywood-hopeful actress (Naomi Watts) and the darker, more worldly woman (Laura Herring) with whom she becomes entangled. While their relationship may transmute throughout Lynch’s hallucinatory narrative, it remains the unequivocal emotional core of the film.

Bad Education (2004)

Renowned queer Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar scored a career high point with this boldly imaginative cinematic melodrama in which a gay film director (Fele Martínez) is reunited with a friend and lover (Gael García Bernal) from boarding school, who has written a script based on the story of their youthful relationship. A breathtaking exploration of a story’s evolution through many retellings – and of cinema’s power to illuminate the human truth behind it.

Brokeback Mountain (2005)

What can we say that hasn’t already been said? Ang Lee’s exquisitely heart-rending adaptation of Anne Proulx’s tale of two cowboys in love smashed open doors for queer storytelling in “mainstream” cinema and perfectly captured the agony of impossible longing that so many people in the rainbow community know all too well. Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal will forever be the litmus test for true allyship, thanks to their fearless commitment to the validity of a love that simply can’t be “quit.”

Shortbus (2006)

John Cameron Mitchell makes a second appearance on our list for directing this controversial, groundbreaking dramedy featuring intertwined love stories – queer and otherwise – around an underground Manhattan “salon” hosted by Justin Vivian Bond. Featuring explicit scenes of un-simulated sex in a gently satirical commentary on the struggle to connect in a post-millennial world, it pushed boundaries while also validating an open view toward sexuality, relationships, and identity itself.

Pariah (2011)

Dee Rees’s drama about a Black lesbian teen (Adepero Oduye) coming to terms with her identity was a landmark of representation, amplifying both the struggle of queer people facing homophobia from within their own community and the self-empowerment that comes with embracing who you are.

Weekend (2011)

Gay British filmmaker Andrew Haigh made an impressive breakthrough with this romance about two gay Londoners (Tom Cullen and Chris New) who fall in love during a one-night stand, filmed with a mix of scripted structure and improvised performance to capture an eminently relatable queer portrait of the kind of fleeting connection that stays with us for a lifetime.

Stranger by the Lake (2013)

This erotic thriller from French filmmaker Alain Guiraudie channels Hitchcock at his most perverse for its story of a “cruiser” at a nude gay lakeside beach (Pierre Deladonchamps) who becomes infatuated with a man who may or may not be a serial murderer (Christophe Paou). Scary, sexy, and utterly hypnotic, there’s a reason it’s frequently named as one of the best queer horror films of all time.

Carol (2015)

Iconic queer filmmaker Todd Haynes has scored several hits this century, but most impactful of all is his adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s midcentury lesbian romance between a married woman (Cate Blanchett) and a shopgirl (Rooney Mara), which breaks radical ground by imagining the possibility of a happy ending for queer love in an era that represses it.

Tangerine (2015)

Future “Anora” Oscar-winner Sean Baker made his breakthrough with this gritty, iPhone-filmed dramedy about two trans sex workers on an all-night quest in the streets of Hollywood. Shot on iconic location and boasting the raw authenticity of real-life trans performers Kitana Kiki Rodriguez and Mya Taylor, each of whom knew the “streetlife” of the movie firsthand, it represented a huge advancement in the way trans stories were depicted onscreen while revolutionizing the independent film scene with its DIY audacity.

Moonlight (2016)

Barry Jenkins’ adaptation of Tarell McCraney’s play about a closeted young Black man growing up in the crack-blighted projects of Miami became a landmark of queer cinema by winning the Best Picture Oscar, but its real accomplishment lies in its three-act depiction of coming to terms with queer sexuality in an environment of social disadvantage, entrenched homophobia, and limited opportunity for escape. An unequivocal masterpiece.

BPM (Beats per Minute) (2017)

French filmmaker Robin Campanello crafted this urgently contemporary historical drama about AIDS activism of the 1990s, based on his own real-life experiences as a member of the Parisian chapter of ACT UP, and the result is a thrilling portrait of shared community commitment – and heartbreak – that feels like the most powerful documentary you’ve ever seen.
 

Call Me by Your Name (2017)

Luca Guadagnino’s coming-of-age romance between a teen boy (an incandescent Timothée Chalamet)  and his father’s grad student assistant (Armie Hammer) in Tuscany of the early 1980s may have sparked some controversy over the supposed inappropriateness of the age gap between its onscreen lovers and later revelations about Hammer’s real-life inclinations, but this James Ivory-scripted distillation of the pangs of first queer love transcends all that to become an irresistibly potent masterwork – and touchstone – that gives eloquent voice to both a sense of queer longing and a spirit of pastoral bliss that we all know will always be too good to last.

God’s Own Country (2017)

Often (and perhaps unfairly) characterized as a sort of companion piece to “Brokeback Mountain,” this first directorial effort by UK filmmaker Francis Lee depicts a romance between a young sheep farmer (Josh O’Connor) and the Romanian immigrant worker (Alec Secăreanu) he hires to help him after his father is sidelined by a stroke. In this case, however, the obstacles to their union come from internalized homophobia, not from outside judgments, and the trope of an unhappy ending for queer lovers is – tentatively, at least – rejected for a palpable sense of hope. It’s a small shift, perhaps, but the impact is huge.

The Favourite (2018)

Greek absurdist filmmaker Yorgos Lanthomos won accolades for this historical drama about lesbian power struggles in the 18th-century court of Britain’s Queen Anne (Oscar-winner Olivia Colman), who plays two would-be mistresses (Emma Stone and Rachel Weisz) against each other in a Machiavellian competition for royal favor and the power that goes with it. Consistently appalling and frequently grotesque in its portrait of weaponized proximity to power, it’s as uncomfortably funny as it is radically feminist in its portrayal of forced female enmity in a society still governed by masculine standards, even when a woman holds the dominant position.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2018)

This French historical drama from Céline Sciamma might seem at first glance as if it were merely another iteration of the period lesbian romance that has become almost a cliche, but it transcends the tropes to assert a message of feminist rebellion against the male-dominated societal norms – magnified by its 18th century setting – which would dismiss and devalue the inner experience of women, and leaves us all wanting to see “The Patriarchy” burned to the ground.

Neptune Frost (2021)

In this singularly genre-defying musical romance from Saul Williams and Anisia Uzeyman, magical Afrofuturist realism collides with dystopian tech-driven sci-fi for a story of romance between an intersex refugee from Burundi (Cheryl Isheja/ Elvis Ngabo) and a rebellious coltan miner (Bertrand “Kaya Free” Ninteretse), blending elements of cosmic spirituality with brutally oppressive political reality to create a visually striking modern-day myth, rooted in African tradition, that incorporates the struggle for queer identity into a larger battle against suppression and domination by a shadowy over-class concerned only with power and profit. Palpably weird and unrepentantly radical, it speaks – and sings – truth to power in a way that most modern films could simply never imagine.

Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022)

This multi-Oscar-winning surprise hit from the filmmaking team known collectively as “The Daniels” (Kwan and Schwienert are their real-life surnames) might be a brilliantly absurdist action comedy about a war for the fate of the multiverse, but it’s built around the struggle of an Asian-American mother (Michelle Yeoh) to reconcile her strained relationship with her queer daughter (Stephanie Hsu) and come to terms with her disillusionment over her devoted but seemingly incompetent husband (Ke Huy Quan) – all while negotiating her tax returns with a no-nonsense IRS agent (Jamie Lee Curtis) who may have been her lesbian lover in another reality. It might take a collective effort from dozens of alternative timelines, but the fight is definitely worth it, in the end.

Fire Island (2022)

Director Andrew Ahn teamed with writer/star Joel Kim Booster for this modernized gay adaptation of “Pride and Prejudice” in which Jane Austen’s 19th-century social commentary is reframed in the world of queer culture, highlighting the class differences between economic and social status and amplifying the experience of queer Asian-American males in the predominantly white-centric queer heirarchy of the contemporary age. It sounds like a stretch, but it’s a more authentically heartfelt – and unapologetically intelligent – queer romcom than the much-touted “Bros,” which debuted the same year to a dishearteningly meager box office take.

Tar (2022)

Acclaimed Kubrick protege Mike Field’s third movie is this ethically challenging drama starring Cate Blanchett as a renowned lesbian conductor targeted by “cancel culture” over her history of predatory sexual misconduct. An alternately bemusing and horrifying portrait of toxic behavior and a world more interested in passing judgment than addressing inequities, it’s an uncompromisingly detached cautionary tale about female power in a world still governed by patriarchal standards, with Blanchett’s flawless performance as the glue that holds it all together.

All of Us Strangers (2023) Andrew Haigh makes a second appearance on our list as writer/director of this haunting adaptation of a novel by Japanese author Taichi Yamada, in which a lonely screenwriter (Andrew Scott) revisits his childhood home to commune with his long-dead parents (Jamie Bell, Claire Foy) while navigating a tentative new relationship with a melancholy neighbor (Paul Mescal) in his strangely deserted apartment building. Part ghost story, part melancholy romance, and all about the exploration of queer isolation and lingering childhood trauma, it’s an unexpectedly uplifting love story with supernatural overtones that render it into the stuff of mystical poetry. An essential queer classic, right out of the box.

I Saw the TV Glow (2024)

As queer cinema continues to struggle with the challenge of bringing trans stories to the big screen in the face of political pushback from transphobic culture warriors, filmmaker Jane Schoenbrun has bravely pushed forward, and this – her second feature – achieves full-on cinematic greatness, delivering a trans allegory in the shape of a disquieting horror movie about former teen schoolmates (Justice Smith and Jack Haven) haunted by phantom memories of a favorite TV show from their past. Capped with a final sequence that drives home the despair of living a life of pretense against your own inner truth, it’s a surreal and devastatingly immediate fantasia on themes of gender, sexuality, and conformity, but also an indictment against the outright erasure of trans identity in a world that would rather pretend it never existed in the first place.

Love Lies Bleeding (2024)

Rose Glass’s  lesbian neo-noir thriller teams queer icon Kristen Stewart with Katy O’Brien for a twisted love story between the daughter of a small-town crime boss and an aspiring steroid-addled bodybuilder which takes them both on a harrowing road of violence and terrible choices yet keeps us pulling for their union every step of the way. A slice of deliberate B-movie exploitation cinema at its most elevated, it embraces its generic camp to achieve a deeply satisfying spirit of rebellion that leaves us all calling for an end to the patriarchy, right now.

The Visitor (2024)

Underground filmmaker and “queercore” pioneer Bruce La Bruce has a long history of creating brilliant countercultural cinema underneath the mainstream radar, but he finds his way onto our list via his audacious remake of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s “Terorema,” in which a mysterious and sexually fluid stranger destroys a dissolute bourgeois household by seducing each of them – from father and mother to son, daughter, and maid – in turn. Reset into contemporary England and informed by a xenophobic fear of the “other,” it doubles down on Pasolini’s sociopolitical statement while upping the ante with transgressive scenes of un-simulated sex. The result is an unforgettable excursion into radical queer expression that fearlessly exposes the hypocrisies of so-called “straight” society while fostering an “eat the rich” attitude of sexual rebellion that has yet to be matched by any filmmaker working within “the system.”

The History of Sound (2025)

South African filmmaker Oliver Hermanus has made a number of passionate queer films during his career, but this WWI-era romantic drama about two music scholars (Paul Mescal and Josh O’Connor). who fall in love while gathering folk songs in rural New England, surpasses his earlier triumphs by offering up a bittersweet-but-transcendent meditation on the power of music to preserve and immortalize the struggles and hardships of each generation, as humans – queer or otherwise – strive to find happiness in the proscribed limitations of their lives. Yes, it’s tragic; but thanks to the exceptional tenderness between its two stars and the compassion with which Hermanus extends to them, it leaves us with the memory of the good things while offering hope for a future that gives us – at long last – the freedom to be who we are.

In case you didn’t know, “Pillion” – the title of debut UK filmmaker Harry Lighton’s buzzy gay “fetish rom-com” starring Scandinavian hunk Alexander Skarsgård and “Harry Potter” alumnus Harry Melling – refers to a rear seat on a motorcycle for a passenger, and the person who occupies it is said to be “riding pillion.”

That definition might be useful going into the movie’s story of an introverted gay Londoner who becomes involved with a handsome but icy biker and is introduced to the subculture of Dom/sub relationships, in that it evokes a dynamic that might be said to reflect the one that exists between its two main characters. There is nothing about Lighton’s disarmingly humorous and surprisingly sweet film, however, that seems to imply an interest in offering pat explanations or easy value judgments about the lifestyle it explores, so to think its title is meant as some kind of summation would be a mistake.

It centers on Colin (Melling), a timid parking warden who still lives with his mom and dad (Lesley Sharp and Douglas Hodge) and sings with a barbershop quartet as a hobby. After a gig singing Christmas carols at a gay bar, he catches the eye of sleekly confident Ray (Skarsgård), who gives him his phone number after a brief and thrillingly intimidating interaction. Prompted by his parents, he decides to call, leading to a steamy hookup in a back alley – and eventually, a live-in BDSM situation in which he becomes Ray’s official “sub,” catering to his every need and becoming a member of the gay biker community to which he belongs. It’s all perfectly fine with Colin, who embraces his role with pleasure; but when he begins to long for a deeper connection with the enigmatic and emotionally distant Ray, it triggers a disruption in the dynamic of their relationship, putting it to a test it may not be able to pass.

“Pillion” was already creating a stir before its prize-winning debut at the Cannes Film Festival last May, largely thanks to the highly publicized casting of Skarsgård as the leather-clad leading man in a gay BDSM romance. But near-universal critical acclaim quickly validated the buzz, turning it into one of 2025’s most anticipated movie releases – particularly, of course, for gay audiences, and especially for those who are part of the BDSM community and rarely get the opportunity to be “seen” on the screen as anything other than a lazy stereotype. 

Naturally, much of that buzz has been driven by a prurient fervor, fueled by the promise of kinky onscreen sex and rumors of a notorious close-up highlighting the full-frontal assets of a certain Swedish movie star. One of the things that’s remarkable about “Pillion,” however, is that while it certainly doesn’t downplay the overt sexual aspect of the relationship at its center, it doesn’t use them to titillate or shock us. Its plentiful scenes of intimacy are sexy, yes, but they also chart the development of the characters’ bond together, expressing feelings that can only be left unspoken within their agreed-on dynamic. They advance both the story and our awareness of the characters’ psychology, and while they may occasionally provide a jolt for viewers not accustomed to seeing gay fetish sex portrayed explicitly on screen, they successfully capture the joy of the experience instead of making it feel sensationalized or lurid.

In fact, once “Pillion” ends, it’s not the sex (not exclusively, at least) that lingers in our mind; it’s the delicate balance it maintains between tension and ease, detachment and tenderness, rigidity and flow – mirroring the surging passions contained within the strictly regimented order of their power dynamic. It’s the depth of Melling’s film-anchoring performance, in which he undergoes an entire voyage of discovery that emphasizes Colin’s strength, not his timidity, and allows us to relate to him in ways that may surprise us. It’s the authenticity of the relationships between all the characters, from Sharp and Hodge’s doting parents to Scissor Sisters front man Jake Shears (in his film acting debut) as a fellow sub who ignites a spark of jealousy between Colin and Ray; most of all, it’s the way that it allows the story to move, with a slow and methodical rhythm – reflected in the measured strains of Eric Satie’s “Gymnopode No.1” that echo through Oliver Coates’ evocative score – that makes it all feel perfectly natural.

And yes, it’s also the presence of Skarsgård, who subtly (and with wry humor) contrasts tight-lipped alpha stoicism with his flawless male beauty that feels like a force of nature. We don’t know much about Ray, ever, through the dialogue in Lighton’s tersely worded screenplay, but we can draw our own conclusions from the eloquent silence that Skarsgård wraps around the character like a security blanket. Best of all, he never uses his “Dom” role in the film to overshadow Melling – it’s Colin’s story, after all, and Skarsgård’s Ray deploys a tactic of “quiet command” on him throughout without ever stealing his spotlight.

As for the film’s writer/director, Lighton manages perhaps the most delicate balancing act of all. He takes a story (adapted from a novel by Adam Mars-Jones) about someone discovering himself in the BDSM community, who engages in sexual behavior that’s likely out of the comfort zone of many viewers and enters a “romantic” partnership most people would find unacceptable, and turns it into a movie that is all about the complexities of human experience. You may not know much (or want to) about life as a sub in a BDSM partnership, but you know what it feels like to love someone, and to long for love in return; Lighton understands that “Pillion” is a story about that, and he knows how to tell it so that you will understand it, too.

That said, it’s obvious there will be many audiences out there for whom a movie about leather-clad queer fetish sex might simply be a step too far for them to take. Anyone approaching “Pillion” should be aware that, depending on your own level of familiarity – or comfort – with the BDSM lifestyle, your reaction may be vary across a spectrum of perspectives; if you’ve been around it, nothing the movie shows you is likely to ruffle your feathers, and if you haven’t, well, only you know your limits.

For us, it’s a film to admire from a promising new queer director, shining a light on an insular culture within the larger rainbow community with intelligence, dignity, and a refreshing lack of the homophobic tropes that so often haunt queer movies, when they are made by queer filmmakers themselves.

Unfortunately for Americans, while “Pillion” was released in the UK on Nov. 28, we won’t get a chance to see it until Feb. 6. With the buzz now even stronger and the stars in full “promotional” mode on the talk show circuit, we thought it would be a good idea to let you know that the wait might still be a while, but it will be worth it. 

After all, as any good Dom can tell you, a pleasure withheld tastes even sweeter when it’s finally given.

We’ve all known them. We’ve all watched those couples on our “friends” feed who seem to live a perfect life together; young, attractive, and devoted to each other, they present an aspirational image on social media, documenting their romance for friends, followers, and all the world to see. We can’t help but envy them, but at the same time, we can’t help feeling like it’s all just a little too good to be true – and inevitably, our instinct is eventually proven right by an abrupt and messy breakup that ends up being aired just as publicly as the rest of their relationship.

That’s the kind of couple that occupies the center of “300 Letters,” a self-described gay “anti-romcom” from Argentine filmmaker Lucas Santa Ana (“Memories of a Teenager”), which garnered acclaim on the festival circuit both in its native country and in the U.S. earlier this year. Now available for home viewing via Prime Video and other VOD platforms, it might just be the perfect alternative if you need a counterbalance to all the sugary sweet holiday romances that tend to dominate the seasonal content offerings.

It’s the saga of the one-year romance between Jero (Cristian Mariani) and Tom (Gastón Frías), an “opposites attract” couple who meet (on Grindr, of course), have great sex, and become a couple despite the differences in their status (Jero is a “masc”-presenting cryptocurrency bro, Tom a struggling queer radical poet) and their outlook on life; they move in together, building a relationship that – thanks to Jero’s popular social media profile – soon has its own fandom. Then, on their first anniversary together, Jero comes home from his Crossfit class with plans for the big celebration – only to find that Tom has packed up and moved out, ending their relationship and leaving behind only a box of letters as an explanation.

Jero, blindsided and devastated, is at first resistant to the letters, but – at the urging of his best friend Esteban (Bruno Giganti), who believes it will help him move on – he decides to read them; the story they tell reveals that his couplehood with Tom was never as he had perceived it to be. Built on sex and maintained through performative routine, there had been an underlying agenda hidden beneath it from the beginning. As he continues the painfully eye-opening process of learning the truth, he is forced to question his own honesty in the relationship – all while holding on to an attachment that may have been a performance all along.

We’ll admit it sounds like a gimmicky premise, and also kind of a downer, but there’s a sensibility behind “300 Letters” that somehow overcomes those pitfalls. Thanks to the conceit of learning the story through letters – sometimes out of order – we are gradually coaxed (along with Jero) toward our own conclusions and epiphanies as the details (and layers of complexity) become more clearly defined; it keeps us engaged through this gradual reveal, allowing time for the uncomfortable truths to sink in, and maintains a subtle sense of humor to keep the tone from being bogged down by melancholy.

According to Santa Ana, who also co-wrote the film with Gustavo Cabaña, all of that is by design.

“I love romantic comedies and breakup movies, and I wanted to combine them while also talking about something that interests me within the LGBT world,” the filmmaker says of his movie. “We always talk about the discrimination we suffer from outsiders, but we rarely think about the discrimination we inflict on ourselves due to the prejudices we carry. In ‘300 Letters,’ I wanted to explore this topic with a fun and relaxed perspective.”

It pays off better than you might expect. Thanks to the carefully balanced screenplay and the performances of its two leading men, it manages to point out the mismatched couple’s faults, flaws, and foibles, while also making them both relatable. In the end, we definitely get the message: the assumptions we have about other people shape our perceptions of them in ways to which we are usually blind, and the prejudices we carry can become self-fulfilling prophecies when we only see what we are looking for. More than that, it’s a refreshingly candid and mature exploration of relationships – and yes, gay relationships in particular – which reminds us that every love affair has meaning and value, and that even a failed one is worth having if it helps you learn how to do better next time.

On the flip side, it’s easy to imagine some viewers finding both characters tiresome. Jero is charming, and he’s definitely sexy, but he’s undeniably mired in a comfortably conventional queerness that makes us more inclined to sympathize with Tom – who is, himself, perhaps equally as judgmental in his assumptions about others, and who seemingly has no qualms about gaslighting his partner, but somehow still feels more “authentic” than Jero.

Fortunately, “300 Letters” is not the kind of movie that makes us choose between them. Instead, it invites us to see parts of ourselves in each of them, and in the end is really more about the “culture of presentation” – the obsession with projecting an appealing image, of seeking private validation through public display – than it is about holding up either of its protagonists for judgment. Instead, it leaves us to contemplate our own relationships in the light of self-awareness, never pulling the emotional punch that comes with loss and the grieving of a relationship, but somehow letting us see the wisdom that awaits us on the other side of it.

In the starring roles, Mariani and Frías are equally charismatic in their own distinctive way, capturing a chemistry that both “clicks” and doesn’t at the same time; Giganti also delivers a presence, subtly conveying his character’s unspoken role as the third point in a triangular relationship, There’s a deep complexity behind these characters that goes largely unspoken, but which emerges in their performances all the same; and if, in the end, the balance of our sympathies may have shifted more toward one of them than the other, that’s OK.

In Santa Ana’s deceptively breezy post-mortem of a break-up, that’s just how relationships go.

In the first part of Jon M. Chu’s grand screen adaptation of the beloved Broadway hit Wicked, it was Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo’s performances that not only grounded the story and its stakes but also expanded the center of the film through their deep exploration of female friendship and love.

The consequences of splitting this story into two parts, and the bloated fan-service that comes this side of The Wizard of Oz and the yellow brick road (more on that later), are detrimental to this sequel, leaving Grande and Erivo to do everything they can to save this film. And try as they might with powerhouse vocals and their fully lived-in chemistry, even these two Oscar-nominated artists find themselves lost in the mix within Wicked: For Good.

This sequel kicks off where Wicked left off, with Glinda now assuming her public-facing role as Glinda the Good (Grande), marrying Prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), and Elphaba (Erivo) hiding away in fear, fighting to survive as everyone in Oz wants her burned alive, as orchestrated by Madame Morrible’s (Michelle Yeoh) vicious propaganda. The film introduces two new numbers, including the pretty forgettable No Place Like Home and Glinda’s fitting solo The Girl in the Bubble, but otherwise sticks fairly close to the source material. Considering that the second act of the musical has always been considered more divisive, perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.

If there’s one element of For Good that is stronger than the original, it’s Bailey’s performance as Fiyero, who, dare I say, actually has a nuanced and complicated arc! Erivo and Grande, as previously mentioned, are excellent, returning with their unmatched friendship. Grande, in particular, gets an expanded arc this time around, one that allows her to play naive while also tapping into a rare dark side. It’s a fine line she has to play in every moment between Glinda’s outward persona and her true affection for Elphaba. If Erivo ran away with the first movie with Defying Gravity, then Grande has the true staying power of this sequel. However, Bailey, Erivo and Grande alone can’t make this film overcome its deep structural issues.

One of the central problems with the screenplay here is that almost every scene feels like an interstitial moment, where character tensions are being teased, and we’re told (told is the key thread throughout this film) that the stakes are increasing. For instance, the scene when the animals in Oz are being exiled from their home, as we get in pretty much the only moment the animals are actually shown, makes it clear that the only goal with their inclusion is to manipulate the audience into feeling sad. Alternatively, take the first moment Elphaba comes to visit Glinda in secret, which, in part, is supposed to illustrate how in danger Elphaba truly is. Because so much of the Oz action happens offscreen, though, the film never makes us feel just how in danger Elphaba is aside from one moment in the forest.

The issue is that there’s not much we actually get to see of the material consequences here, either from the conflict introduced in the first film or new problems established here. Never do we see how the animals are coping with being forced off their land, nor do we understand how Elphaba, assuming the role of the Wicked Witch of the West and starting to feel like maybe she is, in fact, a monster, actually affects the people of Oz. The action that happens around the characters, and the consequences of Elphaba and Glinda’s decisions, feel completely thwarted. And as the film’s aesthetic turns grey and muddy in the third act, it’s hard to even enjoy what we’re looking at despite the brilliant work of costume designer Paul Tazewell and production designer Nathan Crowley, who properly pay homage to classic MGM musicals in some practically impressive moments.

Elphaba embraces the role of the Wicked Witch of the West, and Glinda finds herself overcome by emotion in a plot point relating to Elphaba’s sister, Nessarose (Marissa Bode), but the structure of the story makes it difficult to know where character motivations actually lie with such an inconsistent tone. Character beats aren’t given time to fully breathe, like with Elphaba and Fiyero’s blossoming romance; As Long as You’re Mine is a great showcase for these two vocalists, but the script doesn’t seem keen on building or developing their relationship any further beyond that.

It’s almost as if Chu and the writers were too afraid to let these characters leading a multi-million dollar four-quadrant epic make messy, sometimes horrible decisions, so when it’s time for Elphaba and Glinda’s climactic duet For Good, there’s not nearly as much catharsis in watching Grande and Erivo’s heartbreaking performances as there should be. And with a 137-minute runtime, there was plenty of time here to explore the messier facets of these characters.

What Chu dedicates more screentime to is The Wizard of Oz tie-ins. And yes, Victor Fleming’s 1939 classic is essential to this story, and maybe there was no way of getting around the Dorothy of it all. But it’s undeniably awkward to watch transitional scenes (scenes is too strong a word here) where Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion move from place to place simply for the sake of tying loose threads together. Because it has to connect to The Wizard of Oz, of course! But is there any entertainment value the audience gets, or stakes present within these moments other than reminding the audience of what greatness they could be watching instead? It doesn’t help that these moments are inconsistent in how they’re filmed, too, and the wide shots of them traveling on the yellow brick road feel like the audience is in CGI land.

With all that in mind, and considering where this sequel falls short, it’s important to remember that Wicked has found its thematic power ever since the original 1995 novel by Gregory Maguire in exploring propaganda and the influence our leaders have on how the public perceives — and often fears — the wrong people. But in For Good, it’s all just too on-the-nose and directly stated to the audience. A more interesting exploration of these ideas might’ve tried to place the audience in a position where we can emotionally understand how easily people can be manipulated and made to fear the people actually trying to save them — certainly a relevant theme to touch on in the times we’re living in.

One moment where the film actually does seem to attempt that is in another brief fakeout with Jeff Goldblum’s Wizard character, and the plan he gets Elphaba and Glinda to agree on before Glinda and Fiyero’s wedding. Unfortunately, this choice is entirely confusing because the audience is already conditioned not to trust a word the Wizard says after the end of the first Wicked. Goldblum has a charming and well-suited number, Wonderful, where he charmingly sings about deception, but it’s clear the film just doesn’t know what to do with the Wizard this time around.

As the film’s opening weekend box office records and audience scores have already indicated, the most die-hard Wicked fans will certainly find something good in For Good. What should be celebrated about this film, in spite of its faults, is the work of the countless artisans who brought Oz to life with practical effects. Glinda’s apartment, in particular, creates a perfect image of the curated bubble she lives in — beautiful yet solitary. But the hard work of Wicked’s brilliant artisans can easily get lost, especially when the film leans heavily into CGI and shots going for “realism.” With its unsatisfying tie-ins to The Wizard of Oz and fractured structure, For Good leaves much to be desired when Grande and Erivo aren’t creating priceless movie magic on screen together.

It’s not strictly necessary to know anything about Henrik Ibsen when you watch “Hedda” – the festival-acclaimed period drama from filmmaker Nia DaCosta, now streaming on Amazon Prime Video after a brief theatrical release in October – but it might help.

One of three playwrights – alongside Anton Chekhov and August Strindberg – widely cited as “fathers of “modern theater,” the Norwegian Ibsen was sharply influenced by the then-revolutionary science of of psychology. His works were driven by human motivations rather than the workings of fate, and while some of the theories that inspired them may now be outdated, the complexity of his character-driven dramas can be newly interpreted through any lens – which is why he is second only to Shakespeare as the most-frequently performed dramatist in the world.

Arguably his most renowned play, “Hedda Gabler” provides the basis for DaCosta’s movie. The tale of a young newlywed – the daughter of a prominent general, accustomed to a life of luxury and pleasure – who feels trapped as the newly wedded wife of George Tesman, a respected-but-financially-insecure academic, and stirs chaos in an attempt to secure a future she doesn’t really want. Groundbreaking when it premiered in 1891, it became one of the classic “standards” of modern theater, with its title role coveted and famously interpreted by a long list of the 20th century’s greatest female actors – and yes, it’s been adapted for the screen multiple times.

The latest version – DaCosta’s radically reimagined reframing, which moves the drama’s setting from late-19th-century Scandinavia to England of the 1950s – keeps all of the pent-up frustration of its title character, a being of exceptional intelligence and unconventional morality, but adds a few extra layers of repressed “otherness” that give the Ibsen classic a fresh twist for audiences experiencing it more than a century later.

Casting Black, openly queer performer Tessa Thompson in the iconic title role, DaCosta’s film needs go no further to introduce new levels of relevance to a character that is regarded as one of the theater’s most searing portrayals of thwarted female empowerment – but by flipping the gender of another important character, a former lover who is now the chief competition for a job that George (Tom Bateman) is counting on obtaining, it does so anyway.

Instead of the play’s Eilert Lövborg, George’s former colleague and current competition for lucrative employment, “Hedda” gives us Eileen (Nina Hoss), instead, who carries a deep and still potent sexual history  – underscored to an almost comical level by the ostentationally buxom boldness of her costume design – which presents a lot of options for exploitation in Hedda’s quest for self-preservation; these are even further expanded by the presence of Thea (Imogen Poots), another of Hedda’s former flings who has now become enmeshed with Eileen, placing a volatile sapphic triangle in the middle of an already delicate situation.

Finally, compounding the urgency of the story’s precarious social politics, DaCosta compresses the play’s action into a single evening, the night of Hedda and George’s homecoming party – in the new and expensive country house they cannot afford – as they return from their honeymoon. There, surrounded by and immersed in an environment where bourgeois convention and amoral debauchery exist in a precarious but socially-sanctioned balance, Hedda plots a course which may ultimately be more about exacting revenge on the circumstances of a life that has made her a prisoner as it is about protecting her husband’s professional prospects.

Sumptuously realized into a glowing and nostalgic pageant of bad behavior in the upper-middle-class, “Hedda” scores big by abandoning Ibsen’s original 19th-century setting in favor for a more recognizably modern milieu in which “color-blind” casting and the queering of key relationships feel less implausible than they might in a more faithful rendering. Thompson’s searingly nihilistic performance – her Hedda is no dutiful social climber trying to preserve a comfortable life, but an actively rebellious presence sowing karmic retribution in a culture of hypocrisy, avarice, and misogyny – recasts this proto-feminist character in such a way that her willingness to burn down the world feels not only authentic, but inevitable. Tired of being told she must comply and cooperate, she instead sets out to settle scores and shift the balance of power in her favor, and if her tactics are ruthless and seemingly devoid of feminine compassion, it’s only because any such sentimentality has long been eliminated from her worldview. Valued for her proximity to power and status rather than her actual possession of those qualities, in DaCosta’s vision of her story she seems to willingly deploy her position as a means to rebel against a status quo that keeps her forever restricted from the self-realized autonomy she might otherwise deserve, and thanks to the tantalizingly cold fire Thompson brings to the role, we are hard-pressed not to root for her, even when her tactics feel unnecessarily cruel.

As for the imposition of queerness effected by making Eilert into Eileen, or the additional layers of implication inevitably created by this Hedda’s Blackness, these elements serve to underscore a theme that lies at the heart of Ibsen’s play, in which the only path to prosperity and social acceptance lies in strict conformity to social norms; while Hedda’s race and unapologetic bisexuality feel largely accepted in the private environment of a party among friends, we cannot help but recognize them as impediments to surviving and thriving in the society within which she is constrained, and it makes the slow-bubbling desperation of her destructive character arc into a tragedy with a personal ring for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider in their own inner circle, simply by virtue of who they are.

Does it add anything of value to Ibsen’s iconic work? Perhaps not, though the material is certainly rendered more expansive in scope and implication by the inclusion of race and sexuality to the already-stacked deck of class hierarchy that lies at the heart of the play; there are times when these elements feel like an imposition, a “what-if?” alternate narrative that doesn’t quite gel with the world it portrays and ultimately seems irrelevant in the way it all plays out – though DaCosta’s ending does offer a sliver of redemptive hope that Ibsen denies his Hedda. Still, her retooling of this seminal masterwork does not diminish its greatness, and it  allows for a much-needed spirit of inclusion which deepens its message for a diverse modern audience.

Anchored by Thompson’s ferocious performance, and the electricity she shares with co-star Hoss, “Hedda” makes for a smart, solid, and provocative riff on a classic cornerstone of modern dramatic storytelling; enriched by a sumptuous scenic design and rich cinematography by Sean Bobbitt, it may occasionally feel more like a Shonda Rhimes-produced tale of sensationalized scandal and “mean-girl” melodrama, but in the end, it delivers a powerful echo of Ibsen’s classic that expands to accommodate a whole century’s worth of additional yearning.

Besides, how often do we get to see a story of blatant lesbian attraction played out with such eager abandon in a relatively mainstream movie? Answer: not often enough, and that’s plenty reason for us to embrace this queered-up reinvention of a classic with open arms.

Sauna offers something rare in global queer cinema: a love story between a cis gay man and a trans gay man that refuses simplification. Releasing November 18 through Breaking Glass Pictures, the film marks Danish director Mathias Broe’s atmospheric adaptation of Mads Ananda Lodahl’s acclaimed book. Set amid the charged atmosphere of Copenhagen’s gay sauna scene, it traces the evolving bond between Johan, played by Magnus Juhl Andersen, and William, played by Nina Rask – two characters seeking connection in a world that often misunderstands them both.

Broe isn’t a festival-minded “queer indie” director so much as a working filmmaker embedded in his craft. When he spoke to the Blade, he called from a bus in Denmark, commuting between the film classes he teaches. The detail fits: his approach to Sauna is both grounded and nuanced, shaped by the rhythms of real life rather than industry polish.

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For Broe, the film emerged from a desire to make queer life visible in a way that felt truthful to his own world. “I’ve been wanting to do a queer film as my debut film for a really long time … In Denmark, it’s been really hard to find films and stories that I could relate to,” he tells the Blade. When Broe set out to make Sauna, he pursued representation grounded in lived experience rather than abstraction, asking himself, “How do I get the people that I surround myself with onto the big screen?”

Though the film is groundbreaking for featuring Denmark’s first transgender actor in a leading trans role, Broe insists the focus remains on the humanity of its characters. “It was most important to talk about a love story first and foremost … The story is a very universal story about love and identity and belonging.”

Sauna is not a standard bathhouse memoir. It confronts the realities of being trans in cis spaces – and of being cis while dating trans people – inside a setting often mythologized as liberated but marked by its own exclusions. For American readers, the sauna functions much like a bathhouse: a place where intimacy is typically low-commitment and fleeting. Johan moves through it in exactly that way, cycling through encounters that rarely carry emotional weight. Broe said the film deliberately critiques this pace and disposability of app-mediated intimacy: “We wanted to show the side of Johan having these fast hookups and not really taking the time to actually look into who he was meeting.”

But Broe is quick to clarify that Johan is “longing to experience humans” instead of solely casual encounters. That longing crystallizes in his developing relationship with William – a connection that complicates Johan’s habits of fleeting intimacy. Without spoiling too much, the bond between Johan and William hovers somewhere between love and infatuation, a tension that deepens the film’s emotional stakes. Inside the sauna, this dynamic sharpens: the space becomes, as Broe puts it, “a labyrinth, an emotional landscape … searching in the dark… an image of his loneliness and longing.” It’s also where the limits of inclusion inside queer spaces come into view. Broe has seen audiences register this, noting that “a lot of cis gay men” have approached him after screenings saying, “Whoa, I never thought about this…” 

The LGBTQ+ community is often described as inherently inclusive, but that narrative obscures both historical exclusions and the ones that persist today. Denmark – frequently imagined as a kind of queer utopia –illustrates this tension. “ I think it’s one of the safest places to be queer,” Broe tells the Blade, “But at the same time, the culture is quite conservative … language-wise and culture-wise, we’re very much behind.” He’s equally candid about the systemic barriers trans people face in healthcare. This pressure weighs heavily on William’s story in the film, where gatekeeping remains the norm: “Someone else has the power to judge if you are who you say you are … some doctor grants you access to who you are as a person.”

What keeps Sauna emotionally grounded is Broe’s insistence on flawed, human characters: “We have to create and tell a story about real human beings and not these flawless characters.” Johan’s arc throughout the film is intentionally non-linear. There is no classic hero’s journey or archetype that Johan fits neatly into. Broe insists that Johan “keeps repeating his own mistakes.”

In the end, Sauna expands queer cinema by refusing to neatly categorize its characters and audience.  “We box ourselves so intensely in sexuality and identity,” Broe says, emphasizing that William’s story is central precisely because it challenges those boundaries. As he puts it, “The film tells the community that you can be trans and gay at the same time.”

Broe’s film asks viewers to sit with the messiness of love, transition, and vulnerability. In doing so, it opens a space – one that is steamy, dark, and perfectly imperfect – where queer stories can exist in all their complexity.

For legendary professional boxer Christy Martin, never in a million years did she expect to see the riveting story of her rapid rise to fame onscreen.

“When somebody first contacted me about turning my life into a movie, I thought they were joking,” Martin said at a recent Golden Globes press event for her movie, “Christy.”

“I was so afraid that my life would be as I call it, Hollywoodized.”

Martin was put at ease once she saw how committed co-screenwriters Mirrah Foulkes, and Australian filmmaker David Michôd were to the material, and how relentless actress Sydney Sweeney was to accurately portray her. 

“Mirrah was very fair to me and treated me great on the paper … I feel like this is the most powerful group that could ever come together to tell my story,” she acknowledged.

In “Christy,” viewers see Martin’s combative spirit, in her ongoing quest to win each fight. Under her demanding coach turned manager-husband Jim Martin (played by Ben Foster), Christy is fearless in the boxing ring, yet increasingly troubled as she deals with the pressure of her mother, sexual identity issues, drugs, and a physically abusive marriage that almost ended in death.

“It’s crazy to see anybody, but especially Syd, become me,” she told the Los Angeles Blade. “It’s overwhelming! A little much for a coal miner’s daughter from a small town in southern West Virginia.” 

For Sweeney, who is also a producer on the film, playing the courageous lesbian boxer has been a life-changing experience. “This is the most important character I have ever played. It’s the most important story I have ever told or will tell. It’s an immense honor to bring her to life.”

To become Martin, Sweeney worked hard to absorb as much information on her as possible. 

“I had the real Christy, and then I had years and years of interviews and fight footage and her book and her documentary on Netflix that I was able to pull from. I like to build books for my characters, to create their entire life, from the day they’re born until the first time you meet them onscreen. So just kind of filling out the entire puzzle of Christy here.”

Sweeney said the many scenes where Martin’s mom couldn’t accept she was gay were immensely challenging to be a part of.

“That was probably one of the hardest scenes for me,” Sweeney noted. “I have very supportive parents, and I can’t imagine what it would be like to not have your mom or dad to turn to ask for help or guidance or just need support. So it was a very difficult scene to process.”

Equally challenging was the rigorous process Sweeney went through in order to become Martin in the movie. 

“It was a huge physical transformation for me. I trained for two-and-a-half months before we even started filming, and I put on 35 pounds for the role, so it was a big transformation.”

As difficult as it was to deal with a film that dives into domestic violence, Sweeney was able to shake the character off when she was done at the end of each day.

“I have a rule for myself where I don’t allow any of my own thoughts or memories into a character. So when the moment they call ‘cut,’ I’m back to being Syd, and I leave it all in the scene, and that’s the story that I’m telling. Otherwise I’m just me; so I go home when I’m me.”

Martin hopes that audiences leave the theater with a sense of faith.

“I think we showed a path of how to get out of any situation that you might be in. And also, it’s very important to be true to you. Sometimes that takes a while — it took me a little while — but I’m happy to be true to me. And that’s what we want; the whole story is about being who you are.”

Sweeney would love viewers to walk away and demand to be “Christy Strong.”

“I hope that they want to be kind and compassionate to others around them, and be that helping hand. Christy’s story is singular, and yet her story of triumph, survival and continuation, supports those who are in experiences of domestic violence behind closed doors. She is one of the great champions.”

Sweeney loves that Martin is also a great advocate of new boxing talent. “That spark of life is something that I think at the end of the day, ‘Christy’ is about– it’s the spark to keep going and be who you are proudly.”