Movies
Belgian Oscar contender strikes ‘Close’ to home
Exploring gender expectations we force upon our children
When queer Belgian director Lukas Dhont debuted his first feature film “Girl” at the 2018 Cannes Film Festival, it made quite an impression. As winner of the Caméra d’Or prize for Best First Feature, as well as the Queer Palm Award and a Jury Award for Best Performance for its star Victor Polster, it was quickly acquired by Netflix and catapulted Dhont onto the international cinema scene. He was even named on the Forbes “Europe 30 Under 30” list of business and industry professionals to watch.
Not all the attention heaped on his movie was positive, however. The tale of a teen trans girl seeking a career as a ballet dancer, it raised sharp objections from some queer and trans commentators for what they perceived as a sensationalized approach to gender dysphoria and self-harm, not to mention for the casting of cisgender actor Polster in the leading role; though other queer and trans voices – including real-life trans ballerina Nora Monsecour, who inspired the story and consulted with Dhont and co-screenwriter Angelo Tijssens during the writing process – were quick to defend the movie, the controversy nevertheless created a blemish on its reputation, and that of its filmmaker, too.
Now, Dhont is back with his second full-length film, and while it certainly marks an escalation of his success, it’s not without its own detractors. “Close,” based on experiences from his own childhood and again co-written by Tijssens, also took Cannes by storm, winning the Grand Prix Award this time, and has gone on to accumulate accolades from other festivals and awards bodies around the world; yet its subject matter, perhaps inevitably, has opened the filmmaker up to another round of criticism from queer observers who are uncomfortable with the story he has chosen to tell – or at least with the way he has chosen to tell it.
It centers on two young teen boys, Léo (Eden Dambrine) and Rémi (Gustav De Waele), tightly bonded best friends who start their first year of secondary school after a summer spent together in innocent but intimate companionship working on Léo’s parents’ farm. When new schoolmates begin to make comments about the closeness of their relationship, Léo begins to distance himself from Rémi, becoming involved with hockey and pursuing a camaraderie with the rougher, more athletic boys on his team instead; first confused, then devastated by his abandonment, the heartbroken Rémi is moved to a public schoolyard confrontation with his former friend, further driving a wedge between them and setting the stage for an unthinkable turn of events.
The film’s provocative title is partly a nod to psychologist Niobe Way’s book, “Deep Secrets: Boys’ Friendships and the Crisis of Connection,” which documents a study of intimacy among teenage boys – frequently using the term “close friendship” to describe their relationships – and was one of Dhont’s inspirations for making the film. More than that, however, it’s an important clue to what his movie is all about. Though the director revealed before making “Close” that it would be about a “queer character,” there is no suggestion, either explicit or implicit, that its two teen friends have a sexual relationship with each other, or even that such a thing has ever crossed their minds; they are simply two boys, comfortable with each other in that tender and trusting way that only boys at their age can be. Likewise, there’s no bullying, no aggressive or even “microaggressive” shaming; it’s only their schoolmates’ perceptions that introduce the suggestion this friendship might be something more – but that’s more than enough to sour the sweetness between them, forcing us to question why some ways of being “close” are only OK for boys until they start to become men.
More to the point, perhaps, it begs the question of how this kind of low-key homophobia, so culturally ingrained that it is perpetuated without a flicker of awareness, remains persistent in a community that should know better. We don’t see a lot of the adult world in “Close,” but what we do see leads us to an impression that most of the grown-ups around Léo and Rémi are intelligent, educated, compassionate, and sensitive; their parents are unconditionally loving, and more than welcoming of the close companionship between their respective offspring. Yet throughout the film, throughout the boys’ conflict and beyond, there is no adult figure in their lives who seems willing or able to broach the subject of sexuality, or to show by example that there’s nothing about being queer – or even being perceived as queer – to be ashamed of.
These things, of course, are part of the criticism that has been leveled at the movie. Without positive messaging to counter its bleak narrative, some have seen “Close” as perpetuating a bevy of toxic tropes. Though we try to avoid spoilers, it’s hard to discuss a movie like this without revealing that something tragic happens, and many have expressed disappointment that Dhont’s film “punishes” its gay characters – even if we’re never sure they’re really gay. Further, in the absence of any affirmation of queerness (or even non-traditional masculinity), some have been troubled by an assumed reinforcement of a homophobic status quo within its narrative.
We can’t – and won’t – argue with any of those points. “Close” is a challenging film in the same way as “Tár,” another controversial title among this year’s awards contenders, in the sense that it presents a problem and doesn’t offer a solution or tell you how to respond to it – yet unlike “Tár,” it encourages us to feel things for its characters, and the consequences here are much more tragic. That might be especially true for queer men, certainly of older generations but still among today’s youth, for whom the film may trigger traumatic memories that hit particularly close to home. That means, when it comes to deciding if you’re up to the substantial challenges of watching it, you’re on your own. (SPOILER ALERT: it’s rough going, emotionally speaking.)
Still, “Close” is a beautiful film on a lot of levels. In the most literal sense, it’s visually stunning, framed with an almost tactile up-close intimacy and brimming with the preternatural light that glows through Frank van den Eeden’s delicate cinematography; in a larger sense, it strikes a resonant chord for anyone who has ever (is there anyone who hasn’t?) experienced the terrible pangs of losing a childhood friendship, an unforgettable hurt it captures with heart-rending authenticity. Though we want our coming-of-age stories to be uplifting, there are some kinds of pain that cannot be erased, and it’s to Dhont’s credit that he doesn’t try. He wants you to feel those feelings, and his movie is delicately crafted to make sure that you do, complete with the remarkable performances he elicits from his two underage stars.
That doesn’t make it easy to watch, of course, but for those who are willing to take it on, it offers plenty of food for thought; and if the observations it makes about the gender expectations we force upon our children make you uncomfortable, then it’s accomplished what it set out to do in the first place.
Movies
Trans MMA star battles prejudice in ‘Unfightable’ doc
A harrowing, heartbreaking, inspiring portrait of Alana McLaughlin
It’s no surprise that the fall movie landscape finds an unusually large number of films – most of them documentaries – about trans people and the challenges they face in trying to achieve an identity that matches their own sense of self.
Transgender rights or even acceptance have never been in such a precarious place within the American political landscape since queer rights were acknowledged at all in the mainstream conversation. After eight years of ramped-up efforts by anti-trans activists to essentially legislate them out of legal existence, trans people find themselves facing a divisive and uncomfortably close election that will likely have an existential impact on their future, accompanied by persistent and vocal efforts by the conservative right-wing crowd to ostracize and stigmatize them within public perception. They’re not the only target, but they are the most vulnerable one – especially within the evangelical strongholds that might swing the election one way or the other – and that means a lot of conservative crosshairs are trained directly on them.
It’s a position they’re used to, unfortunately, which is precisely why there are so many erudite and artistic voices within the trans community emerging, prepared by years of experience and education gained from dealing with persistent transphobic dogma in American culture, to illuminate the trans experience and push back against the efforts of political opportunists by letting their stories speak for themselves. Surely there is no weapon against hatred more potent than empathy – once we recognize our own reflection in those we demonize, it’s hard to keep ourselves from recognizing our shared humanity, too – and perhaps no more potent way of conveying it than through the most visceral artistic medium of all: filmmaking
Particularly timely, in the wake of an Olympics marked by controversy over the participation of Algeria’s Imane Khelif and Taiwan’s Lin Yu-ting in the women’s competition, is “Unfightable,” from producer/director Marc J. Perez. Offering up a harrowing, heartbreaking, and ultimately inspiring portrait of Alana McLaughlin – a U.S. Army Special Forces sergeant who, following gender transition, turned female MMA fighter only to face resistance and transphobic prejudice within the rarified cultural microcosm of professional sports – while also taking a deep dive into the world of Mixed Martial Arts and the starkly divided attitudes of those who work within it, it aims to turn one person’s trans experience into a metaphor for the struggle of an entire community to be recognized and accepted on its own terms. For the most part, it succeeds.
Unlike many such biography-heavy documentaries, “Unfightable” allows its subject – the charismatic and outspoken McLaughlin, whose presence rightly dominates the film and leaves the most lingering impression – to narrate her own story, without interpretation or commentary from “talking head” experts. From the grim-but-all-too-familiar story of her upbringing in a deeply religious family (and yes, conversion “therapy” was involved) through her struggle to define her identity via a grueling military career, her eventual transition, and her emergence as only the second transfeminine competitor in the professional MMA arena and beyond, Perez treats most of the movie’s narrative thrust like an extended one-on-one interview, in which McLaughlin delivers the story as she experienced it. This one-on-one honest expression is effectively counterpointed by the rhetoric of other MMA personalities who participated in the film, some of which is shockingly transphobic despite protestations of having “nothing against” trans people.
At the same time, the film acknowledges and amplifies supportive voices within the MMA, whose efforts to bring McLaughlin into the fold were not only successful, but ultimately led to her victorious 2021 match against French fighter Celine Provost. It’s a tale that hits all the touchstone marks of queer/trans experience for those whose lives can’t really begin until they break free of their oppressive origins, and whose fight to claim an authentic life for themself is frequently waged against both the families who ostensibly love them and the prejudices of a society eager to condemn anything that deviates from the perceived “norm”. Naturally, as a story of individual determination, self-acceptance, and success against the odds, its main agenda is to draw you in and lift you up; but it does so while still driving home the point about how far the road still stretches ahead before trans athletes – and by extension, trans people in general – are afforded the same legitimacy as everyone else.
To ensure that reality is never forgotten or taken lightly, we are offered some pretty egregious examples; from prominent fighters who insist they “have no problem” with trans people as a preface for their transphobic beliefs about trans athletes, to McLaughlin’s long wait before finding another MMA pro who was willing to fight her we are confronted with a pattern of prejudice blocking her path forward. And though it documents her triumph, it reminds us that three years later, despite her accomplishments, she has yet to find another MMA pro willing to give her another bout.
If nothing else, though, “Unfightable” underscores a shift in attitudes that reflects the progress – however slow or maddeningly hard-won it may be – of trans people carving out space for themselves in a social environment still largely hostile to their success or even their participation. As McLaughlin’s journey illustrates, it takes dogged persistence and a not-insignificant level of righteous anger to even pierce the skin of the systemic transphobia that still opposes the involvement of people like her in sports; her experience also bears witness to the emboldened bigotry that has doubled-down on its opposition to trans acceptance since the 2016 election of a certain former president who is now seeking a second chance of his own – highlighting the dire consequences at stake for the trans community (and, let’s face it, the entire queer community alongside every other group deplored and marginalized by his followers) should his efforts toward a comeback prove successful.
Yet as grim an outlook as it may acknowledge, “Unfightable” doesn’t leave viewers with a belief in sure defeat; in the toughness of its subject – who is, as it proudly makes clear, a veteran of combat much more directly dangerous than anything she will ever encounter in the ring – and her refusal to simply give up and go away, it kindles in us the same kind of dogged resistance that fueled her own transcendence of a toxic personal history and allowed her to assert her identity – triumphantly so, despite the transphobia that would have kept her forever from the prize.
That’s a spirit of determination that we all could use to help drive us to victory at the polls come November. Like Alana McLaughlin, we have neither the desire nor the ability to go back to the way our lives were before, and Perez’s documentary helps us believe we have the strength to keep it from happening.
“Unfightable” opened for a limited release in New York on Sept. 13 and begins another in Los Angeles on Sept. 20. It will air on ViX, the leading Spanish-language streaming service in the world, and in English on Fuse TV, following its theatrical run.
Movies
Timely doc celebrates America’s most beloved president as ‘Lover of Men’
Was Lincoln the most prominent LGBTQ hero in U.S. history?
It’s reasonable to assume, if you’re someone with an interest in “hidden” queer history, that you are already aware of the speculation that Abraham Lincoln might have been gay, or at least bisexual.
Those labels didn’t exist in his time, but the 16th POTUS left a trail of eyebrow-raising same-sex relationships, nonetheless, which many scholars consider as evidence that he was likely a member of what we now call the LGBTQ community.
The discussion around Lincoln’s sexuality has always been broadly drawn and ambiguously cloaked by 19th-century social norms (which [spoiler alert] were not quite as Puritanical as we might believe). Conclusions must be drawn by inference, so it’s no surprise that many historians tend to be wary of projecting modern-day interpretations on a past era. Such experts warn against drawing conclusions from a between-the-lines reading of “official” history; by that standard, whatever the implications might suggest, there’s simply no way to prove anything, one way or another, and that’s the end of the story.
Others, however, are not so eager to close the discussion – and that’s where the creators of “Lover of Men: The Untold History of Abraham Lincoln,” a new documentary conveniently timed for release mere months ahead of what might be our most crucial election so far when it comes to the subject of LGBTQ acceptance and equality, decided to step in and set the record (if you’ll pardon the expression) straight.
Directed by Shaun Peterson – who co-wrote alongside Joshua Koffman, Grace Leeson, and Robert Rosenheck – and unapologetically committed to piercing the opacity of a biography that contains too many “red flags” to ignore, it’s a documentary that eschews neutrality to make a case for claiming “Honest Abe” as the most prominent LGBTQ hero in the Great American Story. Unfolded by expert historians – both queer and otherwise – as an intimate portrait of a profoundly public figure, it charts Lincoln’s life through a lens trained on private experience, and goes beyond that to frame the much-beloved president’s growth and transformation into one of the world’s most significant leaders as a probable consequence of the “friendships” he experienced with the men who were his closest companions during different periods of his life.
Most of the attention is directed, unsurprisingly, at Joshua Speed, the handsome shopkeeper with whom, for four years of his young manhood, Lincoln shared a bed as a matter of “convenience” – despite offers of free and private lodgings elsewhere and a successful law practice that would have allowed him to buy a bed of his own and a house in which to put it. Casting Speed as “the love of Lincoln’s life,” it positions him (through plentiful historical documentation) as the man who helped the future president find his mojo; even so, it goes on to present evidence supporting less well-known male companions as catalysts to Lincoln’s maturation both as a commander-in-chief and a human being.
We won’t go into much detail here; the movie does a better job of illuminating the record than we ever could – and it does so not by relying solely on the speculation of possibly biased commentators, but by presenting “the receipts” as they appear in the indisputable (yet under-discussed) historical record. Gleaned from private correspondences and interviews with Lincoln’s primary contemporary biographer, these details reveal (among other things) the future president’s ambivalence toward women, the questionable context in which Lincoln bedded down with his various male companions, and the emotional bond he had with each of them that seemed to overshadow the one he shared with his eventual first lady, Mary Todd Lincoln – who, at least through the lens cast upon her here, was probably more in love with the idea of being married to a president than she was to the president she married.
No, there’s no “smoking gun” (again, pardon the expression) to be found by the erudite scholars who expound upon the persuasively numerous clues contained in Lincoln’s biography during the course of the film. There are, however, plenty of tell-tale powder burns. By exploring the nuance behind the many documented-but-veiled suggestions about the martyred president’s relationships, both male and female, this varied assortment of historians highlights the points that strike a familiar chord for queer people even if they’re likely to go unconsidered by anyone else. By the end, “Lover of Men” has expertly pleaded its case and rested it, relying on the weight and volume of its circumstantial evidence to satisfy any reasonable doubt.
The final verdict, of course, remains up to the individual viewer, and it unfortunately goes without saying that a good many will be watching with intent to discredit any hint of queerness within Lincoln’s biography, if they even watch it at all. Yet while it’s easy to reject an idea when you’ve already made up your mind that it’s false, it’s just as easy to accept one that you want to be true; and though the historians of Peterson’s smart and sassy movie carry an undeniable weight of credibility in their arguments, what remains indisputably accurate is that there is no way to know with certainty if our most-revered president was shaded with the “lavender” referenced by his poetic biographer Carl Sandburg to describe his nature in a later-prudently deleted passage of prose.
That’s perfectly all right, though. “Lover of Men” never tries to claim, unequivocally, that Lincoln belonged in the LGBTQ rainbow, only that the likely probability that he was is worthy of consideration. Further, it goes on to highlight the open-minded empathy that allowed him to pivot his viewpoint in ways that are typically unthinkable in politics; the evolution it charts for Lincoln from gifted country bumpkin to fully aware (dare we say “woke”?) humanitarian leader makes him an ideological model that feels crucial today. That having to suppress his true nature may have shaped the values and ideals that would ultimately help him to change the world makes the film’s arguments even more persuasive; and if its re-enactments of encounters between Lincoln and his alleged male lovers read as a little too modern to be true, they certainly convey a more plausible interpretation than can be found in any surface reading of the scrupulously polite language describing such events in the historic record.
Reinforced by filmed footage of the now-historically preserved sites (the smallness of an old shared cot speaks volumes) where Lincoln’s intimate life took place, these fancifully anachronistic translations of 19th-century queer courtship into something instantly recognizable to modern queer viewers succeed in making it difficulty to cling to a denial that this particular American icon might plausibly have been queer – unless you are very deeply invested, for whatever reason, in doing so.
Sadly, that last point means a great many people will probably reject this passionately earnest piece of info-tainment sight unseen; but for those who don’t, it offers an intelligent and reasonable perspective on one of our most important national icons that can only increase his relevance in an age almost as divisive as the one over which he was destined to preside.
In other words, don’t miss it.
Movies
True-life prison drama ‘Sing Sing’ celebrates power of art
Domingo delivers Oscar-worthy performance
When Colman Domingo became a frontrunner for last year’s Best Actor Oscar – nominated for his star turn as the titular civil rights hero in “Rustin” – it was big news for the LGBTQ community. He was the first openly gay Afro-Latino to be nominated for the award. Had he won, he would have been the first openly gay actor to take the category, and only the second out queer performer to win in any of the acting categories. It would have been a milestone.
Yet his loss, somehow, didn’t seem much of a disappointment: Colman’s prodigious talent (also on display in last year’s “The Color Purple”) seemed to assure fans that it would get another chance – and “Sing Sing,” now in theaters nationwide after an auspicious debut at the 2023 Toronto International Film Festival, might very well be the movie that gets it for him.
In it, Domingo portrays John “Divine G” Whitfield, an inmate at New York’s Sing Sing Correctional Facility who has become a pillar of the prison’s “Rehabilitation Through the Arts” (RTA) program, through which he and fellow participants collaborate on the creation and performance of theater presentations for the larger prison population. As the group plans its next play – a fantastical time-travel comedy combining an eclectic mix of classic storylines and characters – he is equally focused on a clemency hearing that might overturn his sentence for a murder he didn’t commit. That doesn’t stop him from reaching out to help a hard-case new recruit (Clarence Macklin) into the fold, despite the newcomer’s chip-on-the-shoulder attitude and a rivalry that threatens his own status as a “top dog” in the company. As both the performance and his hearing draw nearer, the inevitable hardships and humiliations of prison existence take their toll, culminating in a crisis of faith that threatens to undermine not only the upcoming performance, but the unwavering resilience that has allowed him to resist the dehumanizing effects of his incarceration.
As co-written by Clint Bentley and director Greg Kwedar, the screenplay gives us little in the way of expository information, even skipping the formality of opening credits in favor of dropping us directly into the action, and instead allows us to glean the necessary background details as we go. It’s never an obstacle; Kwedar’s simple-yet-eloquent approach to presenting the narrative allows the actors to reveal information through nuance as much as through words, and frames the visuals (with help from cinematographer Pat Scola) in a radiant natural light that lends warmth to the institutional bleakness of the setting, making it easy to be patient as we pick up what we need to know about the characters’ back stories. It also facilitates our engagement with the creative energy of the troupe’s rehearsals – guided by a weathered director (Paul Raci) with a gift for teaching his charges to “trust the process” – and connects us with the theme of personal transformation through art, a thread that runs throughout the film and feels at least equally as significant as the details of any individual character’s personal story.
It’s this, of course, that gives “Sing Sing” its most profound and universal impact. Though any viewer might reasonably expect a movie about prisoners – most of them people of color from marginalized and disadvantaged backgrounds – to be geared toward a focus on issues of equity and social justice, Kwedar’s film allows those ideas to remain self-evident while placing its dominant weight behind the premise that art, and particularly those that involve language and performance, can function as both an escape from the suffering of a bleak everyday existence and a means of transcending it. Reinforced repeatedly in the narrative, most obviously in the inclusion of Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy from “Hamlet” but underscored through most of the material we see the inmates perform, it makes the story of Whitfield and his fellow prisoners into an unmistakable metaphor for anyone who has ever struggled to find meaning and peace in a cold and unpredictable world – and let’s face it, that means almost everybody.
Perhaps inevitably for such a film, “Sing Sing” occasionally seems to come off as one of those idealized Hollywood “feel-good” social dramas in which the heartaches and tragedies are overcome by hope and an undeterred spirit; the more cynical among its audience might well see it as “too good to be true,” with conflicts that dissipate a little too easily and plot resolutions we might see coming even before they’re finished being set up. Such judgments, however, become harder to render with the knowledge that – and it almost feels like a spoiler to reveal it, since the movie chooses to do so only when the credits finally roll at the end – not only is it a true story, but most of its cast (including Maclin, who plays himself) are actual alumni of the real-life RTA program, which operates in six New York State prisons. Not only that, the real-life Whitfield (who himself appears in a small role) and Maclin collaborated with Kwedar and Bentley on the story – so that, regardless of any dramatic license that may have been taken, there is an undeniable authenticity that is borne out by the inclusion of so many actual “success stories” from the program in the film’s ensemble cast.
As for that cast, each of them gives an equally compelling performance, even when they only have a few minutes of screen time; Kwedar gives everyone moments to shine, and while some have more of those than others, all contribute equally to the film’s overall power to move us.
Still, it’s the film’s major figures that have the most standout moments; Raci brings intelligence, compassion, and an air of nurturing authority to his role as the group’s seasoned director, and Maclin burns with the charismatic intensity of an experienced movie star – which he should, on the strength of this remarkable debut alone. Also worth mentioning is Sean San José, a longtime off-screen friend to Colman, mirroring their real-life relationship as a fellow inmate and confidante to add an extra touch of genuine camaraderie to their scenes.
“Sing Sing” ultimately belongs, however, to its lead player. Domingo is a fearless and powerful actor, something he has proven throughout his career and that has aided his rise to acclaim and stardom, and he brings those qualities to this role for an unforgettable star turn. Intelligent, erudite, passionate, vulnerable, and capable of delivering Shakespearean verse or prison slang with equal conviction and command, he gives a performance that elevates the movie while simultaneously blending seamlessly into its larger purpose. There’s nothing about him that screams “awards bait,” which makes him even more deserving of honors.
Whether he gets them or not, “Sing Sing” is a movie to be remembered — a testament to the power of art and the “invincible summer” that keeps us going when all of life seems intent on extinguishing our hope, it leaves us feeling inspired, renewed, and ready to face the world with a refreshed sense of perspective.
It’s the rare movie that can manage that, so don’t miss this one.
Movies
Restored ‘Caligula’ is still no classic
Sumptuous trash that’s worth seeing on the big screen
Anybody who loves movies knows the thrill of returning to an old favorite for a repeat viewing; it allows us to appreciate things we missed before. Alternatively, re-watching a bad movie (or at least, one you disliked) can help you find a new perspective on it – but that comes with the risk of discovering that it’s still bad, and then you’ve wasted a couple of hours that you’ll never get back.
But what if it’s a “bad” movie that is technically not the same movie anymore? Does it deserve another chance?
No, that’s not a riddle. It’s something to ponder before deciding to experience the newly re-edited and re-constructed 4K re-release of 1979’s “Caligula,” the notorious historical epic about the famously unhinged titular Roman emperor, which featured a boldly stylized reconstruction of its ancient Roman setting, a youthful Malcolm McDowell in the title role, and a roster of distinguished British actors adding their prestige in support. Controversial even before the cameras started rolling, it was an ambitious multi-national production that spared no expense in bringing the despot’s personal rise and fall to the screen in all its lavish and debauched glory – conceived by none other than porn magnate Bob Guccione, the founder and editor of Penthouse magazine.
As in its original form, helmed by Italian filmmaker Tinto Brass, the movie opens as Caligula – heir to the throne of his increasingly deranged great uncle, the Roman Emperor Tiberius, who rules from a private island sanctuary and spends most of his time satisfying his perverse sexual appetites – fears that the old man views him as a threat to his power and decides to get ahead of the problem by disposing of him first. This, of course, makes Caligula the new emperor, and from there the tale depicts a chronology of his reign, in which his own lust for power – and other things – transforms him into a depraved tyrant. That’s not great for Rome, of course, but it ends up even worse for Caligula. We won’t spoil what happens, but you can look it up in any history book about the Roman Empire if you want to know.
The production was, to put it mildly, a mess. Guccione hired Brass to direct, and contracted renowned author Gore Vidal to write the screenplay, only to wrangle with both over creative differences. Vidal was eventually fired, and Brass assigned to adapt his script – but in the end, conflicts over the approach to sexual content led Guccione to remove Brass from the process and hire a team of editors to assemble a final cut according to his own specifications. He also snuck into the studio after-hours to film additional scenes of un-simulated sex featuring several hand-picked “Penthouse Pets,” which were then inserted into the movie to provide the flavor of softcore eroticism he assumed audiences would expect from his “brand.”
He may have been right about the audiences – “Caligula” was a box-office hit, a status no doubt fueled by international outrage from conservatives who decried it as “pornographic.” The most expensive independent film in history, it made back its cost and then some – but critics largely tore Guccione’s long-in-the-works pet project apart (legendary film reviewer Roger Ebert famously walked out on it), and though it had its defenders, it quickly achieved status as a notably embarrassing “flop.”
Cinema lovers, however, have a habit of favorably reassessing the film failures of previous generations, and inevitably, “Caligula” gained a reputation over the years as just such a movie. Enter Thomas Negovan, a film historian who discovered nearly 100 hours of unused footage – rejected takes, deleted scenes, and other material abandoned in Guccione’s final vision for the film – and undertook a full re-creation of the originally conceived “Caligula” as far as was possible, replacing every frame of footage from the 1979 release with alternate takes and reincorporating abandoned elements to create a stunningly restored new version in an effort to realize screenwriter Vidal’s original conception as closely as possible.
The resulting film, dubbed the “Ultimate Cut,” premiered at 2023’s Cannes Film Festival, where it earned praise from critics who cited its success in restoring both the movie’s artistic integrity and thematic cohesion, as well as its expanded showcase of the strong performances from McDowell (fresh from his breakthrough “Clockwork Orange” role when cast here) and future Oscar-winner Helen Mirren, as Caligula’s wife Caesonia. It restores at least some of Vidal’s intended theme highlighting the corruption that comes with absolute power – though not the openly gay author’s stronger emphasis on queer sexuality, a major point of contention with Guccione despite his willing inclusion of explicit same-sex and bisexual intimacy. Those moments largely take place as part of the background, a scenic element establishing the moral decadence of its title character’s reign and presenting a fetishized representation of queer coupling that – like all of the movie’s sex – seems more performative than passionate.
Even so, it’s a better film than it was, particularly in a restored print that emphasizes the rich color of Silvano Ippoliti’s cinematography and the “seventies chic” re-imagination of Ancient Rome by production designer Danilo Donati. McDowell’s performance, seen in its fleshed-out entirety for the first time, reclaims a coherent arc that was lost in the original cut, while Mirren’s work is similarly expanded to reveal a layered nuance that somehow anchors the movie’s extremities to a recognizable humanity. Additionally, Negovian’s work in de- and re-constructing the original film is praiseworthy for its meticulous devotion to delivering a unified whole.
At the same time, there are missteps that alternative footage can’t correct. “Caligula” still plays like a confused art house costume drama duped into becoming an exploitation film. Gratuitous sex and over-the-top violence are still the predominant tactics for eliciting audience response, and while the “star” performances – even legendary ham Peter O’Toole’s Tiberius, a case study in untethered-yet-irresistible overacting – and an elegantly trashy visual aesthetic lend it a semblance of artistic dignity, it can’t quite overcome the disingenuousness inherent in its blend of “serious” themes with blatantly exploitative underpinnings.
All of which begs the same question presented by the classic thought experiment called “The Ship of Theseus,” which asks us to contemplate whether a vessel that has had all of its parts replaced over time can still be considered the same vessel. It’s a moot point, however, because “Caligula” – disavowed even in its new incarnation by director Brass – is still plagued by the creative conflicts that marred its production. Its various elements seem to work at confused cross purposes, undermining any effort to impose a genuine sense of depth or artistic unity and leaving us with something that, despite the earnest contributions of many of its participants, still feels like a cynical effort to pass off porn by dressing it up as art.
Not that we’re judging that; in fact, we’re encouraging you to catch “Caligula: the Ultimate Cut” during its road show rollout in theaters, which commenced earlier this month, before it releases on VOD and streaming platforms later on. It might still be trash, but it’s sumptuous trash, and that’s always worth seeing on the big screen.
Movies
Trans star helps convoluted ‘Cuckoo’ coalesce into more than a creep show
Schafer infuses familiar character with Oscar-worthy depth
Sometimes, casting the right person in a role can make or break a movie.
Consider “Cuckoo,” the buzzy horror film now in theaters nationwide, which turns a formulaic premise into an edgy and provocative thriller thanks to the presence of lead player Hunter Schafer, the breakout trans co-star of HBO’s acclaimed “Euphoria.” Her role might have been played by any young actress of appropriate age and sufficient talent, but carries a much more palpable weight both because of what she brings to it and because of how her director – sophomore German feature-filmmaker Tilman Singer (“Luz”) – chooses to present her.
That role is Gretchen (Schafer), an American teen raised by her recently deceased mother and now forced to move in with her father (Marton Csokas) and his new family just as they relocate to a remote town in the Bavarian Alps, where the owner of a resort he designed wants him to work on an expansion. Already feeling like a stranger within the household – which, besides dad’s second wife (Jessica Henwick), includes a perplexingly mute young stepsister, Alma (Mila Lieu), who has begun to experience unexplained seizure-like episodes since Gretchen’s arrival – and still grieving the loss of her mom, she’s not thrilled about the added isolation of living in a remote and sleepy mountain town. Making matters worse are her misgivings about the resort and the community that surrounds it, not to mention the vaguely threatening vibe she seems to sense behind the benevolent manner of Herr König (Dan Stevens), her dad’s overly polite and aggressively gracious boss.
Suspecting that things here are not entirely what they seem, she resolves to run away, but a successful escape requires money – so when König offers her a job at the reception desk, she takes it despite her better instincts. Naturally, this puts her right in the cross-hairs of whatever ominous conspiracy may be surrounding her, something she realizes when she disregards warnings never to stay at the resort after dark and narrowly escapes an attack from a terrifying figure in the woods. Though local authorities dismiss the incident as a prank, she is soon approached by the police chief himself (Jan Bluthardt), who is conducting a secret investigation of his own and seeks her help.
We won’t reveal what they find out, exactly; it’s enough to say that things revolve around a secret project to preserve a local species with an unusual means of reproduction. Besides this and the fact that Singer’s film draws heavily on both body horror and sci-fi elements to spin its harrowing narrative, the only thing you need to know is that, like so many relationships on social media, it’s complicated.
That’s a double-edged observation; as Singer’s film begins to unwind the twisted tale at the core of its premise, the revelations come at us fast and furious, resulting in a feeling that there are too many “moving parts” of which we must keep track, and a subsequent decision that it is too much work to do so. This has less to do with the details surrounding the menacing (and possibly misunderstood) “presence” that provides much of the movie’s more visceral thrills than it does with the convoluted escalations of its plot; more plainly said, in crafting a suitably gripping climax the story devolves into an implausible B-movie showdown built on unlikely reversals and hard-to-bridge gaps of logic, with Stevens’s character essentially filling in for the mad scientist defending his lab against torch-wielding villagers bent on destroying his well-meaning but misguided experiment. As a result, it loses a good deal of steam – as well as some of the good will it earns with its intriguing premise and effectively orchestrated slow build toward the final act – before getting us to the big finale.
Fortunately, despite the messiness of its denouement, “Cuckoo” ends on a strong note. In the wake of what we’ll describe as its suitably apocalyptic endgame, it leaves us with the unexpected suggestion that the solution in overcoming a perceived threat to our existence lies not in extreme, all-or-nothing viewpoints, however passionately or understandingly they may be held, but in finding a middle path between them. The key, in Gretchen’s case, is attached to compassion and a feeling of shared humanity, and not in self-validating personal ideologies that are ultimately more about ourselves than the things we think we need to defend or protect.
If anything can be credited with rescuing Singer’s movie from its reliance on genre formalism and overcomplicated storytelling, it’s Schafer’s performance. She embodies Gretchen’s achingly recognizable teenage nihilism to a tee, tapping into a universal feeling of being on the “outside” and allowing it to fuel our engagement in her story even when the plot goes over the top and off the rails; but what makes her performance indispensable to Singer’s purpose is also what gives his film significance far beyond its measured success as a thriller. While Schafer is unequivocally a trans woman, Gretchen’s gender identity is never explicitly disclosed; though the “trans-ness” of the performer invites a valid interpretation of “Cuckoo” as an allegory about transphobia, or about the necessity for queer people to find “chosen families” to replace the ones into which they are born, these possible readings of the film exist among many others, and the character’s gender is ultimately irrelevant. Though admittedly, thanks to the involvement of another outsider, a female-presenting traveler named Ed (Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey) who shows up to provide Gretchen with a glimmer of hope and a potential escape route, there’s an unflinching queerness that underlies the film’s entire perspective.
Through that lens, Schafer’s work here represents a landmark in the sense that she has become a lead performer in a relatively prominent film as a trans actress in a role that neither addresses nor needs to address her gender. That’s nothing to be scoffed at, whether or not one can fully surrender to the grotesque pleasures of Singer’s unapologetically shock-centric script and direction, but what is perhaps more important – at least in terms of the work itself – is that she takes a familiar stock character (the “final girl”) and infuses it with the kind of depth worthy of an Oscar-bait performance in an A-list “prestige” film. She shines neither because of nor in spite of her trans identity; rather, she shines because of her talent.
It’s worth mentioning that Stevens works hard to overcome the melodramatic writing behind Herr König and, as much as possible, mostly succeeds; and while most of the film’s other performances are decidedly less “showy,” the entire cast manages to keep us engaged enough to accept the movie’s potentially campy (not the good kind) conceits. Likewise, even if his screenplay gets muddy for a while in the third quarter, Singer’s shrewdly balanced blend of genre tropes and artistic vision as a director never wavers, keeping us not only invested but thrilled by his style even during his movie’s silliest moments.
All that makes “Cuckoo” a great choice for a date night that can also be a not-so-guilty pleasure – and when it comes to the movies, you can’t ask for much more than that.
Movies
‘Ganymede’ transcends camp to achieve genuine queer horror
An astute piece of social commentary
In Greek mythology, a young mortal named Ganymede possessed such beauty that Zeus himself chose to abduct the boy to Mount Olympus – which wasn’t such a bad deal, considering Ganymede was granted not just immortality to go along with his new job as cup-bearer to the gods, but eternal youth and beauty as well.
That’s not, however, how the story gets told – or rather, twisted – in the new movie “Ganymede,” the latest queer indie gem to debut on VOD platforms this summer, which uses the myth as the launchpad for a horror story that manages to be both campy and creepy at once. Directed by partners Colby Holt and Sam Probst (from Holt’s original screenplay) and set in a small town in the modern-day Bible Belt, it centers on high school wrestling star Lee (Jordan Doww), the only son of a deeply religious local politician (Joe Chrest) who runs his household with an iron fist. When gay classmate Kyle (Pablo Castelblanco) makes an effort to befriend him, he quickly develops feelings that put him at odds with his conservative upbringing; small-town gossip, as well as a dark family secret surrounding his mother (Robyn Lively, in a deliciously hysterical performance), soon have him under the controlling eye of his church’s fanatical pastor (David Koechner). Even more terrifying, his mind is being invaded by a ghostly, sinister presence that seems determined to drive him toward madness and self-destruction – unless Kyle can get to him first.
Like many of these queer-centric genre pictures, “Ganymede” emerged from the festival circuit, securing acclaim and awards throughout its run. With its unconcealed LGBTQ focus and religious homophobia at the core of its horror, it’s plain to see why it would strike a chord with queer audiences, especially in a time when conservative pushback against queer acceptance dominates the public conversation.
For “mainstream” horror fans, however, whose appreciation of the genre is generally focused on fright and gore rather than on the subtextual nuances of its tropes, Holt’s movie might not be the terrifying experience it aims to be — largely because he and Probst do not hide their LGBTQ perspective between the lines. It’s clear from early on that the gay love story upon which the plot hinges is exactly what it appears to be, and further, that it’s where our sympathies belong.
More than that, “Ganymede” inverts the supposed moral order of traditional, old-school horror narratives by framing the forces of religion – or at least, a weaponized form of it – as the source of the story’s true evil. Despite the “haunting” that plagues the film’s young protagonist from almost the very beginning, the supernatural elements of the story (spoiler alert) remain localized within his own mind, only manifesting in the real world – with one important but ambiguous exception – through his reactions to them, and it doesn’t take a film scholar to figure out that they are not the real threat to his well-being. For Holt and Probst, the evil doesn’t come from outside the real world, but from within the darkest corners of a stunted human imagination that projects its own pre-programmed ideas onto that world and treats anything that conflicts with them as an existential threat. In truth, it’s the same message one can find in horror classics from “Bride of Frankenstein” to “The Wicker Man” to the notoriously gay “Nightmare on Elm Street 2” – but in this case, it is delivered not by implication but by direct and obvious assertion.
It’s this point that might keep Holt’s film from satisfying the conventions of traditional horror filmmaking, but it’s worth observing that it’s also this point that makes it stand out. By refusing to conform to generic expectations, it represents a powerful cultural shift, in which the queerness of its premise no is no longer a transgressive statement of countercultural themes, but in fact becomes the “normal order” that is being threatened by perverse powers that seek to tear it down – and those perverse powers are the very “norms” that have so long cast all “otherness” in a monstrous light.
The bottom line for most film audiences, of course, be they queer or not, is whether the movie succeeds in scaring them – and if we’re being honest, it does so only in the sense that it confronts us with the horrific bigotry and abuse that is heaped upon LGBTQ existence from right-wing religious hate. That means, even for queer audiences, it’s not so much a horror movie as it is a disturbing allegory about the torment of being forced to suppress one’s true self in order to feign the safe conformity required for self-preservation. Frankly, that should be scary enough for everyone, regardless of whether the movie adheres to accepted genre form, to keep them trembling in their shoes over the prospect of a world dominated by such a deranged mentality; after all, it’s not just queer people who stand to be subjugated, suppressed, and worse in a world controlled by a strict and deeply biased interpretation of outdated beliefs – it’s anybody who would dare to suggest that those beliefs might deserve an extinction as final as the one experienced by the dinosaurs.
Going a long way toward making the whole thing work – besides the sureness of Holt’s direction, that is, which fully embraces the traditions of the genre (hence the aforementioned campiness) while treating the story as a realistic thriller with genuinely high stakes – is a cast that delivers performances several cuts above what we are use to seeing in such movies. Doww is a compelling and convincing lead, who never devolves into over-the-top histrionics, while Castelblanco triumphs in embodying the determined heroism required of his position in the plot while still maintaining an unashamedly femme-ish queer persona; we never doubt his ability to turn the tide, nor the natural and unforced chemistry the two actors find together. They find stellar support from the aforementioned Lively, as well as from Chrest – a domineering patriarch who would be the most terrifying figure in the film if it weren’t for Koechner’s chillingly authentic pastor, whose buried self-loathing is nevertheless painfully clear as he bullies and tortures the young Lee in the name of “conversion.”
Which brings us back to the significance of the title, and its roots in Greek mythology, where it was born as a tale of transcendence; in the warped minds of the film’s religious leaders, it becomes the opposite, a story of deliberate corruption perpetrated against so-called “decent” men by monsters who tempt them with “unnatural” desires. More than anything, perhaps, it’s that flourish of the screenplay that makes “Ganymede” an astute piece of social commentary, whether or not it succeeds as a horror film; in warping the understanding of that ancient tale into a justification for cruelty and repression, it underscores the toxic effects of clinging to a dogma that pretends to be truth while casting other viewpoints as the products of malevolent influence. That’s a delusion that has reached crisis levels in American society – and it’s why “Ganymede” is a must-see whether it’s a true horror film or not.
Movies
‘Four’ divas make ‘Fabulous’ fun
Ignore the hackneyed Hollywood conventions and enjoy the cast
Thanks to increasing lifespans and a tendency for older Americans to maintain an active lifestyle, a new Hollywood genre has become a staple over the last few decades – the “senior buddy movie,” in which an ensemble of older stars assembles for a wacky comedy, typically involving a group vacation.
“The Fabulous Four,” now in theaters, might just be the definitive example. It brings together a quartet of mature leading ladies guaranteed to bring the over-50 female crowd out for a “girls’ night” at the movies – and since that quartet features not only bona fide “gay diva” Bette Midler alongside Susan Sarandon, but Broadway veteran Sheryl Lee Ralph and queer fan-favorite Megan Mullally, it’s likely to bring out a lot of the over-50 LGBTQ crowd, too.
This high-octane ensemble portrays four friends who lived together in the New York City of their youth: Marilyn (Midler) the perennial “life of the party” who “married well” and now flaunts her unstoppable zest for life on TikTok; Lou (Sarandon), her more studious college roommate who has gone on to a career as a cardiac surgeon; Alice (Mullally), a singer whose career enables her gleefully hedonistic lifestyle; and Kitty (Ralph), who has turned a green thumb into a successful business selling legal cannabis. When the recently widowed Marilyn – now transplanted to Key West – announces her whirlwind engagement to a new man, she naturally invites the old gang to be her bridesmaids. It’s the ideal scenario for a reunion, but there’s an obstacle: former bestie Lou wants nothing to do with her, thanks to a breach of trust years before, and she can only be persuaded to join the trip if Alice and Kitty conspire to bring her under false pretenses. It’s hardly a spoiler to say they succeed, but getting her to Key West is only half the challenge. In order to make Marilyn’s wedding the joyous occasion she hopes, a suitcase full of old resentments, convenient excuses, deliberate blind spots, and hidden regrets has to be unpacked first. And that means a lot of uncomfortable (and hilarious) confrontations that just seem to escalate as the big day draws closer.
That all might sound a little heavy on paper, but in practice it comes off lighter than air. That’s largely due to a heavy reliance on the charms of its four stars, who form a surprising mix of talents that melds into a far better flavor than might be expected. Their chemistry as an ensemble puts us at ease that things are going to work out fine before the conflict has even been fully revealed, which makes it easier to forgive the formulaic recipe their star vehicle is built on. “Fabulous Four” is a movie that hinges on tropes, contrivances, unlikely coincidences, and right-on-schedule resolutions. It unapologetically discards any pretense at believability early on, assembling a seemingly mismatched collection of “types” and throwing them into an adventure that seems almost deliberately predictable – despite relying on a series of surprise twists to fuel its fluffy-ish narrative. Yet somehow, with the infectious talents of its four stars to drive it, this assemblage of prosaic plot devices manages to become something too delightful to criticize. Indeed, it almost seems to delight in its own implausibility, even to the point of including more than one self-referential “winking” moment to let us know it’s in on the joke.
That as much as anything is a sign of the refreshingly feminine sensibility that infuses the film from the ground up. With an all-female team of primary creators – director Jocelyn Moore and screenwriters Ann Marie Allison and Jenna Milly – behind the scenes, there’s a nonchalance about its silliness, part of which may come from a deliberate embrace of old-fashioned Hollywood “hokey-ness” but which also feels like an intelligent disregard for the need to make audiences suspend their disbelief. There’s also an unmistakably progressive worldview built right into its core, most obvious in the fact that it shows us four aspirational women, who have made successful lives for themselves on their own terms, but reflected as well by multiple other threads throughout the movie – including a subplot involving Kitty’s strained relationship with her conservative Christian daughter – and a generally liberated attitude toward things like sex, drugs, and breaking a few rules now and then. Most of all, perhaps, it reveals its liberal heart in the way it stresses kindness, embracing the personal growth embodied in forgiveness between friends while still honoring the validity of the feelings that makes the forgiveness necessary in the first place. In a time when public opinion is perhaps shaped more by outrage and “cancel culture” than it is by empathy and understanding, that’s a soothing message to receive.
Of course, like any of these types of movies, how much one appreciates “Fabulous Four” is largely going to depend on how much one appreciates its stars – though in this case, it’s hard to imagine anyone who wouldn’t. Midler, whose screen work has included a lot of outlandish comedies such as this one, is at the top of her form here, balancing her gifts for comedic panache and emotional sincerity to make an endearing character out of one that might, in other hands, come off as self-absorbed and unlikeable; likewise Sarandon, suitably cast in the more serious role, makes sure that Lou never becomes overly dour, even in the moments when it might seem appropriate, and while it might seem a bit of a stretch to see how these two women could have become such deep friends, these two actresses never let us doubt it for a second.
Even so, it’s arguably the other two members of the movie’s central ensemble that steal the show. Ralph, a longtime showbiz dynamo whose double-Emmy-winning role on “Abbot Elementary” has given her a late-career boost and introduced her talents to a much wider audience, shines as the affable, no-nonsense Kitty – a character meant for actress Sissy Spacek, who dropped out before production began due to a schedule conflict – and brings a welcome dose of Black energy (not to mention diversity) to the movie’s vibe. It’s probably Mullally, however, who elicits the most laughs, deploying all her beloved “Will and Grace” schtick to turn Alice into a reborn version of Karen Walker who uses her powers for good. How could that not be irresistible?
It’s also worth mentioning warmly wrapped supporting turns by silver-haired hunks Bruce Greenwood and Viggo Mortensen, whose presence as potential romantic interests feels irrelevant but nevertheless welcome.
Yet even with this stellar cast and all its positive energy, “Fabulous Four” is ultimately the kind of movie that will be appreciated mostly by the people it’s aimed at, and even then its markedly sunny liberalism might be off-putting to a considerable portion of the target audience. That means whether or not we are able to see past its hackneyed Hollywood conventions and appreciate its clear message not to take things too seriously, you might not be a fan.
But let’s face it, if you love seeing divas do their thing on the big screen – and we’re betting you do – it’s definitely worth an afternoon matinee to find out.
Movies
A jubilantly queer ‘Anthem’ for a world beyond borders
A story of human experience that happens to be about LGBTQ people
In a season that has so far failed to deliver the kind of big-ticket Hollywood must-see “prestige” blockbusters we enjoyed with the “Barbenheimer Summer” of 2023, it’s a relief that there is so much under-the-radar indie content out there to fill in the gaps.
That’s especially true, perhaps inevitably, when the story resonates with “minority” populations and is told by someone from among them who shares their longing to see themselves represented on the screen – and the perfect case in point can be found in “National Anthem,” the first feature-length work from photographer/filmmaker Luke Gilford, which is currently enjoying a limited theatrical run a year after an acclaimed debut at 2023’s SXSW Festival in Austin.
Inspired by his photo monograph of the same name, Gilford’s movie takes place in rural New Mexico and centers on 21-year-old Dylan (Charlie Plummer), a day laborer struggling to provide for his alcoholic mother (Robin Lively) and pre-teen brother (Joey DeLeon) while dreaming of escape. Hired for an extended job at a ranch outside town – headquarters for queer rodeo stars Pepe (Rene Rosado) and Sky (Eve Lindley), and home to the diversely gendered commune of pan, poly, and non-conforming “misfits” they’ve gathered around them – he is soon drawn into the fold by feelings he’s used to keeping secret. In particular, he has feelings for the beautiful and headstrong Sky, who shares a mutual spark with him despite her loyalty to Pepe. Emboldened by their growing relationship, he begins to revel in the freedom he feels within his newfound community – but even as he tries to bring his two worlds together, mounting tensions in both threaten his newfound sense of liberty with a rude awakening that just might leave him without a place in either.
Expressed in a paragraph, that premise is easily recognizable as a queer coming-of-age story, but there’s something about the film’s expansive heart that makes it much more than that. Boiled down to its simplest essence, it’s the kind of narrative – centered on a kind-hearted underdog of a dreamer and charting his path toward transcendence of the obstacles that lie in his way – that has appeal for anyone, queer or straight or anywhere in between. Thanks to Gilford’s compassionate approach to the material, not to mention a savvy grasp of the complex politics of human emotion and a thrillingly open-ended outlook on sexuality and gender that manages to feel more celebratory than it does transgressive, it becomes not just an authentic story about queer experience, but a story about human experience that happens to be about queer people.
Much of how it achieves this is by the way it treats its love story; though it may cover a lot of other angles, “National Anthem” places most of its bets on romance. Indeed, it aims to emulate the passionate tales of love-at-first-sight found in the old-school Hollywood classics we all grew up with, and hits the mark with palpable accuracy despite complicating it with layers of gender, orientation, and pansexual polyamory. Lushly romantic, with as many emotional ups and downs as any tearjerker and a powerfully sexy chemistry that comes through despite the film’s tastefully “PG” presentation of eroticism between characters, it’s as lushly romantic and emotionally engaging as any mainstream Hollywood fantasy. That might even signify a major part of the film’s agenda; if a love story taking place outside the “norm” of cultural conformity can feel so right in a big-screen fantasy, then why shouldn’t it feel that way when it’s an off-screen reality, too?
Much of the reason it feels so right, of course, has to do with the screenplay (by Gilford with David Largman Murray and Kevin Best), which infuses both Dylan and Sky with relatable layers of feeling and makes them achingly human; but it also hinges on the performers in the roles, and thankfully both are perfectly cast. Plummer, whose performance earned exuberant praise during the film’s festival circuit run, wins our hearts from the beginning, conveying a guarded tenderness and sense of longing that never seems forced; but it is when Lindley’s Sky enters the scene that the screen truly lights up with her blend of headstrong self-determination, nurturing patience, and unbridled sexuality. It’s one of the best-written trans roles we’ve seen, focusing not on any suggestion of “otherness” – indeed, her trans identity is never even mentioned, simply left to be self-evident in the most gloriously empowering way possible – but presenting a fully-fleshed out person having a universal experience, and it’s played by a gifted trans actress whose charisma makes the perfect magnet for Plummer’s puppy-dog adoration. She’s on a journey of her own, and she makes it come to life for us as if she were born to do it.
The film handles its other relationships with equal depth, with Lively giving a deft turn that finds compassion and redemption for the neglectful mother she portrays and an endearingly genuine juvenile performance from newcomer DeLeon. A particular standout is nonbinary actor Mason Alexander Park, whose subtly layered energy as a commune member who becomes both a friend and a “maternal” figure to Dylan brings an important calming presence.
Still, it’s ultimately Gilford who is the star of “National Anthem.” Combining a powerful visual aesthetic – which captures the mythic vastness and Americana of its New Mexico setting while infusing its intimate scenes with a luminous aura of inner light shining through into the world – with an assured sense of the emotional “blueprint” of his narrative, he creates a star-crossed love story for the ages, made all the more powerful by the “outsider” status of its characters. Instead of making them curiosities, he finds a way to uplift them all, even as they stumble, fall, or fail. He paints a portrait of this queer rodeo “family” that has room to accept everybody, without labels or judgements or conditions beyond basic respect, and it’s beautiful.
That, of course, is where the title comes in. In taking the familiar landscape and tropes of the American Western genre – which, in spite of its modern-day setting and focus on matters of queer identity, “National Anthem” is unquestionably influenced by – and reinventing them with a queer cast of characters identifying across all the spectrums (and in some cases, multiple spectrums), Gilford’s movie encourages us to say “yes,” to follow our bliss, to take the plunge and explore the things that call to our hearts, and it suggests that, in doing so, we can build the world we want around us as we go. It suggests that, in a world based on comfortable constructs, we can always change those constructs to make things better.
That’s what his characters do, and in so doing become a sort of “nation within a nation,” perhaps, by choosing to live outside the oppressive tide and find one’s own “American Dream” – and it’s truly a land of the free and a home of the brave.
That’s a bold message, perhaps, and a timely one in this particular election year.
a&e features
Coming-of-age story ‘El Paisa’ on PBS
Film continues successful run across L.A. film festivals
By GISSELLE PALOMERA | CALÓ News — “El Paisa” will be featured nationally as part of the 2024 PBS Short Film Festival starting Monday, July 15, shortly after winning the award for Best LGBTQ+ Short at Cannes International Film Festival. In its 13th year, the PBS Short Film Festival features 15 independent films chosen for their impact and reflection of American life, culture, lived experiences and family dynamics.
The film continues its successful run across Los Angeles film festivals, sweeping awards for Best Short Film, Best LGBTQ+ Short Film and several Jury Awards.
The film is a product of the Latino Public Broadcasting. The Digital Media Fund, designed to provide resources for independent Latin American filmmakers to create digital short form programs for online distribution in collaboration with an existing public television platform such as PBS.
The Digital Media Fund prioritizes submissions in the genres of science, biography, history, health, personal storytelling, art, cultural documentary and narratives. The fund allocates between $10,000 and $30,000 dollars for the projects, depending on the proposal. Submissions are now closed and will reopen next year.
“El Paisa,” is an East L.A.-set coming-of-age story featuring an unlikely duo that begins to deconstruct the traditional expectations and roles of gay men within Latin American culture.
Film director Daniel Eduvijes Carrera says the film is reminiscent of his own story as a queer son of immigrants who struggled to embrace his own identities as he grows up on the unforgiving streets of L.A. riddled with barrio gang violence.
Carrera says he felt completely isolated due to his queer identity growing up. In a director’s statement, he says there was some level of support from his Latin American identity within his own family of nine siblings, but when it came to embracing or even understanding his queer identity, he was completely at a loss.
It wasn’t until Carrera walked into his first gay vaquero bar on his 21st birthday and witnessed the embodiment of masculinity entwined with queer culture he only dreamed of as a kid that it made sense to him that his queer identity could in fact co-exist with his Latin American identity.
Carrera is now an accomplished voice in filmmaking, using his perspective and lived experiences to create stories that deconstruct the societal norms that marginalize queer people within Latin American cultures. He has gained notable fellowships, grants and prestigious recognition for his voice in the filmmaking and entertainment industry.
The film will be available to watch across all PBS platforms that include the PBS App, YouTube and PBS.org.
This story was produced by CALÓ News, a news organization covering Latino/a/x communities.
If there is any downside to living in an era when movies about queer people are finally plentiful, it’s that sometimes the best of them are overshadowed by bigger, splashier films and end up getting lost in the mix.
Two such titles are a pair of indie projects, both of which focus on “outsider” queer characters, newly available on the VOD market after brief-and-limited theatrical runs; each of them deserves a better fate than that.
The first of these, “Big Boys,” was a major hit in the 2023 queer festival circuit, winning multiple awards (including Outstanding Lead Performance honors for its young star, Isaac Krasner, at LA’s Outfest) and emerging as an audience favorite. It’s easy to see why.
Written, produced, and directed by Corey Sherman, it’s a small, slice-of-life story centered on Jamie (Krasner), a bright-but-awkward 14-year-old trying to navigate the dual challenges of growing up as a chubby gay-and-closeted teen, who sets out (along with his slick and more confident older brother Will, played by Taj Cross) on a camping trip with favorite cousin Allie (Dora Madison), though he’s initially disappointed when he finds out her new boyfriend Dan (David Johnson III) is also coming along. His attitude changes, however, when the interloper turns out to be a handsome young man who wears his physical “chunkiness” with an easy confidence. Yes, it’s an instant and impossible crush, leading to a weekend adventure that pushes awkward boundaries for all four campers. But aside from his attractiveness, Dan also emerges as a positive role model for Jamie, who begins to find a confidence of his own.
Equal parts bittersweet coming-of-age story and uncomfortable-yet-endearing comedy, Sherman’s movie wins us over early on, largely through the strength of Krasner’s performance; the young actor exhibits not just the comedic chops necessary to get laughs from even his most painful moments, but the vulnerability to make them ring true. Seemingly unafraid of exploring his own identity through his character, he turns in a tour-de-force which stands up to comparison with some of the greatest “young actor breakthrough” performances of all time.
He’s given an ideal foil in Johnson, whose easygoing charm as Dan still allows us subtle hints of an internal process that keeps him from coming off as callow and clueless – something that pays off well in the film’s quiet-but-heart-stirring climax, which is best left unspoiled here. Madison also provides invaluable support with a performance that captures the conflicted impulses that come between youth and adulthood, and Cross successfully gets past the casual toxicity of his aggressively hetero-centric character to remain sympathetic.
It’s a stellar collection of performances from an ensemble of relative newcomers, and it goes a long way toward endearing “Big Boys” to a presumably queer audience, which will likely find resonance in the way they each – especially Kasner – convey its theme of trying to claim and define one’s young identity when it goes against the grain of the world around you. But it’s ultimately Sherman, who drew heavily from his own experiences growing up as a plus-size queer kid in creating the film, that deserves full credit – not just for putting it all together, but for having the courage and determination to deliver a queer story that foregoes the glitz and glamour of “gay romance” and connects with the lived experience of viewers who may feel left out of the typically glossy mainstream depictions of queer life.
Cut from a similar cloth is “Cora Bora,” starring “Hacks” fan favorite Meg Stalter as the title character, a bisexual musician who might just be the poster child for clueless self-centeredness. Openly rude, unrepentantly shallow, and blatantly manipulative, she steamrolls her way through life seemingly oblivious to the impact her attitude has on others. Having departed her native Portland – and left behind longtime girlfriend Justine (Jojo T. Gibbs), though ostensibly maintaining a “long-distance open relationship” with her – to pursue a music career in Los Angeles, success has proven elusive. She decides to make a surprise visit back home to re-evaluate, only to find that a new girl (Ayden Mayeri) has moved in to take her place. When her attempts to reassert her claim in the household just make matters worse, Cora is forced to recognize that both her professional and personal lives are a shambles – but can she find the humility it will take to get “real” enough to repair them?
Directed by Hannah Pearl Utt from a screenplay by Rhianon Jones, “Cora Bora” also relies heavily on the talents of its star player. Statler, in a turn that lends a darker, more desperate edge to the comedic persona that has made her “Hacks” character one of that show’s biggest assets, is at once monstrous and endearing, a ridiculously broad yet shrewdly-drawn caricature of modern bourgeois boorishness that serves as a fragile cover for something deeper and – without spoiling anything – profoundly traumatic. The journey we take with her is at once hilarious and powerfully affecting, echoing a time-honored comic tradition of transcending pain by finding humor in a pain that feels universal.
She’s aided by an equally gifted supporting cast, with both Gibbs and Mayeri finding enough heart to keep either of their characters – the other two points of the film’s romantic triangle – from being positioned as a “villain,” and a convincing turn from Manny Jacinto (known for his breakout “himbo” role on TV’s afterlife comedy “The Good Place”), as a character that would otherwise seem too good to be true, lending credibility to an eventual resolution that hinges on a pile of coincidences that would seem absurd without his sincerity. There are also appearances from other familiar faces in cameo roles – such as Margaret Cho as part of a polyamorous commune and Chelsea Peretti as an outraged dog owner – which serve as highlights in a movie already rich with them.
Both “Big Boys” and “Cora Bora” are linked by a common thread. Each of them features a queer protagonist, of course, but they are outsiders even within their own community. Ultimately, their struggles are born of a perspective that separates them from the rest of the world, a lived experience that others around them do not and cannot fully share. It would be easy enough for either film to make its lead character the butt of the joke, but neither of them makes that choice. The humor comes through their relatability, rather than from their “otherness,” and that makes all the difference. Despite these films’ occasional painfulness, their kindness is what comes shining through – not just toward their misfit characters, but toward the misfits in the audience, too.
For our money, that’s what the world needs a lot more of these days, and it places these two hidden gems among 2024’s best releases so far.
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