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In ‘Neptune Frost,’ the future is nonbinary

Praise for an ‘Afrofuturist sci-fi punk musical’

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Cheryl Isheja stars in ‘Neptune Frost.’ (Photo courtesy Kino Lorber)

With all the big queer movies that came our way for this year’s Pride month, it’s inevitable that a few would be lost in the mix – an unfortunate fate, because it’s often the under-the-radar titles that most deserve to stand out from the crowd.

Fortunately, it’s never too late to discover (or to recommend) a hidden gem, and the upcoming digital release of “Neptune Frost,” which premiered at last year’s Cannes Festival and enjoyed a brief but critically acclaimed theatrical release in June, is a perfect opportunity to do both. Created by Saul Williams – an acclaimed American poet, screenwriter, musician, and actor – and co-directed by Williams and Rwandan-born artist and cinematographer Anisia Uzeyman, it’s described in its publicity material as “an Afrofuturist sci-fi punk musical,” but while that label may convey something close to the movie’s general “flavor,” it falls far short of capturing the multi-layered essence of the film itself.

Set in the African hilltops of Burundi, the film intertwines the separate flights of two refugees – Matalusa (Bertrand Ninteretse “Kaya Free”), who is fleeing a life of enforced labor as a coltan miner, and an intersex runaway named Neptune (Elvis Ngabo/Cheryl Isheja) – as they journey across the countryside; led by dreams and visions, their paths converge at a mysterious outpost in the wilderness, where a would-be hackers’ collective dreams of disrupting “The Authority” by exposing its lies and corruption. The newcomers quickly fall in love, and their connection provides the fuel the group needs to enact its plan for elevating the world’s consciousness – but even with the help of a mystical power grid and guidance from higher dimensions, will their efforts be enough to make a difference?

If the plotline seems vague, that’s because “Neptune Frost” is not a movie that follows strict narrative rules. Instead, it uses its setting and characters to transcend those expectations and take us into a frame of mind more conducive to an unrestricted flow of ideas. Equal parts primal myth and dystopian techno-drama, it exists in a state of pluralities, where past and present, dream and reality, freedom and enslavement, and all of the other “binaries” whose interplays define (and limit) our existence can be revealed as spectrums in states of constant flux. 

Key among the rigid constructs that the film challenges, of course, is the idea of gender. Neptune, the film’s eponymous intersex narrator, whose escape from a repressive tribal village is just as much an escape from repressive strictures about gender and sexuality, is empowered by transcending those boundaries. Other characters, too, tend toward the nonbinary in presentation; in the enlightened collective, gender is just one of the many irrelevant differences exploited by the powerful to maintain control over society. Yet the ignorance that persists around such matters in our world cannot be disregarded, as we are reminded when repercussions from a gender trauma in Neptune’s past become a threat to the security of the entire commune.

The gender binary, prominent as it is in Williams’s screenplay, is not the only “illusion of duality” that “Neptune Frost” endeavors to shatter, something it effects by taking us on a wild ride in which thematic threads intertwine and conflate until they all blend together like a fun house mirror maze built of metaphors. Does that get a little confusing sometimes? Yes, it does, and gloriously so. It’s precisely because it confounds our efforts to make linear sense of what we are seeing that the movie has the power to break our programming – and appropriately enough for a movie so heavily laden with the language, imagery, and conceptual building blocks of computers, programming is what it’s all about.

Williams and Uzeyman don’t just rely on short-circuiting our rational brains to get their points across, however; they draw generously from the ability of cinema – and theater, where both directors have spent considerable time honing their sensibilities – to guide us into the heightened “meta-reality” in which their story lives. Bathed in an exquisite color palette, laden with bold visual strokes and striking imagery, interwoven with symbolism as potent as it is delicate, their movie mesmerizes us; indeed, one could watch “Neptune Frost” with the sound turned off and still absorb the full gist of its messaging.

To do so, however, would be to miss out on one of its highlights: the music. It might be tempting to be skeptical about a science fiction musical, but the song score (composed by Williams) quickly dispels any concerns of gimmickry. There are no showy, glitzy Broadway-style earworms here; visceral yet erudite, observational yet fierce, the musical numbers bear more resemblance to the interjections of a classical Greek chorus, filtered through a rich musical legacy that stretches from traditional tribal chants and rhythms to soulful laments and fiery rap. They are fully realized set pieces, each crucial to telling the story, and they deliver some of the film’s most potent imagery and ideas.

On that subject, its tempting to delve into comparisons with great films and filmmakers evoked by “Neptune Frost” — the near-psychedelic dream cinema of Alejandro Jodorowsky, for example, or the reggae-fueled rebellion of Perry Henzell’s anti-heroic masterpiece “The Harder They Come.” Such observations seem moot, however, in relation to a movie whose uniqueness is part of its very essence; after all, Williams – who conceived the story as a graphic novel, explored it through three musical albums, and finally brought it to life on film – always intended it to be unlike anything else you’ve ever seen, because the stakes in our world are too high to retread old ideas.

“Maya Angelou once said that anything an artist writes should be written with the urgency of what they would write if someone were holding a gun in their mouth,” Williams writes in his director’s notes for the film. “The state of this country and the world has my mouth propped open enough to swallow whole timelines. We need art that is unafraid to challenge the narrative structure of our programming. Computational propaganda circulates at the speed of colonial diseases through indigenous populations. Music is a time-machine.”

That quote tells you everything you need to know going into “Neptune Frost.” It helps to be reassured that the cast of unknowns (in America, at least) is stellar, each giving an impassioned and luminous performance, and that the film’s whirlwind of heady sociopolitical deprogramming is balanced by moments of sheer, incandescent humanity – and it’s undeniable that, without such elements, none of Williams’s and Uzeyman’s conceits would work. Ultimately, though, the purpose of “Neptune Frost” is not to make you comfortable, or to reassure you with hope for the future, or to reinforce your faith in whatever spiritual center to which you like to anchor yourself; and though it reverberates with a proud and defiant Black voice, crying out against centuries of colonization, subjugation, exploitation, and genocide, it’s not even trying to raise awareness about Black issues, because the issues it thrusts into your consciousness go far deeper than race.

This movie is a call to action, no less urgent for being a musical, and it wants us to hack the world.

“Neptune Frost” releases on all major VOD platforms July 26.

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No problem with ‘Problemista’

Julio Torres’s debut film hints at greater achievements to come

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Julio Torres and Tilda Swinton in ‘Problemista.’ (Photo courtesy of A24)

Confronted with the title of queer SNL alumnus Julio Torres’s debut feature film, the first question that comes to mind for many people might be, “What’s a ‘Problemista’?”

For the millions of retail workers, reception staffers, and hospitality clerks, however,  or anyone else whose job it is to interface with the public, the label – coined by Torres to describe the particular kind of driven personality embodied in his movie by headliner Tilda Swinton – may be, if not familiar, at least evocative enough to convey its meaning. 

We’ve all encountered them, actually; entitled, self-righteous, demanding, aggressively impatient, and unwilling to accept anything less than complete capitulation for an answer, they are the people every cashier dreads to see (and every customer loathes to be behind) in line. They seem to thrive on drama, and they don’t care how much it inconveniences or disturbs anyone in their radius. In fact, they seem at times to relish doing so, as if they were striking a blow against social injustice by bullying a grocery clerk into honoring an expired coupon. In short, they might be described as a sort of contemporary urban warrior whose response to a problem is to become a problem until they get the solution they want. But by legions of waiters and customer service reps, they are typically just described as “the customer from hell.”

The central character in Torres’s stylish, smart, and surrealistically infused contemporary New York fairy tale – Alejandro (played by Torres himself) – is not such a person, at least not when we meet him. His creative imagination nurtured by his artist mother (Catalina Saavedra) in El Salvador, he’s now a young immigrant on a work visa in the U.S., getting by in his daily life by making as few waves as possible while dreaming of being a toy designer for Hasbro. But when a minor flub gets him fired from the cryogenic company where he works, he inadvertently finds himself drawn into the never-peaceful orbit of the titular “problemista” herself: Elizabeth (Swinton), an outcast art-world maven and wife of a terminally ill eccentric painter (Wu Tang Clan founder RZA) that has frozen himself in hope of being revived when a cure is available to save his life. 

Tasked with tending to her not-quite-late husband’s legacy and estate, she is harried from her efforts to enforce her husband’s wishes via a campaign of unreasonable requests and non-negotiable demands, and sorely in need of someone to help manage the burden — and with his future in America now hanging by a thread, Alejandro takes on the challenge, hoping this terrifying woman whose path he has crossed can keep him from deportation until he can land the career opportunity he’s been waiting for.

It’s at once a familiar and an oddball conceit, a tale of toxic mentorship with shades of “The Devil Wears Prada” that weaves a strangely heartwarming sense of unexpected but perfectly matched kinship into the mix and takes us past tropes and cliché to discover a perspective that illuminates the extremes instead of reinforcing the bland status quo of our lives. While most audiences may not have experience within the elite cultural circle in which Swinton’s Elizabeth asserts her presence, the core essence of her persona is instantly recognizable to us all. And although Torres’s screenplay gets a lot of mileage – and indeed, the movie gets a lot of its appeal, thanks to Swinton’s masterful performance – out of parodying that “high-maintenance” image, it also takes us slyly past our easy judgments to reveal all the easily relatable human qualities behind the stereotype. By the time it’s over, we might still see her as a “monster,” but perhaps no more so than any of the rest of us. We might even, like Alejandro, start to see her seemingly insufferable approach to life as something a little less clueless and a lot more justifiable than we want to assume – and recognize that, even if it makes people cringe when they see her, it might sometimes be the only way to get by in a world bent on maintaining a veneer of calm banality. It might even be the only appropriate response to – and best rebellion against – the indifference of a system whose first priority is always the preservation of a placid status quo.

That, of course, is the joy of “Problemista,” a movie that successfully gets a load of intelligent laughs from the eccentricities of both its unorthodox lead characters – a non-specifically but unmistakably queer protagonist and a ferociously uncompromising “difficult woman” – yet somehow manages to turn them both into aspirational figures. It successfully pokes a savvy kind of fun at the rarified cultural niche in which it takes place – as well as at the not-so-subtly delusional constructs which govern the lives of anyone who fits within its boundaries – without diminishing or degrading its characters or making their individual pursuits feel foolish; it accomplishes this because, even in its unabashedly satirical milieu, it places the greatest emphasis on the humanity of its characters. Alejandro and Elizabeth, in almost any other film, would be supporting players – comic relief, perhaps – in a story about people whose lives were more comfortably mainstream; here, they take center stage, allowing us to laugh at their eccentricities but never letting us lose sight of the real human impulses behind them.

For that, we can thank the deeply committed performances of Swinton, an actress of legendary caliber whose background in underground and counter-cultural theater and film brings a considerable layer of stature to Torres’ freshman effort, and Torres himself, who comes across as a fully confident and seasoned performer capable of holding his own onscreen with someone of his co-star’s stature. RZA’s amusing but somehow sweet performance in flashbacks as Elizabeth’s husband also has a humanizing effect, and acclaimed Chilean actress Saavedra casts a luminous glow in her limited screen time that nevertheless seems like a keystone element of the film’s delicate balance of magical realism and absurdist comedy.

To be fair, defining “Problemista” within a label is a problematic undertaking from the start; neither comedy nor drama, fantasy nor surrealist ephemera, it combines all these elements to approach something more profound, perhaps, or at least more useful for audiences looking for a new perspective on the sometimes-soul-crushing sea of obstacles that seems to govern our daily lives. At any rate, far more important than any of these esoteric themes, it confronts – gently, if with considerable cynicism – the existential rattlesnake of navigating the immigration system of the US, straddling multiple agendas and managing to succeed with all of them.

Torres, whose stint on “SNL” led to a successful stand-up special and a gig as the creator and star of HBO’s critically acclaimed Spanish-language series “Los Espookys,” has managed an impressive debut as a filmmaker; it’s the kind of movie that hints at greater achievements to come, and we are eagerly on board to watch them unfold in years to come. No small feat for a first-time filmmaker, especially considering the number of ambitious sociocritical comedies that have tried and failed to pull off the same delicate balancing act – and even more especially because it’s also a lot of fun.

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Lesbian road movie returns with campy ‘Dolls’

A retro-inspired, neon-lit road trip/neo-noir thriller

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Geraldine Viswanathan, Margaret Qualley, and Beanie Feldstein in ‘Drive-Away Dolls.’ (Photo courtesy of Focus Features)

Let’s admit it: by the time Hollywood’s awards season draws to a close, most of us are more than ready for a good mindless “B movie” to cleanse our palettes. After the glut of “serious” and “important” films dominating the public conversation, it’s just incredibly freeing to watch something that feels — at some level, at least — more like entertainment than it does like doing homework.

That’s one of the biggest reasons why the timing of “Drive-Away Dolls,” which hit screens on Feb. 23, feels like a really savvy move, especially since it comes from a major Hollywood studio and boasts a multi-Oscar-winning director – Ethan Coen, who alongside brother Joel is half of one of Hollywood’s most prodigious filmmaking teams – at its helm. A retro-inspired and neon-lit road trip/chick flick/neo-noir thriller featuring lesbian leading characters and leaning hard into the visual palette of the ‘70s-era exploitation drive-in movie fodder it aims to both emulate and reinvent, it lays no claim to lofty purpose or intellectual conceit; instead, it takes its audience on an unabashedly raunchy 1999-set wild ride in which a pair of mismatched adventurers find themselves unwittingly entangled in a caper involving a mysterious briefcase and the eccentric trio of thugs tasked with tracking it down. It tells the kind of story we expect to be able to check our brains at the door for, and just sit back to enjoy the mindless thrills.

In this case, that story centers on two young queer Philadelphia women – free-spirited sexual adventurer Jamie (Margaret Qualley), whose infidelity has tanked her relationship with girlfriend Suki (Beanie Feldstein), and square peg Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan), whose discomfort with the hedonistic social scene of big city lesbian life has her longing for the simpler pleasures of her childhood home in Tallahassee – who embark on a road trip together to Florida in search of new beginnings. It’s clear from the start that they’re at cross purposes; Jamie sees the trip as an opportunity to “loosen up” her uptight friend, while Marian just wants to get back to where she once belonged. Unbeknownst to either, however, a shady cadre of operatives (Colman Domingo, Joey Slotnick, C.J. Wilson) is on their trail, thanks to something hidden in the trunk of their rental car, and their journey is about to take a detour into unexpectedly dangerous territory.

As a premise, it’s not hard to see close parallels to many of the themes one often finds running throughout the Coen Brothers’ films; the quirky trappings of its crime story plot, the granular focus on the behavioral oddities of its characters, the whimsical (if often pointed) irony it deploys for narrative effect – all these and more give Ethan’s first “solo flight” without collaboration from his brother the kind of familiarity for audiences one can only get from four decades of previous exposure. Yet while “Drive-Away Dolls” might bear a lot of the trademark Coen touches, it’s also distinctively its own creature, with a more radical stylistic approach that one might glimpse in more flamboyant outliers to their joint filmography like “The Hudsucker Proxy” or cult-favorite “The Big Lebowski,” but which here brings its heightened sense of absurdity to the forefront in service of a story which is about, as much as it is anything, the role of causality in determining the circumstances and outcomes of our lives. In other words, it’s a movie which drives home (no pun intended) the point that – at least sometimes – our paths are determined by fate, no matter how much control we think we exert.

If you’re thinking that all this analysis doesn’t quite fit for a movie that presents itself as a madcap escapist romp, you’re not wrong; in spite of its ostensible B movie appeal, Coen’s movie – co-written with his wife, Tricia Cook – evokes some pretty weighty reflections, and while that might lend a more elevated layer to the film’s proceedings than we expect, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. We can be entertained and enlightened at the same time, after all.

Perhaps more detrimental to the movie’s effect, unfortunately, is its intricately-conceived plotting. Weaving together seemingly coincidental or irrelevant details into a chain of events that propels the story at every juncture, Coen and Cooke’s screenplay feels more devoted to cleverness than authenticity; outlandish plot twists pile up, under the guise of some esoteric cosmic significance, until they threaten to collapse in on themselves; in the end, for many viewers, it might all seem just a little too forced to be believable.

Fortunately, there are things to counterbalance that sense of overthinking that seems to permeate the script, most vital of which is the movie’s unambivalent embrace of its queer narrative. While it may borrow the familiar lesbians-on-the-run road tropes queer audiences have known for decades, it presents them in a story refreshingly devoid of shame or stigma; the sexuality of its heroines is something to be explored with nuance rather than subjected to the fetishized bias of the so-called “male gaze,” and it succeeds in giving us “tastefully” explicit scenes of same sex love that celebrate the joy of human connection rather than turning it into a voyeuristic spectacle. Even more important, perhaps, “Drive-Away Dolls” omits one particularly toxic cliché of queer stories on film by refuising to make its queer heroines into victims; they’re way too smart for that, and it makes us like them all the more, even if we don’t quite find ourselves absorbed in their story.

For this, full credit must go to Qualley and Viswanathan, who individually build fully relatable and multi-dimensional characters while also finding a sweet and believable chemistry within the awkwardness of finding a romantic love story between two friends – a complex species of relationship that surely deserves a more extensive and nuanced treatment than it gets space for in Coen’s film. As good as they are, though, it’s Feldstein’s relatively small supporting turn that steals the movie, with an unflinching-yet-hilarious tough-as-nails performance as Qualley’s ex that both acknowledges and undercuts the stereotype of the “angry lesbian” while striking an immensely satisfying blow for queer female empowerment. The always-stellar Domingo underplays his way through an effectively civilized supporting performance as the chief “heavy”, and Matt Damon makes a sly cameo as a conservative politician, while daddy-of-the-decade Pedro Pascal shows up for a brief but key role that gives winking service to fans who remember him from his “Game of Thrones” days – though to say more about any of those appearances would constitute a spoiler.

“Drive-Away Dolls” has been met with mixed reviews, and this one is no exception. There’s an unmistakable good intention behind it, and much to be appreciated in its sex-positive outlook and commitment to an unapologetically queer story and characters, but while its stylistic embellishments provide for campy enjoyment, it’s ultimately diffused by its own cleverness. Still, the queer joy that frequently peeks through it is more than enough reason to say that it’s a good choice for a fun date night at the movies.

At the end of the day, what more can you ask?

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New Bella Abzug documentary is a must-see film

‘This Woman’s Place is in the House’ highlights courageous congresswoman

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‘Bella! This Woman’s Place is in the House’ movie poster.

Watching the documentary on Congresswoman Bella S. Abzug (D-N.Y.), “Bella! This Woman’s Place is in the House,” brought back so many great memories for me. I had to watch it twice to separate my personal feelings about Bella, having worked for her and become her friend, to imagine what others would see who didn’t know her, and her life. 

Both viewings were rewarding. Jeff L. Lieberman, writer and director, has brought Bella to life for everyone. 

Lieberman tells the story of a passionate, courageous, brilliant, woman, one who made a real difference in all women’s lives. But more than that, she made a difference in everyone’s life; men, women, minorities, and the LGBTQ community. Bella was a true force of nature. Using pictures and video from her younger years, Lieberman makes Bella come alive. Pictures of her mom and dad and those with the love of her life, her husband Martin. Interviews with her daughters Eve, and Liz, help tell her personal story. He brought out a side of her not everyone saw, delving into how in her younger years the experiences she had formed her life’s goals. Bella was all about fairness and decency. Bella was a leader and people followed. 

Yes, many called her ‘a tough broad.’ She brooked no nonsense or weakness in herself or others. She was tough on her staff and those around her, but no tougher than she was on herself.  Yes, Bella was loud. She could yell at her staff, other politicians, and even constituents. But she was also the Jewish mother, and many called her Mother Earth. 

The film shows the influence of her Orthodox Jewish family. How when she said Kaddish for her father after he died when she was just 13, she was relegated to the women’s balcony of the shul. It was something she fought against all her life. Bella went to Hunter College and wanted to go to Harvard Law School. At the time Harvard didn’t take women or Jews. So she went to Columbia University Law School. She formed her own firm when she graduated. 

She started wearing hats when she realized that was how she could distinguish herself as a professional, and wore them all her life. They became her trademark. As a young lawyer she went to Mississippi to fight for the life of a Black man who had been sentenced to death for a crime she didn’t believe he committed. She would sleep in a bus station because when people found out she was his lawyer, they wouldn’t rent her a hotel room. She worked so hard she had a miscarriage, but nevertheless kept fighting for him, though eventually he was executed. That experience, and others, portrayed in the film, simply drove her to fight even harder for fairness for all. For civil rights and for the rights of all minorities, including the LGBTQ community. Not everyone in the LGBTQ community knows it was Bella who introduced the first Equality Act bill in 1974. A bill still not passed today. Bella was ahead of her time in so many ways, and Lieberman shows that in this film.  

There is a funny story in the film about House of Representatives Sergeant at Arms Fishbait Miller, telling Bella to take her hat off when she entered the House Chamber. The rumor had it she told him politely to “Go fuck yourself.” Bella denied it. But many years later I sat with him at a dinner party and he confirmed it. Laughing, he said he ended up liking and respecting her. 

Lieberman’s film portrays Bella’s tenacity in Congress, standing up to the powers that be and her fight against the CIA and FBI and her push to impeach Nixon. Bella was a founder of Women’s Strike for Peace and there is a focus on her fight against the Vietnam war, and for a ban on nuclear testing. 

The film follows her campaigns, from the first winning one in 1970, where she came up with the slogan, now the basis for the title of this film, “A woman’s place is in the House, the House of Representatives.” Then her fight to keep her seat in 1972 after she was redistricted. He follows her losing race in 1976 to Patrick Moynihan, in the U.S. Senate primary, by only a whisker. Then her continued losses first in 1977 for mayor of New York City, then for Ed Koch’s old seat on New York’s East Side, and finally, a losing race for Congress in Westchester County. She wanted to get back into Congress but never did. But even when she lost, Lieberman shows us how she never stopped fighting for people and change. She ran the Women’s Conference in Houston in 1977, and went to China for the International Women’s Conference in 1995. That was where Hillary Clinton declared, “Women’s rights are human rights,” even though by that time Bella was in a wheelchair.

Lieberman brings Bella’s life to us in the fullest way with a host of women, and some men, who speak about her, and what she meant to them. They include Barbra Streisand, Gloria Steinem, Hillary Clinton, Shirley MacLaine, Nancy Pelosi, Maxine Waters, Marlo Thomas and Phil Donahue, and Renee Taylor and Joe Bologna, among others. Former staffers, and community activists, who talk about what she meant to them and what she accomplished. He reminds us Bella was named a whip by Tip O’Neil in her third term, because she got things done. Bella got the bill passed that allowed women to get their own credit cards. She is responsible for all those curb cuts on our streets. She broke the highway trust fund allowing states and cities to get funding for mass transit. She was not only loud, and a fighter, but she was tremendously successful. 

“Bella! This Woman’s Place is in the House,” will be at the DCJCC for three nights; March 14, 17,, and 18. Tickets will go fast and they are available online. I would urge every woman, every member of the LGBTQ community, and everyone who cares about peace in the world, to see this film. You will not only learn about a great woman, but seeing it may just give you that push to go out and fight for your own rights. Even more, to emulate Bella, and fight for a better world.

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Oscar-nominated ‘Nimona’ an essential gem for queer fans

Rescued from oblivion of studio politics, film rings palpably authentic

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The two queer protagonists of ‘Nimona.’ (Image courtesy of Netflix)

If you weren’t already a fan of ND Stevenson’s webcomic-turned-graphic-novel, last summer’s release of Netflix’s screen adaptation of “Nimona” likely escaped your notice. But with its emergence on multiple critics’ choice lists and awards show ballots for 2023, it’s time for you to pay attention.

Created while Stevenson — who has since come out as a trans man — was a student at the Maryland Institute College of Art and initially distributed on Tumblr, the comic was published in print in 2015 to become an award-winning bestseller. It’s an adventuresome sci-fi/fantasy blend set in a futuristic world where the fairy tale knights of medieval tradition have been given a high-tech makeover; but what captured its audience even more than its high-spirited, whimsical creativity was its unsubtle exploration of LGBTQ identity, underscored by a same-sex love interest for its hero but resonating most deeply through its shape-shifting title character and a plot that revolves around the systematic suppression of “otherness” by society. Yet, “controversial” elements notwithstanding, it’s fully and unapologetically targeted toward YA readers – the very audience, of course, that is most in need of its messaging in a time when the discourse around queer identities has become an omnipresent source of existential anxiety for young people attempting to come to terms with any non-hetero-normative leanings that might be bubbling to the surface of their developing psyches.

When Stevenson – who went on from the success of “Nimona” in print to become the creative force behind numerous queer-friendly projects in various media, including a stint writing for Marvel (the comics “Thor” and “Runaways”), Disney’s animated “Wander Over Yonder” series, and the acclaimed Netflix reboot “She-Ra and the Princesses of Power” – came out as trans in 2020, the themes of queer acceptance in his seminal work were illuminated beyond a shadow of a doubt. In the meantime, “Nimona” had already been optioned to 20th Century Fox Animation as the basis for a film adaptation, produced by their subsidiary Blue Sky Studios; when Disney acquired the rights to Fox and its properties, the movie fell under its control. According to staffers, commenting in the wake of Disney’s then-CEO Bob Chapek’s clumsy response to Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis’s controversial “Don’t Say Gay” political campaign, the film had already experienced pushback from studio executives over its LGBTQ themes, and especially its inclusion of a same-sex kiss – and when COVID-related financial pressures led to budget cuts, Blue Sky, was officially shut down, along with “Nimona” and all the rest of its projects.

Thankfully, that wasn’t the end of the story. “Nimona” was picked up by indie production company Annapurna in 2022, with Nick Bruno and Troy Quane stepping in as directors, and Netflix granted distribution rights. The completed film, with all of its intended queer elements firmly intact, was given a limited theatrical release in June of 2023, debuting as a streamer on the Netflix platform a week later – to the delight of fans who had believed the long-awaited project to be a lost cause barely a year before.

It took another six months or so for the rest of the world to take notice, but thanks to its inclusion on critics’ choice lists and awards-season buzz in the wake of multiple nominations, “Nimona” has become one of last year’s “hidden gems.” and now stands within plausible reach of achieving the highest possible honor from the Hollywood movie industry: the Oscar for Best Animated Feature.

Of course, whether or not it wins that (or any other) accolade has little objective bearing on its quality as a film; while positive steps toward inclusion and acceptance of LGBTQ characters and stories may be a laudable accomplishment in today’s tenuous social environment, they don’t necessarily equate to cinematic excellence from the wider perspective of aesthetic analysis. Fortunately, in this case, the two viewpoints merge perfectly to provide a movie that is at once keenly relevant to queer life in the modern age and defined by an artistic vision that transcends any political agenda or clumsy social engineering in which it might otherwise have allowed itself to become mired. While it may place its queer or queer-suggestive characters front-and-center in the spotlight, its message is unmistakably aimed toward anyone who feels (or has ever felt) like an outsider in a world that rewards conformity over individual truth – and let’s face it, that means everybody.

In Bruno and Quane’s finished film, there is no effort to obscure or downplay the story’s queer underpinnings: the hero, a newly minted knight named Ballister Boldheart (voiced by Riz Ahmed) is unequivocally gay, deeply in a fully requited love affair with fellow knight Ambrosius Goldenloin (YouTube star Eugene Lee Yang), and his shapeshifting sidekick, the titular Nimona (Chloë Grace Moritz), is so obvious an allegorical avatar for trans-hood that only the most oblivious of viewers could miss it. That’s fortunate: deprived of its deeper purpose of accessibility for those “outside the norm,” there would be nothing all that special about “Nimona” beyond its admittedly stunning visual design, which evokes connections to thematically related movies from “Sleeping Beauty” to “Star Wars” and everything in between. But though it makes painstaking effort to honor those and other influences within the scope of its pointedly progressive narrative, it establishes and inhabits its own distinctive milieu, carving a space for itself in which it feels neither derivative nor mired in gimmicky conceit – and it achieves this mostly through its loyalty toward (and empathy with) the characters whose status as outsiders to the mandated cultural standard makes them even more relatable.

Admittedly, it’s hard to miss the allegorical broad strokes in the plot, in which Boldheart, the first knight without a direct link to the ancient bloodline of the ruling class, is framed as a political criminal and targeted for elimination by a governing system steeped in long-standing traditions and prejudices, or to its seemingly juvenile title character, a girl with the ability to transform her physical being at will who is branded and persecuted as a “monster” because of it. As the story progresses, revealing even more hidden-in-plain-sight correlations to the “real” world, it’s difficult to imagine even the most obtusely straightforward viewer being blind to the story’s clear message about the corrupting influence of ancient and unquestioned preconceptions on the systems that govern our world.

Its aggressively deployed messaging, however, is not a detriment; “Nimona,” rescued beyond probability from the oblivion of studio politics and economic setbacks, rings all the more palpably authentic for wearing its agenda on its sleeve. In its unequivocal and undiluted embrace of the queer experience of “otherness” which lies (barely) beneath its every nuance, it becomes the inclusive, gay-and-trans-affirming parable it was always intended to be, emerging as a front-runner in the yearly race for accolades from a cautiously mainstream industry establishment in spite of its unapologetic queerness.

If that doesn’t make it essential viewing for queer movie fans, we don’t know what would.

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French ‘Lie With Me’ believes in love after love

A compelling story about the capacity of human beings to heal

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Victor Belmondo and Guillaume de Tonquédec in 'Lie With Me.' (Photo by Michael Crotto; courtesy Cinephobia Releasing)

Sometimes, a love story is about what happens after it’s over as much as how it starts.

Take, for example, the French import “Lie With Me,” which makes its U.S. debut via DVD and VOD on Feb. 15. Based on Philippe Bresson’s 2017 novel “Arrête avec tes mensonges” (“Stop With Your Lies”), it was filmed in 2021, hit the European festival circuit in 2022, and received a general release in its homeland in early 2023, and is making its first appearance on American screens at a time when most film buffs are already looking toward whatever 2024 movies might be coming our way after the hoopla of awards season fades into the background for another year.

Don’t let its status as a “late-bloomer” put you off, however. As any true film buff knows, such circumstantial factors have nothing to do with a movie’s inherent worth or quality. Indeed, it’s often the most overlooked films that ultimately prove also to be the most satisfying, and even if it doesn’t come with the kind of industry buzz that often holds a perhaps unwarranted sway over the tastes of the moviegoing public, this one strikes enough of an emotional chord for queer viewers (especially those who came of age in an earlier generation) to make it worth going out of one’s way.

Directed by Olivier Peyon from a screenplay he wrote with Vincent Poymiro, Arthur Cahn and Cécilia Rouaud, “Lie With Me” is a slice-of-life character study, set in the mid-1980s, in which a celebrated-but-controversial gay author – Stéphane Belcourt (Guillaume de Tonquédec), now in advancing middle age – returns to his hometown of Cognac as the “guest of honor” for the anniversary celebration of a company that produces the city’s namesake liqueur. It’s a bittersweet trip for him, conjuring painful teenage memories of a first love who disappeared from his life without explanation and has left him yearning for closure ever since; but his melancholy is displaced by unexpected intrigue when he discovers that Lucas (Victor Belmondo), the young man responsible for his invitation to the festivities, is the now-adult son of his long-lost paramour, opening up the possibility of finding answers he never thought he’d have – but only if he can let his defenses down enough to ask the necessary questions of Lucas, who seems to be seeking some answers of his own.

Tinged with wistful nostalgia and built around an eminently relatable coming-of-age narrative that invites comparison with movies like “Call Me By Your Name” or any of the countless similar tales of painful first love that have been a staple of queer cinematic romance since such things were “permissible” on the screen, “Lie With Me” fully assumes the wistful tenderness of its genre by interweaving his main story with the one which happened all those years ago – the unexpected and clandestine affair between younger Stéphane (Jérémy Gillet) and his sullen, secretive, and deeply-closeted classmate Thomas (Julien de Saint Jean), rendered with the kind of fragile sweetness that gives such tales of youthful awakening their irresistible appeal, largely thanks to the authenticity and chemistry of the two young actors who play it out for us. Even so, it takes a more brooding and palpably melancholy tone than most of us might be used to in a love story, partly due to the fact that the romance at its center has been over for decades, yet still casts a long shadow over its haunted protagonist, who seems never to have been able to fully give his heart (or, more to the point, his trust) to anyone since. It’s a romantic movie, to be sure, but one in which the romance is viewed through the bitter hindsight of a man who was left burned by it, and becomes even more un-requitable with the revelation of tragic developments that came in the years between.

As a consequence, it can sometimes feel like a depressing slog; Stéphane’s jaded, defensively deployed misanthropy occasionally becomes as much an obstacle to our empathy for him as it does to his making real connections with the people around him on the screen, and there are times when our patience with his self-imposed emotional isolationism wears thin. Yet that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Peyon’s film is not exactly a “love story” in the usual sense, but an exploration of what happens to someone in the aftermath of a loss – and the emotional devastation it has wrought on their life –  that has been kept, undiscussed and unprocessed, as a kind of lifelong “sacred wound.”

Yet it’s also an exploration of how such trauma can finally begin to be healed through connecting with others who share a common sorrow. As a balance to Stéphane’s guarded, occasionally abrasive persona comes the younger Lucas’ outgoing, approachable enthusiasm for connection, which comes in even greater contrast to his older counterpart’s attitude as we gradually discover his own hidden sense of loss; it’s this quality that serves as catalyst in bringing the two men together, despite reticence in both of their corners, and ultimately brings the story to a denouement that, while far from the kind of happy-ever-after ending so many queer viewers usually long to see, might just allow them both to achieve something like closure.

The result is a film that overcomes its own gloom to offer hope without resorting to wish-fulfillment fantasy – something it owes to its insightful and autobiographical source novel, a critically-acclaimed bestseller (transcribed for English-language publication, surprisingly enough, by actress Molly Ringwald, who enjoys a lesser-known career as a writer and translator) in its native France, and to the savvy adaptation from Peyon and his fellow screenwriters. The humanity essential for making it work, however, is delivered through the work of its two leads, with the César Award-winning de Tonquédec’s unvarnished star turn as Stéphane finding a natural symbiosis with the affable Lucas brought to life by rising talent Belmondo – and yes, if you’re wondering, he is the grandson of Jean-Paul Belmondo, the late French New Wave screen legend whose iconic looks and charisma he has certainly inherited. Alongside Gillet and de Saint-Jean, veteran French actress Guilaine Londez rounds out the main cast with a memorable performance as a provincial event coordinator with more observational savvy than she lets on.

None of that is likely to be enough to give “Lie With Me” the kind of feel-good appeal so many modern queer audiences hunger for; though drawn with enough depth and complexity to elevate it above the familiar-yet-still-relevant tropes of its narrative – doomed same-sex love, tragic queer victimhood, the self-sabotaging power of internalized homophobia – it still tells a story that feels frustratingly repetitive to the generations that didn’t live in the era it takes place, and perhaps even for many of those from the generations that did. We can’t argue with preference, so if its subject matter and thematic palette seem to you like something you would rather skip, then you’re probably right. For anyone else, though, it’s a thoughtful and ultimately compelling – if not quite uplifting – story about the capacity of human beings to heal.

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For queer film nominees, look to GLAAD, not Oscar

Annual awards highlight performances you may have missed

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Sterling K. Brown in ‘American Fiction.’ (Photo courtesy of Amazon MGM Studios)

Hollywood awards season is a bleak time for new releases, simply because most of the offerings being highlighted on our screens – both big and small – are literally last year’s news. Even so, it’s a welcome chance to catch up on some of the titles we may have missed before a nomination or two earned them a place in the spotlight they might not have gotten the first time around.

Unfortunately, the competition roster for Oscar — as well as many of the other big award bodies — is woefully short on movies where LGBTQ characters and themes are placed front and center. Don’t get us wrong: There are quite a few historic nominations in this year’s mix for queer talent and content. Still, if we’re searching for the year’s best in queer and queer-inclusive cinema, we have to look elsewhere — and that, of course, means GLAAD.

The nominees for GLAAD’s 35th Annual Media Awards, presented since 1990 to “honor media for fair, accurate, and inclusive representations of LGBTQ people and issues,” were announced on Jan. 17, in the wake of the organization’s acceptance of the iconic Governors Award at the 2023 Emmys Ceremony for its decades of unwavering advocacy and the positive impact it has made in normalizing a queer presence in mainstream television entertainment; its picks for the year’s best film offerings, though they have been (unsurprisingly) overshadowed by the Academy Award nominations that were announced a week later, embody the kind of cinematic excellence we love while also ensuring that LGBTQ stories and experience are not erased from the cultural narrative – and it’s that last bit that makes watching them feel just a little bit more like lending your support where it’s truly needed.

That’s why we’re taking the time to highlight some of the titles that can be found there. Some of them – “All of Us Strangers,” “The Color Purple,” “Knock at the Cabin” and “Blue Jean,” among a few others – we’ve reviewed previously, but we’d love to focus your attention on some of the “hidden gems” that more or less came and went without the kind of fanfare they truly deserved. Because it’s a long list (GLAAD divides its movie categories to reflect wide- and limited-release films, as well as differentiating between narrative, documentary, theatrical and streaming/made for television productions) we really only have room to point out the ones we consider the “cream of the crop.” But we encourage you to check out the full list of nominations on the GLAAD website for more. And since the awards also cover television, literature, comics, and journalism (yes, the Blade is a previous winner!), there’s plenty to explore even if your tastes run toward other forms of media than the movies.

Included alongside the aforementioned titles among the nominees are:

AMERICAN FICTION: Also up for a few Oscars, this satirical look at race in America from writer/director Cord Jefferson delivers a tongue-in-cheek narrative about a Black author (Jeffrey Wright) who adopts the pseudonym and persona of a wanted felon to make a point about the way Black stories are accepted in the white American mainstream, only to achieve success beyond anything he’s written under his own name. It’s a delicate balance between plausible premise and farfetched conceit, but Jefferson makes it work, thanks to a likable performance by Wright, and scores extra points with his treatment of a secondary plotline in which the author’s newly out-of-the-closet brother (Oscar-nominated Sterling K. Brown) embraces his life as a gay man.

ANYONE BUT YOU: Loosely inspired by Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing,” this fluffy rom-com follows Bea and Ben (Sydney Sweeney and Glenn Powell), who – after a fumbled first date – find themselves thrown together at the destination wedding of their own siblings (Alexandra Shipp and Hadley Robinson) and forced to make nice with each other for the sake of the happy couple. We won’t lie: it’s neither deep nor terribly insightful, but it has its heart in the right place, not to mention a lesbian wedding at the center of its premise, and the eminent watch-ability of its two charismatic stars does the rest of the heavy lifting required to make it an enjoyable, love-affirming romp.

MOVING ON: Written and directed by Paul Weitz, this revenge comedy reunites iconic “Grace and Frankie” co-stars Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin as two estranged BFFs who bury the hatchet in order to get even with the husband of a recently deceased friend. The material doesn’t always match the level of talent brought to the table by its legendary leading ladies, but their chemistry more than makes up for the gap, making this one a surefire hit for a movie night on your couch.

ARISTOTLE AND DANTE DISCOVER THE SECRETS OF THE UNIVERSE: From the bestselling YA novel by Benjamin Alire Sáenz comes this endearingly hopeful film adaptation from Aitch Alberto, in which a pair of Tex-Mex teens in El Paso (Max Pelayo, Reese Gonzales) grapple with cultural expectations and gender norms as they come to terms with their attraction for each other – and, for a refreshing change of pace, this time their immediate families are mostly in their corner. Like many queer-themed indie gems, this one shines brighter than its mainstream-produced compatriots simply by virtue of not having to care about alienating audiences still wrapped up in homophobic traditions and beliefs – making it more of a must-see for LGBTQ viewers than most of the year’s higher-profile offerings

JOYLAND: Shortlisted but ultimately passed over for nomination in Oscars’ Best International Feature category, Pakistani filmmaker Saim Sadiq’s drama centers on a low-income family that is rocked when the father (Ali Junjera) takes a job in an erotic dance theater and becomes infatuated with his transgender co-star (Alina Khan). Addressing hardline cultural norms about sexuality and gender roles, it was predictably subject to censorship and controversy in its native country – but nevertheless managed to emerge on the world stage (it took both the Jury Prize and the Queer Palm awards at the Cannes Film Festival) as a prime example of cinema’s ability to “speak truth to power” in a way that transcends the moral outrage leveled by those unwilling or unable to accept its message.

ORLANDO, MY POLITICAL BIOGRAPHY: Nominated in the Documentary category, this audacious work of cinematic activism from Paul B. Preciado brings together trans and nonbinary performers of all ages in an exploration of Virginia Woolf’s century-hopping novel “Orlando,” the tale of a young Elizabethan nobleman who morphs into a woman halfway through the story. Illuminating his own transformation through the authentic voices of the players he brings together, the director captures a universal connecting thread among the trans and gender-non-conforming talent he enlists for his film, daring to suggest that the “norms” enshrined by mainstream culture are ultimately political constructs opposing the natural flow of individual self-actualization. It’s a powerful argument, making for a not-to-be-missed gem of a movie.

The GLAAD Media Awards will be presented, across two ceremonies, on March 14 and May 11, 2024.

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Miyazaki caps career with masterful ‘Boy and the Heron’

A treatise on the need for harmony between man and nature

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‘The Boy and the Heron.' (Image courtesy of Studio Ghibli)

If anyone can be said to rival the impact of Walt Disney on the field of animated films, it’s Hayao Miyazaki. Co-founder of Studio Ghibli, his work in Japan’s anime genre is legendary, with films like “My Neighbor Totoro,” “Kiki’s Delivery Service,” “Howl’s Moving Castle,” and the Oscar-winning “Spirited Away” – which held the record as the highest-grossing film in Japanese history for 19 years – expanding his popularity and helping to build a global entertainment empire that, like Disney’s, includes merchandise, licensing, and even a theme park. 

Millions of fans worldwide – many of them queer – have grown up loving his movies not just for their unique blend of the fanciful, the poignant, and the profound but for the sublime visual artistry and masterful storytelling with which they are rendered.

Now 83, the revered animator announced his retirement from making feature films in 2013 – only to start work, three years later, on another one. Seven years afterward, that project reached fruition with “The Boy and the Heron,” released in its native Japan last summer. And if any proof is needed to stand as testament to Miyazaki’s popularity, it can be found in the fact that, in spite of a deliberately minimal promotion strategy (the film was released with no teasers, trailers, or fanfare besides a single poster image), it had the biggest opening weekend of any Studio Ghibli film to date, going on to become the first original anime film (and the first film by Miyazaki) to achieve number one status at the box office in both Canada and the U.S.

Initially released in the latter country on Dec. 8, and still in theaters in the wake of its Golden Globe win and Oscar nomination as Best Animated Film of 2023, “Heron” – written and directed by Miyazaki and inspired by (though otherwise unrelated to) Genzaburō Yoshino’s 1937 novel “How Do You Live?” – is an autobiographically leaning story centered on young Mahito (Soma Santoki / Luca Padovan in the English dubbed version), a boy growing up in Tokyo during World War II. Following the death of his mother in a hospital fire, his industrialist father (Takuya Kimura / Christian Bale) soon remarries, with his late wife’s younger sister (Yoshino Kimura / Gemma Chan) as his new bride, and Mahito finds himself living at her family’s estate in the rural countryside. There, a mysterious – and persistent – heron (Masaki Suda / Robert Pattinson) seems to take interest in him, and he begins to feel taunted by its attentions – but when his new stepmother disappears into the surrounding forest, the bird leads him into an overgrown tower, where a seemingly all-powerful lord (Shōhei Hino / Mark Hamill) rules over a hidden underworld, and he embarks on an epic quest through its mystical landscape to rescue her, helped along the way by a swashbuckling fisherwoman (Ko Shibasaki / Florence Pugh) and a guardian fire spirit (Aimyon / Karen Fukuhara) – discovering the secrets of a magical family history stretching back across generations as he goes.

Considering its unmistakable parallels to Miyazaki’s real-life childhood (his father, like Mahito’s, was an industrialist working for a company that manufactured war planes, allowing him an affluent and somewhat sheltered upbringing in a devastated Japan), it’s impossible not to see his latest movie as a “swan song.” Indeed, it was widely branded as such by journalists ahead of its release, and the director himself declared it his “last,” though that has since been recanted by Studio Ghibli with the announcement that he is working on another. Still, while it may not be his final manifesto, it would certainly be a worthy one.

Infused with the filmmaker’s signature recurring themes – the need for harmony between man and nature, the paradoxical absurdities of technology, the value of traditional lifestyles and the importance of craft and artistry, the conflict between pacifist ideals and violence that dominates human affairs – and weaving a mythic tale that postulates a deeper reality where life and death are forever intertwined in a realm of impermanent permanence, “Heron” feels as much like a statement of belief as it does a fantasy. One might even sense that there’s an insistence that it can be both, and that life itself is a sort of fantasy, capable of being shaped by things that exist only within our imaginations, and that, of course, is the source of its power. 

Such cosmic speculations aside, however, Miyazaki’s movie hooks us not with its esoteric metaphysics, but with its meditations on loss, grief, and the challenge of finding peace in a world that often seems dominated by chaos and indiscriminate destruction. Artfully framed to suggest that the “fantasy” elements of its plot either might or might not exist only within its youthful protagonist’s delirious, wounded mind, it touches us to the heart with the harsh realities of Mahito’s young life; the opening sequence, depicting the fire that kills his mother, is horrific, leaving its shadow on the rest of the film even as it does on Mahito’s soul, and his grief, compounded and left unreconciled by his loving-but-ham-handed father’s seeming refusal to address or even acknowledge it, resonates on a universal wavelength simply because it is so fundamentally human. It’s in grappling with these elements of life – the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” to which Shakespeare refers in “Hamlet,” a play which is, perhaps not coincidentally, echoed in an inverted form within the structure of Miyazaki’s narrative – that the movie brings a sense of truth to the magical realism it embraces. The comforts it offers do not feel like hollow platitudes; rather, they point us toward wisdom, much in the way of a riddle told by a Zen Master, and a way of looking at the world that is comfort enough in itself.

Yet “The Boy and the Heron” is not made of the kind of late-career introspection that robs it of its sense of fun. Full of adventure, action, and the filmmaker’s signature blend of gorgeously animated realism with adorable absurdity inspired by Kawaii (Japanese “cute culture”), it offers as much spirited adventure and comedic flair as expected from a Miyazaki film– and it’s populated with just as many whimsically grotesque creatures and characters, to boot.

Needless to say, perhaps, it’s also a stunning film to behold, evoking a classic Japanese woodcut brought to life and infused with a powerful spirit of its own; though enhanced and aided by modern technology, the animation – as with all of Miyazaki’s work – is hand-drawn, making its visual perfection even more breathtaking. Add to all this the beautiful score by longtime friend and collaborator Joe Hisaishi, and the result is irresistible.

Given that “The Boy in the Heron” is likely a top contender for the win at this year’s Oscars, it’s likely to be accessible on the big screen – in some markets, at least – for a while before it becomes available for streaming. Whether or not you can see it now, keep it on your radar – we don’t use the word “masterpiece” lightly, but we suggest this one might qualify, and you owe it to yourself to watch it so that you can decide for yourself.

We’re pretty sure you’ll agree.

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Sicilian boys in love spark ‘Fireworks’

Inspired by true story of two gay youths murdered in Italy

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Samuele Segreto and Gabriele Pizzurro star in ‘Fireworks.’ (Photo courtesy of Cinephobia Releasing)

In October of 1980, the village of Giarre – a small municipality in Catalania, Sicily – was rocked by the murder of two young men, 25-year-old Giorgio Agatino Giamonna and 15-year-old Antonio “Toni” Galatola. Found hand in hand, two weeks after disappearing together from their homes, they had each been shot in the head, allegedly executed for the “crime” of homosexuality by members of their own families and other factions within the town whose disapproval of their relationship had already made them the target of bullying and violent abuse. The 13-year-old nephew of one of the victims admitted to carrying out the killings at the behest of the two families, even claiming that the two young men forced him to shoot them to prevent shame to their families, but later recanted his confession, leaving the double homicide officially unsolved.

It was an incident that sparked widespread outrage in Italy, though much of the rest of the world had little awareness of it, and ultimately led to the formation of “Arcigay” the country’s first and largest LGBTQ activist organization. Now seen as one of the most important catalysts in jump-starting the modern queer rights movement in Italy, the killings of Giorgio and Toni – who came to be known by protesters in the wake of their murders as “The Boyfriends” – were commemorated with a memorial plaque at the entrance to Giarre’s town library in 2022.

That’s the real life story behind the Italian import “Fireworks,” which made its U.S. debut on digital and VOD platforms Jan. 18, although it serves as inspiration for a fictional retelling rather than as the basis for a docudrama. Known in its nation of origin as “Stranizza d’amuri” [“Strangeness of Love”], it tells the story of Gianni (Samuele Segreto) and Nino (Gabriele Pizzurro), two youths from a small Sicilian village in the early 1980s — though life there has remained largely unchanged for a thousand years — who meet in a moped accident and become friends. At first, their relationship meets with approval from relatives on both sides, with Gianni stepping in to help when Nino’s father is forced to step away from the family firework business due to health problems. But as their deeper feelings for each other become more obvious to those around them, their families – and the rest of the town – grow more hostile; unable to resist the attraction they feel toward each other yet facing disapproval, disparagement, and worse from the small-minded morality that surrounds them, the two boys are forced to choose between turning away from their blossoming love or defying the deeply traditional strictures of their community by living it in the open.

Directed by Giusseppe Fiorello, who also co-wrote the screenplay with Andrea Cedrola and Carlo Salsa in collaboration with Josella Porto, “Fireworks” might, based on its storyline, be easily classed by American audiences as one of those “doomed romance” movies that equate queer love with tragic victimhood. Indeed, knowing the real-world origins of the plot going in, it might well feel like one is being set up from the start for tragedy, and the pervasiveness of the homophobic bigotry we see enacted on the screen can’t help but remind us we’re in for a depressing ride toward a heartbreaking conclusion.

The movie, however, doesn’t quite go that way.

While it certainly establishes the repressive environment of the boys’ community, complete with the kind of ugly bullying that is all too familiar to anyone growing up queer in a similar setting, it is more interested in exploring the experience of falling into first love, and establishing the connection between its two protagonists that ultimately makes them willing to choose each other over the safety of conforming to social taboos. Thanks to the easy chemistry of Segreto and Pizzurro, who capture the tenderness between these two sweet-but-not-quite-innocent souls in a way that blends the wholesome tenderness of youthful love with the irresistible pull of budding sensuality, the harshness and abuse they must endure – as well as the bleakness of their presumed eventual fate – seems less important than the palpable joy they find in each other. Their romance becomes a haven, and their story becomes about the triumph of love instead of the power of hate.

That’s an important distinction that keeps the tone of “Fireworks” from drifting too far into the doom-and-gloom that often dominates such stories — and it’s a good thing, too. While the central romance may provide plenty of uplift, there is a cold reality encroaching upon it that cannot be ignored; and though the inevitable depictions of torment from village homophobes are brutal enough on their own, it’s the attention paid to those closer to the young lovers – the families and friends who, instead of offering support or protection, become allies to these hostile outsiders for fear of social repercussion to themselves — that will likely hit closest to home for most queer audiences. It’s this aspect of the story that is arguably more “triggering” than any of the physical violence we are shown. It hones in on the social mechanisms through which cultural conditioning is passed down from one generation to the next — a theme that manifests itself in a narrative thread that weaves its way through the film from the first moment to the final frames and leaves us devastated.

Still, what we walk away with from Fiorello’s evocative movie is a sense of beauty, of triumph claimed rather than thwarted. The filmmaker honors the memories of his characters’ real-world inspirations — who became heroes of their country’s Equality Movement not because they were killed for their sexuality but because they dared to embrace it — by celebrating the love they found instead of lamenting the fate that befell them. Indeed, the movie’s artfully ambiguous ending gives the real-life murders only a nod of acknowledgment, choosing instead to leave its fictionalized lovers in a happy moment that might almost allow us the illusion they will live on.

This choice to emphasize love over hate, of course, does not sugarcoat the fact that “Fireworks” shows us some pretty ugly things, and, for some viewers, no amount of positive focus will be enough to prevent it from being a difficult watch. Understandably, many queer film fans, weary of having our love stories turn to heartbreak and horror on the screen, are tired of such grim representation and would prefer movies to give us the same chance at a happy ending as everybody else. Those movies do exist, of course; but as long as there are still places in the world — such as Italy, still considered one of the least LGBTQ-friendly nations in Western Europe, despite the advances made since the murders that inspired this film, and other countries that are far worse, there will always still be a need for movies that expose that reality — especially when they’re as well-made, and authentic, and tender as this one.

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Emma Stone shines in ‘Poor Things’

New film less far-fetched fantasy than it is social satire

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Willem Dafoe and Emma Stone in 'Poor Things.' (Image courtesy Searchlight Pictures)

If you’re not familiar with the work of filmmaker Yorgos Lanthimos, you might not be fully prepared for the level of oddness you’ll encounter in “Poor Things,” the Greek director’s latest work and winner of the Golden Lion Award at the 2023 Venice Film Festival. Known for the unsettling and vaguely grotesque absurdities of his mise en scène in movies like “The Lobster” or “The Favourite” the material he’s chosen this time allows his droll-but-disturbing imagination to run wild even wilder than usual.

Adapted by Tony McNamara from Scots writer Alasdair Gray’s 1992 faux-Victorian sci-fi novel of the same name, it’s the strange and Odyssean tale of Bella Baxter (Emma Stone), a young woman whose past is shrouded in mystery after her experimental reanimation by a brilliant-but-controversial doctor (Willem Dafoe) following an attempted suicide. With her previous existence erased from her memory and no exposure to the outside world, she sets out to gain knowledge and experience before settling down into an arranged marriage with a young research assistant (Ramy Youssef), embarking with a debauched lawyer (Mark Ruffalo) on an extended sea cruise; it’s an adventure that shapes her rapidly developing sense of self even as setbacks along the way – along with the shadow of her forgotten former life – threaten to derail her journey toward autonomy and force her forever back into the gilded cage of isolation with which women of her era were expected to content themselves.

Ambitious, sprawling, and unapologetically allegorical, Lanthimos’ immersive film makes very little effort to disguise its true identity as a high-concept parable, even as it painstakingly builds the fantastical world in which it takes place; though its setting may look like a palpably authentic version of 19th century London (and later, beyond), it’s as much derived from familiar tropes of literature and cinema as it is from period detail, and it leans into the sci-fi trappings of its Penny Dreadful-ish mad scientist plot to transform that almost-realistic landscape into a dream-like reality that shifts ever deeper into a sort of steampunk-flavored metaverse, mirroring Bella’s quest for full personhood as it takes her further from the social constructs of the “polite society” for which she has been groomed. To that end, the production design from Shona Heath and James Price, captured by the luminous cinematography of Robbie Ryan, which shifts throughout between varying blends of black-and-white and color, creates just the right blend of magical realism and macabre whimsy to make us accept it without question. More crucially, it evokes a kind of not-so-subtle surrealism that helps us understand we’re in an esoteric world of dreams, myths, and fables, no matter how much it might look like the real one.

That’s a key element in making “Poor Things” hit home, because despite the genre trimmings in which it is wrapped, it’s a movie that is less far-fetched fantasy than it is social satire. In Lanthimos’ vision, the story’s thematic observations about the conflict between personal freedom and cultural conditioning – particularly when it comes to women – become central. Reborn as a blank slate, Bella is free from the constructs that dictate her proscribed role in society, and she acts according to her true nature – putting her in direct conflict with those she encounters (particularly the men) on her travels. Like a feminist version of Voltaire’s Candide, her episodic adventure exposes her to different aspects of the civilization around her, charting an evolution from naïve bumpkin to self-actualized wise woman that confronts her with a menu of ideological perspectives – mostly advanced, again, by men, all of whom seek to control her for reasons ranging from the protective to the predatory. Seeing it take place in a reality that seems to evolve along with her into an ever more idealized iteration of itself drives home the point that, regardless of when it takes place, it’s a story about simply being a real human in the here and now, no matter where or when that might be.

Underscoring this sense of the universal are the inherent echoes in its narrative of mythic figures, from Prometheus and Pygmalion to Faust and Frankenstein, all of whom remind us of the dangers we face when we defy “the gods” – or nature itself – in our quest to subvert their dominion over us and exert control over our own fate. Re-imagined in a tale about a woman attempting to define her own existence in a world that wants to deny her that power, these classic cautionary tales of self-defeating hubris take on a new aspect; instead of reinforcing traditional morals about “knowing our place” in the universe, it challenges us to question them instead. Add to that a dedication to the notion of empiricism as the means to true enlightenment – as opposed to blind devotion to a time-honored construct that no longer fits the world we live in – and you have a movie that feels pointedly apropos for our current reality, despite its period setting.

Yet despite all the brainy-sounding conceptual ideas it invites us to contemplate, Lanthimos’ movie doesn’t feel as cerebral as it is; thanks to his admittedly black sense of humor – more directly comedic here, perhaps, than in his earlier, drier films – it keeps us in a perpetual state of bemused curiosity, which lets us absorb its philosophical explorations without feeling like we’re attending a college lecture. On the contrary, it’s a highly entertaining, near-hypnotic treat for the eyes, ears, and imagination as well as the mind, replete with quirky details that make it sometimes feel like the cinematic equivalent of a Bosch painting. Much of that is due to the tone of Lanthimos’ finely tuned direction and McNamara’s devilishly clever, understated screenplay, not to mention the above-mentioned visual artistry and a loopily ethereal score by first-time film composer Jerskin Fendrix.

But as well crafted as “Poor Things” is, it would be nothing without its star. Stone’s Bella is one of those instantly iconic film characters, larger than life but drawn with such layered authenticity by the performer that she becomes unforgettably human. Tasked with taking her role from pre-verbal simplicity to worldly sophistication, with stops at all points in between, she executes a complicated character arc with the precision of an Olympic athlete; it’s a career-defining accomplishment, worth the price of a ticket by itself – and as a bonus, Dafoe (even through extensive facial prosthetics) and Ruffalo also deliver memorable, pitch-perfect performances, with out queer comedian/actor Jerrod Carmichael shining as a cynical traveling companion that Bella meets along the way.

It should be noted that, for some viewers, “Poor Things” might push some boundaries; much of Bella’s exploration is driven, at least partly, by her sexual appetite, and the movie doesn’t hold back in showing her various carnal escapades. It’s also fallen under some criticism for depicting sex work as a means of empowerment for women, though we suspect there are quite a few sex workers out there who would dispute that point.

With that small warning out of the way, we have no qualms about urging you to see “Poor Things” – preferably on a big screen, to fully appreciate its visual style – as soon as possible. Yes, it’s strange – but its strangeness is where its beauty becomes most visible.

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A rich ‘Color Purple’

New film a musical based on the Broadway show, not a Spielberg remake

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Fantasia Barrino stars in ‘The Color Purple.’ (Photo courtesy of Warner Bros.)

Alice Walker’s 1982 Pulitzer-winning novel “The Color Purple” never needed a Steven Spielberg film adaptation to become a cultural touchstone – it had already achieved that before the director’s 1986 movie version made it to the screen – but it didn’t hurt, either.

Making stars of Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey in the process, Spielberg’s film – his first foray into “serious” cinema – brought Walker’s epistolatory tale of early 20th-century Black life in Georgia to the attention of new audiences. Setting aside modern attitudes about Black narratives being interpreted by white storytellers, it was undeniably a “watershed moment,” when a seminal piece of Black literature – one that “spoke truth to power” while transcending notions of race, gender, and sexuality and asserting the rich cultural heritage of Black Americans – became part of mainstream consciousness.

That all happened nearly 40 years ago, but neither Walker’s book nor the multi-Oscar-nominated film it inspired have faded from public memory – and now, the latest evolution of the material that started it all has reached movie screens, just in time to become a must-see Christmas event for families across America. However, despite the impression one might get from watching the trailers, which largely evoke key moments from the Spielberg film, it’s not a remake.

Instead, “The Color Purple,” releasing on Christmas Day to join the fray for 2023’s “awards season” race, is a new iteration of Walker’s book, a stage-to-screen adaptation of the Tony-winning 2006 Broadway musical – originally crafted by playwright Marsha Norman with score and lyrics by Brenda Russell, Allee Willis, and Stephen Bray – penned by screenwriter Marcus Gardley. Again, the impression one might get from watching the film’s trailers, which downplay the movie’s identity as a musical to the point that many audiences will be surprised when its characters start singing, doesn’t exactly convey that information to anyone who isn’t already “in the know.”

Still, it’s not the movie’s fault if Warner Brothers, true to form for big-ticket Hollywood studios since at least the early 1970s, tried to hedge its bets in promoting the latest attempt at a blockbuster movie musical, and we can hardly blame them – the success rate for such films, in terms of both critical and audience acceptance, has been hit-or-miss for decades. No matter how much talk one may hear of the genre making a comeback, it’s never really happened. For every Oscar-winner like “Chicago,” there’s an embarrassing dud like “Dear Evan Hansen,” and that’s not even counting the inevitable controversies over the merits of original musicals like “La La Land,” which are typically derided by purist fans of the genre even as they garner acclaim from critics and industry insiders. But though it excises several songs from the stage original’s playlist (while adding a few new ones, a common ploy for Hollywood adaptations angling for an Original Song Oscar, with Siedah Garrett stepping in to replace the late Willis), the film is unapologetic about being a musical from its very first frames, rising above the politics of publicity to fully inhabit the artistic space in which it was intended to exist.

In the hands of director Blitz Bazawule (aka “Blitz the Ambassador”), a Ghanaian director (“The Burial of Kojo,” Beyonce’s “Black is King”) whose artistic monikers also include author, visual artist, rapper, singer-songwriter, and record producer, “The Color Purple” is a stylistic homage that pays tribute to the nostalgic glory of classic Hollywood while remaining firmly rooted in a contemporary aesthetic. To put it more plainly, the film’s many musical set-pieces borrow heavily from iconic Golden Age movies – think choreographed flights of fancy evoking seminal creators from Busby Berkeley to Gene Kelly to Bob Fosse – yet present them in a milieu more closely related to a modern music video. The eloquent choreography (by Fatima Robinson) exists outside the film’s period setting, incorporating movement rooted as much in modern dance as in the traditional styles that might seem (for some) more fitting to the material, and the music to which it is set often feels closer in spirit and execution to present-day R&B than the old-fashioned gospel-and-blues influences we might expect. 

The result is both thrilling and jarring, an inspiring example of what can happen when a traditionally white mainstream genre is appropriated and reimagined by a rich and vibrant postmodern generation of blended ethnic ties possessing the boldness and skill to make it their own – which, in the heightened sensitivity of our divided age, might be a step too far for some viewers, but seems to us a more effective path than most toward breathing fresh life into the long-lamented musical genre, if such a thing were possible.

Yet between its many musical interludes, Bazawule’s film equally invests itself in the dramatic narrative, emulating a host of “realistic” cinematic influences beyond Spielberg’s contribution. This goes a long way toward getting us invested in the story and characters, especially given the beyond-expectation performances of the cast. Reprising the role she first played on Broadway, Fantasia Barrino creates a Miss Celie that puts the stress on under-appreciated intelligence rather than indoctrinated ignorance, giving us a different but no-less-compelling take on the character than Goldberg’s iconic turn, and Danielle Brooks (“Orange is the New Black”), also returning to her stage role, commands her every moment onscreen as the iron-willed Sofia. Taraji P. Henson, as free-spirited blues singer Shug Avery, captures the indomitable self-confidence and iron will that makes her a catalyst for more than one character’s change of heart, and Colman Domingo’s Mister succeeds at humanizing his toxicity sufficiently to clear a path for our empathy; in smaller but no-less-essential roles, Corey Hawkins and R&B singer H.E.R. (Gabriella Wilson) shine brightly enough to make their presence felt among the rest of the heavy-hitters, and up-and-comer Halle Bailey scores big as the long-separated sister that serves as a lifeline throughout Celie’s struggles.

All these stellar performances, coupled with Bazawule’s solid directorial vision and the non-ambiguous queerness with which it comports itself (the romance between Celie and Shug is allowed to blossom much more fully that we are shown in the Spielberg original), gives us ample reason to recommend “The Color Purple” – but we must also add a caveat that might be more a commentary on the stage musical than on the film derived from it.

Simply expressed, one can’t help but feel that there’s a disconnect between the sparse-but-richly-imagined prose that makes Walker’s book so compelling and the florid sentimentality of its translation into the musical format. The songs, while they might ring true as appropriate within the concept, never sufficiently illuminate what we are shown by the drama; they seem, at times, disconnected from everything else, a blatant appeal to our emotions rather than an integrated part of the whole. This is a particular problem for a film clearly rooted in the intertwined music and history of the Black culture it ostensibly tries to emulate.

Even so, such scholarly nitpicking is immaterial for most of our readers; while it may not deliver the most cohesive of musical conceits, it pulls off most of what it needs to, and for anybody who loves musicals as much as we do, that’s more than enough.

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