As the recent conservative blowback over “Superman” has clearly illustrated, many American moviegoers like to complain that movies have become too political.

The arguments vary; some claim that an overemphasis on social issues has made going to the movies feel like attending a lecture, or that cultural agendas have infiltrated a popular art form that is “supposed” to provide escapist entertainment. Others see it as a deliberate effort to “brainwash” audiences into acceptance of certain political ideals, depending on which side of the fence they may be on.

If you can relate, we understand your feelings, and we sympathize – but, and we hate to break this to you, every movie is inherently political. 

For a film to avoid politics is, in itself, a political choice; no matter the intention of the people behind it, every film that is now or ever has been made will always have a political aspect, and to deny that it is there is to be ignorant of the very power that makes cinema perhaps the most influential art form ever created for mainstream consumption – though it’s fair to say that some movies wield it with a more scrupulous sense of neutrality than others.

Such a movie is Ari Aster’s new neo-Western “Eddington,” which opened in wide release on July 18 after a (mostly) critically acclaimed debut at Cannes in May. Top-heavy with an A-list cast of principals and seemingly timed by fate to emerge in the midst of our nation’s most critical test of sanity to date, it’s the kind of microcosmic allegory that translates sweeping and near-abstract principles of political partisanship into the interpersonal dynamics of its characters, while also taking pains to invest us in their intimate concerns – something that always, inevitably, drives our actions around any given issue that affects us personally.

Set in the early days of the COVID pandemic, it centers on Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix), the sheriff of the small (and fictional) New Mexico town of its title. An old-school lawman who sees himself as a protector of decency and freedom, he finds himself at odds with the new mask mandate from the town’s progressive mayor, Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal) – perhaps more aggressively so due to the latter’s alleged former history with his own wife, Lou (Emma Stone), a “mentally unstable” victim of trauma sparked by sexual abuse as a teen. Leveraging his popularity with the townspeople, he decides to run against Garcia in the town’s upcoming mayoral election; but what begins as a straightforward competition centered around “common sense” arguments about public safety versus freedom of choice soon turns to wider conflict when national protest over the death of George Floyd spreads into the streets of Eddington.

Chafed by accusations of racism within his own police force – despite the inclusion of Black officer Michael Cole (Micheal Ward), whose father was Cross’s own predecessor as sheriff – and suspicious of Garcia’s involvement with a shadowy corporate backer whose effort to build a mysterious AI-training plant in the town has become a divisive issue among the town’s citizens, the sheriff tries to diffuse the tension with a level-headed “business as usual” approach which prioritizes the public peace over the ethical concerns of the town’s newly-”woke” youth population; meanwhile, his marriage is starting to unravel as Lou – coaxed by a youthful online guru (Austin Butler) and in defiance of her conspiracy-theorist mother (Diedre O’Connell) – becomes more determined to break free from the accepted story of her past, throwing his personal rivalry with Garcia into an uncomfortably uncertain new light. Faced with the prospect of a humiliating loss and the disintegration of his “happy” home, he decides to take a more aggressive approach to his campaign, sparking a chain of shocking and violent developments that rapidly turn both his town and his life into a powderkeg, as his efforts to avoid its consequences become ever more desperate and irrational.

With a stellar cast of better-and-lesser-known talents performing at their best, and the picturesque New Mexico location lending a distinctly surreal air of grandeur, it’s a deliberate thrill ride of a movie, grounded in the contrast between everyday banality and the raging turmoil of inner life; it hinges on false narratives, whether taught us by others or conjured by ourselves, and the dangers, both personal and public, of embracing them; and though it sometimes feels over-long and occasionally relies on contrivances that feel too convenient to be believed, its writer/director crafts it with enough clarity of vision – not to mention self-assurance – to make it all work.

Aster – whose two breakthrough films (“Hereditary” and “Midsommar”) turned him into one of Hollywood’s “young directors to watch” toward the end of the last decade – rose to A-lister prominence as a maker of “elevated” horror, and while “Eddington” furthers the departure that began with his last movie (the acclaimed-but-little-seen “Beau is Afraid,” also starring Phoenix), it is nevertheless driven with the kind of mounting slow-burn suspense – as well as the devious twists, turns, and sudden shocks – that draws a clear lineage from the genre which inspired him to become a filmmaker in the first place. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these tactics serve him well, ramping up the underlying tension until viewers are mentally begging for it to explode; and, truth be told, it might easily be argued – from a certain point of view, at least – that “Eddington,” despite its self-identification as a “satirical black comedy” and a narrative that reads more like an action-driven crime thriller than a movie about arcane evil or otherworldly threats, is very much its own kind of horror film, depicting a real-life terror that feels particularly ominous in the “cultural moment” we currently live in.

Swirling with the absurdities of American public opinion, pointedly and painfully magnified by its small town setting, Aster’s ambitious opus hinges on all the paradoxical logic of our time; from the murky behind-the-scenes manipulations of big-money tech interests and the insecurity of white male “incels,” to the paranoid and half-baked misinformation of online influencers and the blatantly self-serving lies of our public officials, “Eddington” makes sure to touch on all the existential crises which haunt our collective lives in the here and now and undermine our understanding of “truth” itself. Yes, it draws ludicrous caricatures of current events, and it roots itself in a filmmaking trope (think “The Godfather”) that symbolically links American identity with a tendency toward the violence, corruption, and amorality of criminal behavior, with side servings of toxic masculinity and colonialism; but just because it plays those things for laughs (albeit mostly the wry, inner variety) doesn’t mean they aren’t terrifyingly relevant to our real world existence.

Indeed, in the end, Aster’s movie is chillingly unsettling, leading us through a labyrinth of cause-and-effect inevitabilities and delivering us, finally, to a place that feels both disconcertingly unresolved and alarmingly familiar; to say more would be a spoiler, but we’ll venture to add that, whichever side of the political fence you’re on, it’s a film that will challenge your thinking and disrupt your comfort.

In 2025, what better recommendation could we give for a film than that?

Anyone who argues that Superman should never be politicized clearly knows nothing about Superman.

The “Man of Steel” has been a flashpoint for controversy almost from the beginning, when he was created by writer Jerry Siegel and artist Joe Shuster – two Jewish Americans born of immigrant parents, who conceived the character in a world where the economic disparities of the Great Depression, the rise of global fascism, and the threat of impending war were looming large across American life. Theirs was a hero for the time, who used his strength to help the weak instead of to subjugate them, who stood up against the forces of greed, corruption, and insatiable power to prioritize human life above all other considerations. Is it any wonder that his values would become objectionable to conservatives when the moral complacency of postwar prosperity kicked in? In the hawkish American ideology that dominated the Cold War era, such notions became inconvenient.

To be fair, there has been liberal backlash against the character, too; Superman has often been framed as an icon of American “exceptionalism” that served as a jingoistic mask for the deeper ambitions of the capitalist elite. Indeed, the success of the 1978 “Superman: The Movie” (starring Christopher Reeve in arguably the most beloved big screen iteration of the character) largely hinged on its refutation of jaded disillusionment at a time when America had become too “hip” for wish-fulfillment fantasies about an invincible hero who could save the world.

Since then, of course, Superman has undergone further evolution, mirroring a cultural return to cynicism with a parallel transformation of Krypton’s last son – in the movies, at least – into a morally conflicted figure with deep doubts about his mission and crippling regrets over the collateral damage he’s caused in the pursuit of “truth, justice, and the American Way.” Fans were divided, and this new-and-darker version of “Supe” – despite the fan appeal of Henry Cavill, who donned the red cape for three films under director Zack Snyder – failed to generate the kind of enthusiasm that would elevate DC (and parent company Warner Brothers) to the popularity level of Marvel’s rival cinematic universe.

Now, with James Gunn’s “Superman” – the latest reboot of the comic book hero’s big screen franchise, which serves as the starting point for a new “DC Cinematic Universe” (DCU) after the last one was tanked by mediocre reviews and disappointing box office receipts – the tables have been turned once again. In Gunn’s “reset,” the character (played with infectious and unassuming charm by David Corenswet) is a true idealist, embracing a presumed role as protector of Earth without a sense of being burdened, and motivated to make a difference even through the journalistic efforts of alter-ego Clark Kent. For him, it’s simple: if innocent people are in danger, he is there to be their champion.

That said, he’s still something of a mess. In his imperative to protect mankind, he is at odds with the protocols of the human world order, which don’t always line up with his goals. In fact, when the story begins, Superman is already under fire from the media for his disregard of political procedure and international law, having unilaterally prevented a Central European dictator from invading a neighboring country only weeks before. This diplomatic faux pas has led billionaire tech genius and corporate giant Lex Luthor (Nicholas Hoult) to focus his vast resources on a public smear campaign against him.

Needless to say, Luthor has his own secret agenda, a push for global power that depends on ensuring that Superman is eliminated from the equation. Fortunately for the caped Kryptonian, he has the help of Clark Kent’s Daily Planet associates – girlfriend Lois Lane (a perfectly cast Rachel Brosnahan, best known as “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel”) and Jimmy Olsen (Skyler Gisondo, “The Righteous Gemstones”) – and an assortment of fellow “meta humans” (i.e. superheroes) to keep him on track. 

We won’t spoil the outcome, though it’s a safe bet that the good guys will triumph in the end. More important is that Gunn’s ambitious reconfiguration of the classic mythos makes the choice to go all-in on the qualities that once made Superman the epitome of an archetype.

Corenswet brings an everyman likability to his larger-than-life character, within which all his nods to ethical purity feel like a triumph instead of a capitulation to comfortable sentiment. He inhabits the role, even in the guise of Clark Kent (who, as we are reminded by recall to a long-forgotten canonical flourish, gets away with his disguise via “hypno-glasses” which mask his obvious resemblance to Superman in the eyes of all who see him), and taps into something that transcends the formulaic conventions of the superhero genre. While he may not bring the effortless charm that Reeve carried into the role, he delivers something equally engaging – a real sense of trying to do better – which makes it possible for us, as viewers, to identify with him. Brosnahan’s Lane is revelatory, a modern incarnation that emphasizes her integrity as a journalist to make her an equal to her superhuman paramour; their chemistry, highlighted through a classic “screwball comedy” dynamic in their banter and informed by the active role she plays in the heroics that drive the film, is not only refreshingly equitable but honest.

As for Hoult’s palpably Musk-ish Luthor, he delivers all the smug arrogance we need from a supervillain while also leaving room for a sliver of compassion. In smaller roles, Gisondo’s Olsen is a presence to be taken much more seriously than many of its earlier iterations, while an over-the-top turn from Nathan Fillion as a bro-ishly tacky Green Lantern and the underplayed solidity of Edi Gathegi’s no-nonsense Mr. Fantastic effectively contrast Corenswet’s optimistic Kal-El.

Yes, it’s a little too “busy,” and it admittedly suffers from the contemporary genre’s rapid-fire flow of information, action, and peripheral characters. There’s also the gratuitously irresistible presence of Krypto, a “superdog” under the temporary care of our hero. Even so, these elements somehow give Gunn’s movie a heartwarmingly goofy quality. It’s just that kind of film.

Which brings us to the question of why anyone could see it as anything but a validation of what makes this character so uniquely American. Taken without contemporary real-world context, it’s hard to object to Gunn’s new vision of Superman unless one has a fundamental problem with the idea that compassion, kindness, and equity are goals worth fighting for.

In the context of Trump’s America, however, the movie’s insistence on highlighting these values, along with its emphasis on Superman’s status as an “alien” immigrant and a general sense of inclusiveness among its ensemble cast, feels like a radical notion.

That says more about “them” than it does about “us,” frankly, and for our part we’re grateful for a movie that not only breaks the “superhero fatigue” that has developed for moviegoers over the last few oversaturated years, but dares to refute MAGA-driven talking points about “toxic empathy” and the equality of immigrants (after all, Superman has always been an alien) to reinforce a vision of America that feels worth fighting for.

One of the most telling things about queer history is that so much of it has to be gleaned by reading between the lines.

There are the obvious tentpoles: the activism, the politics, the names and accomplishments of key cultural heroes. Without the stories of lived experience behind them, however, these things are mere information; to connect with these facts on a personal level requires relatable everyday detail — and for most of our past, such things could only be discussed in secret.

In recent decades, thanks to increased societal acceptance, there’s been a new sense of academic “legitimacy” bestowed upon the scholarship of queer history, and much has been illuminated that was once kept in the dark. The once-repressed expressions of our queer ancestors now allow us to see our reflections staring back at us through the centuries, and connect us to them in a way that feels personal.

One of the most effective formats for building that connection, naturally enough, is documentary filmmaking — an assertion illustrated by two new docs, each focused on figures whose lives are intertwined with the evolution of modern trans culture.

“I’m Your Venus,” now streaming on Netfllix, bookends an iconic documentary from the past: “Paris is Burning (1990), Jennie Livingston’s seminal portrait of New York City’s ballroom scene of the ‘80s. In that film, a young trans woman named Venus Xtravagana delivered first-person confessionals for the camera that instantly won the hearts of audiences — only for them to break with the shattering revelation that she had been murdered before the film’s completion.

That 1988 murder was never solved, but Venus — whose surname was Pellagatti before she joined the House of Xtravaganza – was never forgotten; four decades later, her family (or rather, families) want some answers, and filmmaker Kimberly Reed follows her biological siblings — Joe, Louie, and John, Jr. — as they connect with her ballroom clan in an effort to bring closure to her loss; with the help of trans advocates, they succeed in getting her murder case re-opened, and work to achieve a posthumous legal name change to honor her memory and solidify her legacy.

It’s a remarkably kind and unapologetically sentimental chronicle of events, especially considering the brutal circumstances of Venus’ killing — a brutal death by strangling, almost certainly perpetrated by a transphobic “john” who left her body hidden under a mattress in a seedy hotel — and her decision to leave her birth family for a chosen one. As to the latter, there are no hard feelings among her blood relatives, who assert — mostly convincingly — that they always accepted her for who she was; one senses that a lot of inner growth has contributed to the Pallagatti clan’s mission, which admittedly sometimes resembles an attempt at making amends. For the murder itself, it’s best to leave that part of the story unspoiled — though it’s fair to say that any answers which may or may not have been found are overshadowed by the spirit of love, dignity, and determination that underscore the search for them, however performative some of it might occasionally feel. Ultimately, Venus is still the star of the show, her authentic and unvarnished truth remaining eloquent despite the passage of more than 40 years.

Perhaps more layered and certainly more provocative, documentarian Zackary Drucker’s “Enigma” (now streaming on HBO/Max) delves further back into trans history, tracing the parallel lives of two women — trans pioneer and activist April Ashley and self-styled European “disco queen” Amanda Lear — whose paths to fame both began in Paris of the 1950s, where they were friends and performers together at Le Carrousel, a notorious-and-popular drag cabaret that attracted the glitterati of Europe.

Ashley (who died at 86 in 2021) was a former merchant seaman from Liverpool whose “underground” success as a drag performer funded a successful gender reassignment surgery and led to a career as a fashion model, as well as her elevation-by-wedding into British high society — though the marriage was annulled after she was publicly outed by a friend, despite her husband’s awareness of her trans identity at the time of their marriage. She went on to become a formidable advocate for trans acceptance, and for environmental organizations like Greenpeace, who would earn an MBE for her efforts, and wrote an autobiography in which she shared candid stories about her experiences and relationships as part of the “exotic” Parisian scene from which she launched her later life.

The other figure profiled by “Enigma” — and possibly the one to which its title most directly refers — is Amanda Lear, who also (“allegedly”) started her rise to fame at Le Carrousel before embarking on a later career that would include fashion modeling, pop stardom, and a long-term friendship with surrealist painter Salvador Dalí. A self-proclaimed “disco queen” whose success in Europe never quite spread to American culture (despite highly public relationships associations with musical icons like David Bowie and Roxy Music), Lear’s trajectory has taken her in a different direction than Ashley’s. In the film’s extensive live interview segments, she repeatedly denies and discredits suggestions of her trans identity, sticking to a long-maintained script in which any and all details of her origins are obscured and denied as a matter of course.

At times, it’s almost amusing to observe her performative (there’s that word again) denials, which occasionally approach a kind of deliberate “camp” absurdity in their adamance, but there’s also a kind of grudging respect that’s inspired by the sheer doggedness with which she insists on controlling the narrative — however misguided it may seem to those of us on the outside. Debate about her gender-at-birth has continued for decades, even predating Ashley’s book, so the movie’s “revelations” are hardly new, nor even particularly controversial — but her insistence on discrediting them provides sharp contrast with the casual candor of Ashley’s elegantly confident persona, underscoring the different responses to transphobia that would direct the separate lives of both these former (“alleged”) friends.

For what it’s worth, Lear sent an email to the Washington Post, calling the movie “a pathetic piece of trash” and denying not just her trans identity but any friendship or association with Ashley, despite ample photographic and anecdotal evidence to the contrary — and while it might come across as callous or desperate for her to maintain the presumed façade, it’s a powerful testament to the power of cultural bullying to suppress the truth of queer existence; the contrast between the life each of these women chose to live speaks volumes, and makes “Enigma” into one of the most interesting — and truthful — trans documentaries to emerge thus far.

While neither film presents a comprehensive or definitive view of trans experience (is such a thing even possible, really?), both offer a perspective on the past which both honors the truth of queer existence and illustrates the ways in which the stigma imposed by mainstream prejudice can shape our responses to the identity through which we are perceived by the public.

That makes them both worth your attention, especially when our queer history — and the acknowledgement of trans existence itself — is at risk or being rolled right back up into the closet. 

When “Brokeback Mountain” was released in 2005, the world was a very different place.

Now, as it returns to the big screen (beginning June 20) in celebration of its 20th anniversary, it’s impossible not to look at it with a different pair of eyes. Since its release, marriage equality has become the law of the land; queer visibility has gained enough ground in our popular culture to allow for diverse queer stories to be told; openly queer actors are cast in blockbuster movies and ‘must-see’ TV, sometimes even playing queer characters. Yet, at the same time, the world in which the movie’s two “star-crossed” lovers live – a rural, unflinchingly conservative America that has neither place nor tolerance for any kind of love outside the conventional norm – once felt like a place that most of us wanted to believe was long gone; now, in a cultural atmosphere of resurgent, Trump-amplified stigma around all things diverse, it feels uncomfortably like a vision of things to come.

For those who have not yet seen it (and yes, there are many, but we’re not judging), it’s the epic-but-intimate tale of two down-on-their-luck cowboys – Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhall) – who, in 1963 Wyoming, take a job herding sheep on the titular mountain. There’s an unmistakable spark between them, and during their months-long shared isolation in the beautiful-but-harsh wilderness, they become lovers. They part ways when the job ends and go on about their lives; Ennis resolutely settles into a hardscrabble life with a wife (Michelle Williams) and kids, while Jack struggles to make ends meet as a rodeo rider until eventually marrying the daughter (Anne Hathaway) of a wealthy Texas businessman. Yet even as they struggle to maintain their separate lives, they reconnect, escaping together for “fishing trips” to continue their forbidden affair across two decades, even as the inevitable pressures and consequences of living a double life begin to take their toll.

Adapted from a novella by Annie Proulx, (in an Oscar-winning screenplay by co-producer Diana Ossana and acclaimed  novelist Larry McMurtry), and helmed by gifted Taiwanese filmmaker Ang Lee (also an Oscar winner), the acclaim it earned two decades ago seems as well-deserved as ever, if not more so. With Lee bringing an “outsider’s eye” to both its neo-western setting and its distinctly American story of stolen romance and cultural repression, “Brokeback” maintains an observational distance, uninfluenced by cultural assumptions, political narratives, or traditional biases. We experience Ennis and Jack’s relationship on their terms, with the purely visceral urgency of instinct; there are no labels, neither of them identifies as “queer” – in fact, they both deny it, though we know it’s likely a feint – nor do they ever mention words like “acceptance, “equality,” or “pride.” Indeed, they have no real vocabulary to describe what they are to each other, only a feeling they dare not name but cannot deny.

In the sweeping, pastoral, elegiac lens of Lee’s perceptive vision, that feeling becomes palpable. It informs everything that happens between them, and extends beyond them to impact the lives they are forced to maintain apart from each other. It’s a feeling that’s frequently tormented, sometimes violent, and always passionate; and while they never speak the word to each other, the movie’s famous advertising tagline defines it well enough: “Love is a force of nature.”

Yet to call “Brokeback” a love story is to ignore its shadow side, which is essential to its lasting power. Just as we see love flowing through the events and relationships we observe, we also witness the resistant force that opposes it, working in the shadows and twisting it against itself, compelling these men to hide themselves in fear and shame behind the presumed safety of heterosexual marriage, wreaking emotional devastation on their wives, and eventually driving a wedge between them that will bring their story to (spoiler alert, if one is required for a 20-year-old film) a heartbreaking conclusion.

That opposing force, of course, is homophobia, and it’s the hidden – though far from invisible – villain of the story. Just as with Romeo and Juliet, it’s not love that creates the problem; it’s hate.

As for that ending, it’s undeniably a downer, and there are many gay men who have resisted watching the movie for all these years precisely because they fear its famously tragic outcome will hit a little too close to home. We can’t say we blame them. 

For those who can take it, however, it’s a film of incandescent beauty, rendered not just through the breathtaking visual splendor of Rodrigo Prieto’s cinematography, but through the synthesis of all its elements – especially the deceptively terse screenplay, which reveals vast chasms of feeling in the gaps between its homespun words, and the effectiveness of its cast in delivering it to performance. Doubtless the closeness between most of its principal players was a factor in their chemistry – Ledger and Gyllenhall were already friends, and Ledger and Williams began a romantic relationship during filming which would lead to the birth of their daughter, just before the movie’s premiere. Both Williams and Hathaway remain grounded in the truth of their characters, each of them earning our empathy and driving home the point that they are victims of homophobia, too. . 

As for the two stars, their chemistry is deservedly legendary. Ledger’s tightly strung, barely-articulate Ennis is a masterclass in “method” acting for the screen, with Gyllenhall’s brighter, more open-hearted Jack serving in perfectly balanced contrast. They are yin and yang to each other, and when they finally consummate their desires in that infamous and visceral tent scene, what we remember is the intensity of their passion, not the prurient details of their coupling – which are, in truth, more suggested than shown. Later, when growing comfort allows them to be tender with each other, it feels just as authentic. Both actors were outspoken allies, and though neither identified as gay or bisexual, their comfort and openness to the emotional (as well as physical) authenticity of the love story they were cast to play is evident in every moment they spend on the screen. It’s impossible to think of the movie being more perfect with anyone else but them.

As iconic as its starring pair have become, however, what made “Brokeback” a milestone was the challenge it threw in the face of accepted Hollywood norms, simply by telling a sympathetic story about same-sex love without judgment, stereotype, identity politics, or any agenda beyond simple humanistic compassion. It was the most critically acclaimed film of the year, and one of the most financially successful; though it lost the Oscar for Best Picture (to “Crash,” widely regarded as one of the Academy’s most egregious errors), it hardly mattered. The precedent had been set, the gates had been opened, and the history of queer cinema in mainstream Hollywood was forevermore divided into two eras – before and after “Brokeback Mountain.”

Still, its “importance” is not really the reason to revisit it all these years later. The reason is that, two decades later, it’s still a beautiful, deeply felt and emotionally resonant piece of cinema, and no matter how good you thought it was the first time, it’s even better than you remember it.

It’s just that kind of movie.

There was a time, early in his career, that young filmmaker Wes Anderson’s work was labeled “quirky.” 

To describe his blend of dry humor, deadpan whimsy, and unresolved yearning, along with his flights of theatrical fancy and obsessive attention to detail, it seemed apt at the time. His first films were part of a wave when “quirky” was almost a genre unto itself, constituting a handy-but-undefinable marketing label that inevitably became a dismissive synonym for “played out.”

That, of course, is why every new Wes Anderson film can be expected to elicit criticism simply for being a Wes Anderson film, and the latest entry to his cinematic canon is, predictably, no exception.

“The Phoenician Scheme” – released nationwide on June 6 – is perhaps Anderson’s most “Anderson-y” movie yet. Set in the exact middle of the 20th Century, it’s the tall-tale-ish saga of Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda (Benicio del Toro), a casually amoral arms dealer and business tycoon with a history of surviving assassination attempts. The latest – a bomb-facilitated plane crash – has forced him to recognize that his luck will eventually run out, and he decides to protect his financial empire by turning it over (on a trial basis, at least) to his estranged daughter Liesl (Mia Threapleton), currently a novice nun on the verge of taking her vows. She conditionally agrees, despite the rumors that he murdered her mother, and is drawn into an elaborate geopolitical con game in which he tries to manipulate a loose cadre of “world-building” financiers (Tom Hanks, Bryan Cranston, Riz Ahmed, Mathieu Amalric, and Jeffrey Wright) into funding a massive infrastructure project – already under construction – across the former Phoenician empire.

Joined by his new administrative assistant and tutor, Bjorn (Michael Cera), Korda and Liesl travel the world to meet with his would-be investors, dodging assassination attempts along the way. His plot is disrupted, however, by the clandestine interference of a secret coalition of nations led by an American agent code-named “Excalibur” (Rupert Friend), who seeks to prevent the shift of geopolitical power his project would create. Eventually, he’s forced to target a final “mark” – his ruthless half-brother Nubar (Benedict Cumberbatch), with whom he has played a lifelong game of “who can lick who” – for the money he needs to pull it off, or he’ll lose his fortune, his oligarchic empire, and his slowly improving relationship with his daughter, all at once.

It’s clear from that synopsis that Anderson’s scope has widened far beyond the intimate stories of his earliest works – “Bottle Rocket,” “Rushmore,” “The Royal Tenenbaums,” and others, which mostly dealt with relationships and dynamics among family (or chosen family) – to encompass significantly larger themes. So, too, has his own singular flavor of filmmaking become more fully realized; his exploration of theatrical techniques within a cinematic setting has grown from the inclusion of a few comical set-pieces to a full-blown translation of the real world into a kind of living, efficiently-modular Bauhaus diorama, where the artifice is emphasized rather than suggested, and realism can only be found through the director’s unconventionally-adjusted focus. 

His work is no longer “quirky” – instead, it has grown with him to become something more pithy, an extension of the surreal and absurdist art movements that exploded in the tense days before World War II (an era which bears a far-too-uncomfortable resemblance to our own) and expresses the kind of politically-aware philosophical ideas that helped to build the world which has come since. It is no longer possible to enjoy a Wes Anderson movie on the basis of its surface value alone; it is necessary to read deeper into his now-well-honed cinematic language, which is informed not just by his signature aesthetic but by intellectual curiosity, and by the art, history, and cultural knowledge with which he saturates his work – like pieces of a scattered puzzle, waiting to be picked up and assembled along the way. Like all auteurs, he makes films that are shaped by a personal vision and follow a personal logic; and while he may strive to make them entertaining, he is perhaps more interested in providing insight into the wildly contradictory, often nonsensical, frequently horrifying, and almost always deplorable behavior of human beings. Indeed, the prologue scene in his latest endeavor illustrates each of those things, shockingly and definitively, before the opening credits even begin.

By typical standards, the performances in “Phoenician Scheme” – like those in most of Anderson’s films – feel stylized, distant, even emotionally cold. But within his meticulously stoic milieu, they are infused with a subtle depth that comes as much from the carefully maintained blankness of their delivery as it does from the lines themselves. Both del Toro and Threapleton manage to forge a deeply affecting bond while maintaining the detachment that is part of the director’s established style, and Cera – whose character reveals himself to be more than he appears as part of the story’s progression – begs the question of why he hasn’t become a “Wes Anderson regular” long before this. As always, part of the fun comes from the appearances of so many familiar faces, actors who have become part of an ever-expanding collection of regular players – including most-frequent collaborator Bill Murray, who joins fellow Anderson troupers Willem Dafoe and F. Murray Abraham as part of the “Biblical Troupe” that enact the frequent “near-death” episodes experienced by del Toro’s Korda throughout, and Scarlett Johansson, who shows up as a second cousin that Korda courts for a marriage of financial convenience – and the obvious commitment they bring to the project beside the rest of the cast.

But no Anderson film is really about the acting, though it’s an integral part of what makes them work – as this one does, magnificently, from the intricately choreographed opening credit sequence to the explosive climax atop an elaborate mechanical model of Korda’s dream project. In the end, it’s Anderson himself who is the star, orchestrating his thoroughly-catalogued vision like a clockwork puzzle until it pays off on a note of surprisingly un-bittersweet hope which reminds us that the importance of family and personal bonds is, in fact, still at the core of his ethos.

That said, and a mostly favorable critical response aside, there are numerous critics and self-identified fans who have been less than charmed by Anderson’s latest opus, finding it a redundant exercise in a style that has grown stale and offers little substance in exchange. Frankly, it’s impossible not to wonder if they have seen the same movie we have.

“The Phoenician Scheme,” like all of its creator’s work, is ultimately an esoteric experience, a film steeped in language and concepts that may only be accessible to those familiar with them – which, far from being a means of shutting out the “unenlightened,” aims instead to entice and encourage them to think, to explore, and, perhaps, to expand their perspective. It might be frustrating, but the payoff is worth it. 

In this case, the shrewd political and economical realities he illuminates behind the romanticized “Hollywood” intrigue and his deceptively eccentric presentation speak so profoundly to the current state of world we live in that, despite its lack of directly queer subject matter, we’re giving it our deepest recommendation.

Summer is upon us, and so is Pride month, which means a whole crop of queer-flavored movies and shows are ready to blossom onto our nearest screen over the next few weeks; and as always, the Blade is here with a handy guide to help you fill out your watchlist.

I Don’t Understand You

First up is this pitch-black horror comedy starring Nick Kroll and Andrew Rannells as a gay American couple (and soon-to-be-adoptive-daddies) celebrating their 10th anniversary with a trip to Italy. Unfortunately, neither of them speaks Italian, and the resulting language barrier creates a series of mishaps and misunderstandings that turns their dream vacation into a farcical traveler’s nightmare. Co-created by real-life gay couple Brian Crano and David Joseph Craig (who also directed), it’s got an authentic queer voice behind it, and a pair of talented and funny lead actors to make it work; it’s also got a nice collection of good reviews behind it from its debut at 2024’s SXSW and other festivals, which makes it a strong opener for your summertime slate. 6/6, in theaters

Loulou

Directed by Noëlle P. Soulier, this thoughtful trans coming-of-age/coming-out story centers on a closeted 17-year-old teen (Kevin Curtis) struggling with her identity while trying to cope with harassment at school and the pressure of living with her strict Catholic parents (Desean Terry and Reiko Aylesworth). Pushed to the church, she finds unexpected solace, encouraging her to start a journey toward self-acceptance – something that includes a new relationship with her own ex-bully (Spencer Belko), who has been struggling with some identity issues of his own. Also starring Patrika Darbo as a sympathetic nun, this gentle story about trans experience seems like a welcome beacon of support at a time when we really need one. 6/6, VOD

Sally

Directed and produced by Cristina Costantini, this documentary from National Geographic explores the life and career of Sally Ride, who became the first American woman to blast off into space. It’s not just the story of her historic achievement, however, but the story of her 27-year romance and relationship with life partner, Tam O’Shaughnessy, who reveals the full personal journey of America’s LGBTQ astronaut for the very first time. 6/16, NatGeo; 6/17, Hulu, Disney+

Brokeback Mountain

No, that’s not a misprint and you’re not having a flashback to 2005, because the game-changing Ang Lee-directed drama about two cowboys in love is returning to theaters for a series of special screenings to celebrate its 20th anniversary. If you’re anything like us, you probably “wish you could quit” this powerful, heartbreaking, and tragically beautiful masterpiece – but we all know we never will. Why not celebrate that special bond by seeing it again on the big screen? Beginning 6/20, in theaters

The Gilded Age (Season 3)

Back for another round of sumptuously costumed, lavishly decorated intrigue among the ostentatiously wealthy high society class of late 19th-century New York (and those entangled in their world), the newest installment of this intrinsically queer period soap opera finds a definite shift in dynamics taking place after last season left the major players of the “old guard” weakened and the social-climbing “new money” crowd poised to take their place at the top of the pecking order. Promising the return of its sprawling cast – which includes queer fan favorites like Christine Baranski, Cynthia Nixon, Carrie Coon, Nathan Lane, and more, not to mention an ever-expanding host of Broadway greats to fill out the supporting cast and guest star roster – as well as the savvy perspective of show creator Julian Fellowes (“Downton Abbey,” which also returns later this year for a swan song on the big screen) to ensure its status as both artful social observation and “guilty pleasure” escapism, it’s probably already on your list if you’re a fan. If you’re not, there’s still time to catch up with the first two seasons before this one drops. 6/22, HBO Max

King of Drag

Move over, RuPaul, because the first major Drag King competition series is making its debut on queer streaming service Revry, where it plans on “serving you bold, brilliant, and unapologetic talent like never before” and celebrating “masculinity in all its forms.” Hosted by legendary trans New York drag king Murray Hill, it will feature regular judges Gottmik, Sasha Velour, Tenderoni, Wang Newton, and Revry co-founder Damian Pelliccione, as well as a list of guest judges that includes Jackie Beat, Cole Escola, Landon Cider, Lisa Rinna, and more. 6/22, Revry

Ironheart

Queer Marvel fans will certainly be on board for this new miniseries from the MCU, which is set after the events of the film “Black Panther: Wakanda Forever” and follows young genius inventor Riri Williams (Dominique Thorne) as she embraces her evolution into the titular superhero in her hometown of Chicago. Reportedly establishing the lead character as bisexual, the series (created by Chinaka Hodge) also continues the Marvel franchise’s efforts toward diversity and inclusion with the introduction of a transgender character and the casting of transmasculine actor Zoe Terakes and “Drag Race” star Shea Couleé in supporting roles. “Hamilton” and “In the Heights” star Anthony Ramos co-stars as Parker Robbins (aka “The Hood”). 6/24, Disney+

The Ultimatum: Queer Love (Season 2)

For fans of reality TV competition, this popular show – a spin-off from “The Ultimatum: Marry or Move On” – returns with a set of six new couples (made up of women and non-binary people), who must put their love to the test by moving in with other partners to determine if they’re ready for marriage — or simply ready for someone else. 6/25, Netflix

Hot Milk

Adapted from the 2016 novel by Deborah Levy, this coming-of-age drama from filmmaker Rebecca Lenkiewicz follows Sofia (Emma Mackey) as she accompanies her domineering, wheelchair-bound mother (Fiona Shaw) to a questionable clinic in Spain in search of treatment. and is tempted by a tantalizing new life in the form of a local seamstress (Vicky Krieps). With a literary pedigree to balance its air of soft-core steaminess, this one appeals to us on the basis of its captivating cast alone. 6/27, limited theaters

M3GAN 2.0

The hot movie ticket this summer is likely to be for this sequel to 2022’s campy comedic cult horror hit, in which a murderous rogue AI-powered doll goes on a rampage after becoming self-aware before being destroyed – or at least, apparently. Three years later, M3GAN’s creator (Allison Williams) is now an advocate for oversight on Artificial Intelligence, but when a new and deadly android (Ivanna Sakhno) is created as a military weapon from her stolen plans, she must risk resurrecting her original invention in order to stop an even greater threat to humanity. Violet McGraw returns as Williams’ now-teenaged niece, as do Amie Donald and Jenna Davis as the title character’s body and voice, respectively. 6/27, in theaters

Ponyboi 

Highly anticipated is this neo-noir thriller from director Esteban Arango, written by and starring intersex actor, filmmaker, and activist River Gallo, which is finally getting a theatrical release nearly a year and a half after its acclaimed debut at the 2024 Sundance Festival. Adapted and expanded from a 2019 short film by Gallo, it follows a young intersex sex worker (Gallo), whose messy personal life – his best friend (Victoria Pedretti) is pregnant, and the father is his own pimp/boyfriend (Dylan O’Brien) – gets even messier when a drug deal gone bad puts him on the run from the mob. Gallo’s performance has earned copious praise, and the fact that it’s a whole movie centered on an intersex person – surely a rarity, if not a first, in commercial American filmmaking – makes it even more of a must-see. 6/27, in theaters

Sorry, Baby

Another Sundance favorite makes its way to theaters in the form of this dark comedy-drama from first-time writer/director/star Eva Victor, who plays Agnes, a woman still recovering from a sexual assault by a trusted figure in her past, who has tried to move on but  realizes how “stuck” she still is after a close friend makes a milestone announcement . Despite the heavy subject matter, it’s earned its acclaim – and the resultant buzz that enticed top flight distributor A24 to snap up the rights – by approaching it with a hefty dose of absurdist humor, as it peels back the onion of the “bad thing” that happened and finally sets Agnes on a course toward healing through a series of five “chapters” in her life. It’s been described as a “trauma-dy” – and frankly, we think that’s enough to make it irresistible. 6/27, in theaters

Freakier Friday

You might be tempted to say this is the sequel that nobody asked for – but you know you’re going to be there for it. The perennial parent/child identity swap franchise (spawned by a sharp-witted novel from Broadway royalty Mary Rodgers) reinvents itself yet again with the return of Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan as a mother and daughter who, decades after having swapped bodies due to a mystical incident involving a fortune cookie, find themselves once again switching places on the eve of a milestone wedding. We have no idea if there’s any queer-relevant story elements here; we just know most of us will be fully on board, if only for the nostalgia and the undying appeal of its queer-fan favorite stars. 8/8, in theaters

Lurker

Touted as “a screw-turning psychological thriller made for the moment” and directed by Alex Russell (writer/producer of the acclaimed shows “The Bear” and “Beef”), this dark pop cultural commentary focuses on a young LA loner (Théodore Pellerin) who has a chance encounter with a rising pop star (Archie Madekwe) and uses it to infiltrate his “entourage” – only to find himself caught up in an ever-escalating competition for attention, access, and proximity to “fame” that soon becomes “a matter of life and death.” A buzzy, paranoid, and grimly exhilarating exploration of the music industry, fandom, and “our universal search for validation,” this creepy but enticing suspenser scores extra points from us for leaning into a homoerotic subtext and serving up the sweaty wrestling scenes to prove it. 8/22, in theaters, in theaters

Honey Don’t!

The second of a planned “Lesbian B-Movie Trilogy” from filmmaker Ethan Coen and his wife Tricia Cooke (which began with last year’s “Drive Away Dolls”), this neo-noir-ish dark comedy stars Margaret Qualley (“The Substance”) as a lesbian private eye who is led by a case into a series of strange deaths centered around a mysterious church. It’s the kind of movie for which the less you know about it, the better it probably plays, so we won’t say much more – except that its cast includes heavyweights Aubrey Plaza, Billy Eichner, and Chris Evans. We say, “honey, DO.” 8/22, in theaters

Twinless

Coming on the cusp of fall, filmmaker James Sweeney’s eagerly awaited black comedy (do we detect a common thread in this summer’s selection, or is it just us?) is yet another Sundance darling, bolstered even further by the controversial gay sex scenes that were leaked online by fans of teen-heartthrob-turned-A-lister Dylan O’Brien (playing gay again for his second appearance on our list), who co-stars with Sweeney himself in this oddball story about two young queer men who meet in a support group for bereaved twins and form a sexually intense friendship with each other. Praised by critics for its “seamless” integration of queer themes into a compelling (if unusual) narrative, there’s been a lot of delay and reshuffled plans around its official release date – but now it’s officially set to be our final treat for a summer full of queer entertainment. 9/5, in theaters

Most of us who have lived long enough to get nostalgic for our formative years have, by now, watched enough documentaries about a beloved entertainment icon from our past to know what to expect when a new one comes along.

Such offerings are typically slick biographical portraits blending archival material with newly filmed “talking head” reminiscences and commentaries, and perhaps punctuated by eye-catching animations or other flourishes to add an extra layer of visual interest; heavy on the nostalgia and mostly reverent in tone, they satisfy us with pleasant memories, supplement our knowledge with behind-the-history insights and revelations, and leave us – ideally – with a renewed appreciation and a reinforced feeling of comfortable familiarity. Many of them are little more than retrospectives, more glossy tribute than in-depth profile; occasionally, a few go beyond the surface to give us a deeper sense of personal connection with their subject – but rarely enough, even in the best of them, to make us feel as if we know them well.

No matter how many of these docs you have seen, however, or jaded your expectations may be when you approach it, “Pee-wee as Himself” is still going to surprise you.

Directed by filmmaker Matt Wolf, the two-part HBO docuseries – which premiered May 23 and is now streaming on Max – is built around material culled from 40 hours of interview footage with the late Paul Reubens (the creator and performer behind nerdy, manic cultural phenomenon and children’s show host “Pee-wee Herman,” for anyone that needs to be told), and conducts a “guided tour” of Reubens’ singular career in the limelight. The first installment traces a path from his Florida childhood through his early adventures as an actor and performance artist in Los Angeles to his rapid rise to fame through the popularity of his carefully crafted alter-ego; part two continues the story to explore the expansion of his fame through the phenomenon of “Pee-wee’s Playhouse,” but soon shifts gears to cover his sudden fall from grace after a notorious “public indecency” arrest in an adult theater, and the subsequent accusations of collecting “child pornography” that unfairly branded him as a pedophile in the public eye — and comes full circle to document his return to favor as an underdog hero for the generation that had grown up watching him. 

Besides its detailed chronicle of these already-well-known chapters in Reubens’ life, however, Wolf’s doc (and Reubens, via frequent full-frame close-up commentary throughout) delves into publicly uncharted territory to give us a look at something we’ve never been allowed to see before: Paul Reubens himself.

That includes, of course, removing any ambiguity that might remain about the sexuality of the man behind the bow tie, who never publicly identified as gay before his death from cancer in 2023. It’s not so much a “coming out” — after all, he artfully teased his queerness to fans for years — as it is a dropping of pretense. There’s no need for a definitive statement announcing something that everybody already knew, anyway.

That’s not to say he skirts the issue as he delivers his full-frame close-up testimonial to the camera; on the contrary, he reflects often and with bittersweet candor about the carefully-managed matter of his sexuality – or the public’s perception of it, at any rate – with the matter-of-fact eloquence of someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about it. He openly discusses his choice to keep the closet door closed on his personal life in order to preserve Pee-wee’s ambiguously wholesome yet irresistibly subversive persona in the public’s imagination, and to abandon his openly queer life (as well as a loving long term relationship, one of the series’ biggest “reveals”) to do so.”I was as out as you could be,” he reflects with rueful irony, “and then I went back in.”

Indeed, it’s Reubens’s sexuality that ultimately emerges as the show’s core focus — even more than the rich treasure trove of personal photos, home movies, behind-the-scenes footage, and all the other fan-thrilling delights it provides — and gives it a larger significance, perhaps than even the man himself. It’s a thread that runs through his story, impacting his choices and the trajectory of his career, and reflecting the familiar shared experience of many audience members who may be able to relate; later, it manifests on a societal level, as Wolf and his subject explore the homophobic attitudes behind the legal persecution that would bring his rising star into a tailspin and hang over his reputation for the rest of his life. It serves as both a reminder of the power of cultural bigotry to repress queerness and a cautionary tale about the personal cost of repressing oneself.

A good number of Reubens’ longtime friends (like Cassandra Petersen, aka “Elvira, Mistress of the Dark,” “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” costar David Arquette, and former “girlfriend” Debi Mazar, who provided support, acceptance, and companionship in the wake of his legal troubles), come along for the ride, offering their own reminiscences and insights into official record, as well as lesser-known members of an inner circle that comprised the late artist’s chosen family. Yet all these testimonials, authentic as they may be, are not what enable “Pee-wee as Himself” to bring us closer to the real Paul Reubens. It’s Reubens himself who does that.

Maintaining an ambiguously hostile edge in his interviews, bringing to light a clash for control between himself and director Wolf with as much clarity as he illuminates the vast archival material that is shown to document his career, he demonstrates firsthand the need to manage his own narrative, balking, even openly resisting, certain questions and interpretations that arise throughout. It gives the real Reubens the same vague menace with which Pee-wee was also infused — and also creates a sort of meta-narrative, in which the conflict between subject and director must also be resolved before the story can truly achieve closure, calling into question whether Reubens (a veteran of avant-garde theater and lifelong fan of the circus) might not be adding yet another layer of mystery and performance to his image even as he gets honest publicly for the very first time.

That closure eventually comes in the form of a voice recording made by Reubens the day before his death — after a six year battle with lung cancer (he was a heavy smoker, another personal detail he painstakingly hid from the public) which, save for those in his innermost circle, he never revealed until the end — in which he delivers a final message to the world. With it, he finally accomplishes what he never could during his life, and lets us see, at last, who he was when he wasn’t being Pee-wee.

And it’s a beautiful thing.

In the new HBO two-part documentary, “Pee-wee as Himself,” director Matt Wolf gives viewers a never-before-seen look into the personal life of Paul Reubens, the comedic actor behind the much loved television persona, Pee-wee Herman. 

Filmed before Reubens passed away in 2023 from cancer, Wolf and his creative team created the riveting documentary, interspersing several interviews, more than 1,000 hours of archival footage, and tens of thousands of personal photos.

Determined to set the record straight about what really happened, Reubens discussed his diverse influences, growing up in the circus town of Sarasota, Fla., and his avant-garde theater training at the California Institute of the Arts. 

Ruebens joined the Groundlings improv group, where he created the charismatic Pee-wee Herman. He played the quirky character during the Saturday morning show, “Pee-wee’s Playhouse,” and in numerous movies, like “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure” and “Big Top Pee-wee.” He also brought Pee-wee to Broadway, with “The Pee-wee Herman Show.”

To get an enigma such as Reubens to open up was no easy task for Wolf.

“I felt determined to get Paul to open up and to be his authentic self,” acknowledged Wolf at a recent press conference. “And I was being tested and I wanted to meet my match in a way so I didn’t feel frustrated or exhausted, I felt determined but I also, it was thrilling to go this deep. I’ve never been able, or I don’t know if I ever will, go this deep with another human being to interview them in an intimate way for over 40 hours.”

Wolf described the collaborative interview experience as a dream, “like we were in a bubble where time didn’t matter.” he also felt a deep connection to the material, having come of age watching “Pee-wee’s Playhouse.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to put words to it at the time, but I think it was my first encounter with art that I felt emotionally involved in,” noted Wolf.

“He continued: “I recognize that that show created a space for a certain kind of radical acceptance where creativity thrives. And as a gay filmmaker, I also recognize things like Pee-wee Herman marrying a bowl of fruit salad at a slumber party or dancing in high heels to the song, ‘Fever.’ That stuff spoke to me. So that was my connection to it.”

During the documentary, Reubens comes out as a gay man.

“Paul went into this process wanting to come out,” said Wolf. “That was a decision he had made. He was aware that I was a gay filmmaker and had made portraits of other gay artists. That was the work of mine he was attracted to, as I understood. And I wanted, as a younger person, to support him in that process, but he also was intensely sensitive that the film would overly emphasize that; or, focused entirely from the lens of sexuality when looking at his story.”

Their complicated dynamic had an aspect of “push and pull” between them. 

“I think that generational difference was both a source of connection and affinity and tension. And I do think that the level to which Paul discusses his relationships and intimacy and vulnerability and the poignant decision he made to go back into the closet. I do have to believe to some extent he shared that because of our connection.”   

Wolf hopes that the “Pee-wee as Himself” positions Reubens as one of the most “groundbreaking” performance artists of his generation who in a singular way broke through into mainstream pop culture.

“I know he transformed me. He transformed how I see the world and where I went as a creative person. And it’s so clear that I am not alone in that feeling. For me, it was fairly abstract. I couldn’t necessarily put words to it. I think people who grew up on Pee-wee or were big fans of Pee-wee, seeing the film, I hope, will help them tap into intangible and specific ways how transformative his work was for them. It really is a gift to revisit early seminal experiences you had and to see how they reverberate in you.” 

He added: “So, to me, this isn’t so much about saying Paul Reubens is a genius. I mean, that’s overly idealizing and I don’t like hero worship. It’s more about understanding why many of us have connected to his work and understanding where he lives within a legacy of performance art, television, and also, broader pop culture.”

There’s a strange feeling of irony about a spring movie season stacked with queer romcoms – a genre that has felt conspicuously absent on the big screen since the disappointing reception met by the much-hyped “Bros” in 2022 – at a time when pushback against LGBTQ visibility is stronger than it’s been for 40 years.

Sure, part of the reason is the extended timeline required for filmmaking, which tells us, logically, that the numerous queer love stories hitting theaters this year – including the latest, the Manhattan-set indie “Things Like This,” which opened in limited theaters last weekend – began production long before the rapid cultural shift that has taken place in America since a certain convicted fraudster’s return to the White House. 

That does not, however, make them any less welcome; on the contrary, they’re a refreshing assertion of queer existence that serves to counter-balance the hateful, politicized rhetoric that continues to bombard our community every day. In fact, the word “refreshing” is an apt description of “Things Like This,” which not only celebrates the validity – and joy – of queer love but does so in a story that disregards “Hollywood” convention in favor of a more authentic form of inclusion than we’re ever likely to see in a mainstream film

Written, starring, and directed by Max Talisman and set against the vibrant backdrop of New York City, it’s the story of two gay men named Zack – Zack #1 (Talisman) is a plus-sized hopeful fantasy author with a plus-sized personality and a promising-but-unpublished first novel, and Zack #2 (Joey Pollari) an aspiring talent agent dead-ended as an assistant to his exploitative “queen-bee” boss (Cara Buono) – who meet at an event and are immediately attracted to each other. Though Zack #2 is resigned to his unsatisfying relationship with longtime partner Eric (Taylor Trensch), he impulsively agrees to a date the following night, beginning an on-again/off-again entanglement that causes both Zacks to re-examine the trajectories of their respective lives – and a lot of other heavy baggage – even as their tentative and unlikely romance feels more and more like the workings of fate.

Like most romcoms, it relies heavily on familiar tropes – adjusted for queerness, of course – and tends to balance its witty banter and starry-eyed sentiment with heart-tugging setbacks and crossed-wire conflicts, just to raise the stakes. The Zacks’ attempts at getting together are a series of “meet-cutes” that could almost be described as fractal, yet each of them seems to go painfully awry – mostly due to the very insecurities and self-doubts which make them perfect for each other. The main obstacle to their couplehood, however, doesn’t spring from these mishaps; it’s their own struggles with self-worth that stand in the way, somehow making theirs more of a quintessentially queer love story than the fact that both of them are men.

All that introspection – relatable as it may be – can be a downer without active energy to stir things up, but fortunately for “Things Like This,” there are the inevitable BFFs and extended circle of friends and family that can help to get the fun back on track. Each Zack has his own support team backing him up, from a feisty “work wife” (Jackie Cruz, “Orange is the New Black”) to a straight best friend (Charlie Tahan, “Ozark”) to a wise and loving grandma (veteran scene-stealer Barbara Barrie, “Breaking Away” and countless vintage TV shows) – that fuels the story throughout, providing the necessary catalysts to prod its two neurotic protagonists into taking action when they can’t quite get there themselves.

To be sure, Talisman’s movie – his feature film debut as a writer and director – doesn’t escape the usual pitfalls of the romcom genre. There’s an overall sense of “wish fulfillment fantasy” that makes some of its biggest moments seem a bit too good to be true, and there are probably two or three complications too many as it approaches its presumed happy ending; in addition, while it helps to drive the inner conflict for Zack #2’s character arc, throwing a homophobic and unsupportive dad (Eric Roberts) into the mix feels a bit tired, though it’s hard to deny that such family relationships continue to create dysfunction for queer people no matter how many times they’re called out in the movies – which means that it’s still necessary, regrettably, to include them in our stories.

And in truth, “calling out” toxic tropes – the ones that reflect society’s negative assumptions and perpetuate through imitation – is part of Talisman’s agenda in “Things Like This,” which devotes its very first scene to shutting down any objections from “fat shamers” who might decry the movie’s “opposites attract” scenario as unbelievable. Indeed, he has revealed in interviews that he developed the movie for himself because of the scarcity of meaningful roles for plus-sized actors, and his desire to erase such conventional prejudices extends in every direction within his big-hearted final product.

Even so, there’s no chip-on-the-shoulder attitude to sour the movie’s spirit; what helps us get over its sometimes excessive flourishes of idealized positivity is that it’s genuinely funny. The dialogue is loaded with zingers that keep the mood light, and even the tensest scenes are laced with humor, none of which feels forced. For this, kudos go to Talisman’s screenplay, of course, but also to the acting – including his own. He’s eminently likable onscreen, with wisecracks that land every time and an underlying good cheer that makes his appeal even more visible; crucially, his chemistry with Pollari – who also manages to maintain a lightness of being at his core no matter how far his Zack descends into uncertainty – isn’t just convincing; it’s enviable.

Cruz is the movie’s “ace in the hole” MVP as Zack #2’s under-appreciated but fiercely loyal bestie, and Buono’s hilariously icy turn as his “boss from hell” makes for some of the film’s most memorable scenes. Likewise, Tahan, along with Margaret Berkowitz and Danny Chavarriaga, flesh out Zack #1’s friend group with a real sense of camaraderie that should be recognizable to anyone who’s ever been part of an eclectic crew of misfits. Trensch’s comedic “ickiness” as Zack #2’s soon-to-be-ex makes his scenes a standout; and besides bigger-name “ringers” Roberts and Barrie (whose single scene is the emotional climax of the movie), there’s also a spotlight-grabbing turn by Diane Salinger (iconic as Francophile dreamer Simone in “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure”) as the owner of a queer bar where the Zacks go on one of their dates.

With all that enthusiasm and a momentum driven by a sense of DIY empowerment, it’s hard to be anything but appreciative of “Things Like This,” no matter how much some of us might cringe at its more unbelievable romcom devices. After all, it’s as much a “feel-good” movie as it is a love story, and the fact that we actually do feel good when the final credits role is more than enough to earn it our hearty recommendation.

Back in 1963, there really wasn’t such a thing as “Queer Cinema.”

Of course there had been plenty of movies made by queer people, even inside Hollywood’s tightly regulated studio system; artists like George Cukor and Vincente Minnelli brought a queer eye and sensibility to their work, even if they couldn’t come right out and say so, and became fluent in a “coded” language of filmmaking that could be deciphered by audience members “in the know,” while everyone else – including the censors – remained mostly oblivious. 

Yes, the movie industry was adapting to the demands of a generation that had grown increasingly countercultural in its priorities, and topics that had once been taboo on the big screen, including the more or less open depiction of queerness, were suddenly fair game. But even so, you’d be hard-pressed to find examples of movies where being queer was not tied to shame, stigma, and a certain social ostracization that remained, for the most part, a fact of life. Hollywood may have been ready to openly put queer people on the screen, but the existence it portrayed for them could hardly have been described as happy.

Yet this was the setting in which a Manhattan artist named James Bidgood began a filmmaking project that would dominate his life for the next several years and eventually become a seminal influence on queer cinema and queer iconography in general – all executed, with the exception of an ambitious climactic sequence, in a cramped New York apartment utilizing elaborate handmade sets and costumes, which would define an entire queer aesthetic for decades to come. Though disputes with the film’s financiers would eventually cause him to remove his name from the project, resulting in years of anonymity before finally being credited with his work, he has now taken his rightful place as one of the architects of modern queer sensibility.

The movie he made – “Pink Narcissus,” which has been newly restored in glistening 4K glory and is currently being screened in theaters across the U.S. after an April premiere at Manhattan’s Newfest – didn’t exactly take the world by storm. When it finally premiered on “arthouse” theater screens in 1971, it was slammed by mainstream critics (like Vincent Canby of the New York Times, who compared it to “a homemade Mardi Gras drag outfit” as if that were a bad thing) and largely ignored, even as a new spirit of creative freedom was bringing more and more visibility to openly queer content. A screening at 1984’s “Gay Film Festival” reintroduced it to an audience that was finally ready to embrace its feverishly stylized, near-surreal fantasia on gay obsessions, and since then it has loomed large in the queer cultural imagination, providing clear and directly attributable influence over the entire queer visual lexicon that has developed in its wake – even if it has remained widely unseen among all but the most dedicated queer cinema buffs.

With a running time of little more than an hour, it’s not the kind of movie that can be described in terms of a cohesive linear plot. “Official” synopsis efforts have typically framed it as the story of a young male hustler who, while waiting for a call from a favorite “trick,” fantasizes about various erotic scenarios in his spangled and bejeweled apartment. But since it is a film with no spoken dialogue that takes place largely in the imagination of its central character, it’s difficult to place a definitive construct upon it. What’s certainly true is that it presents a series of daydreamed fantasies in which its protagonist – played by sultry lipped Bobby Kendall, a teen runaway who had become a model for Bidgood’s “physique” photography and also his roommate and (probably) on-and-off lover – imagines himself in various scenarios, including as a matador facing a bull (who is really a leather-clad motorcyclist in a public restroom), a Roman slave thrown to the mercy and pleasure of his emperor, and both a Sheik and a harem boy obsessed with a well-endowed exotic male belly dancer. Eventually, the young man’s thoughts venture into the streets outside, where he is immersed in a seedy, sordid world of sexual obsession and degradation, before facing a final fantasy in which, as an “innocent” nymph in the woods (perhaps the human embodiment of the film’s titular butterfly), he is engulfed and consumed by his own sexual nature, only to be reborn in his apartment to face the inevitable transformation from “twink” to “trick” that presumably awaits all gay men who dedicate their lives to the transgressive sexual desires that drive them.

All of that, to modern sensibilities, might read like a series of stereotypical and vaguely demeaning tropes symbolizing little more than the degradation that comes of a hedonistic lifestyle in which pleasure and punishment are intertwined with all the surety of fate; but what sets “Pink Narcissus” apart from so many early examples of queer cinema is that, despite its reliance on the often-campy trappings of “rough trade” and the performative “tragedy” of its overall arc from youth and beauty to age and corruption, it exudes an unmistakable attitude of joy.

We’re talking about the joy of sensuality, the joy of self-acceptance, the joy of partaking in a life that calls to us despite the restrictions of societal “normality” which would have us deny ourselves such pleasures; in short, the joy of being alive – something to which every living being theoretically has the right, but which for queer people is all-too-often quashed under the mountain of disapproval and shame imposed upon them by a heteronormative society and its judgments. Considering that it was made in a time when the queer presence in film was mostly limited to victimhood or ridicule, it feels as much an act of resistance as it does a celebration of queer sexuality; seen in a cultural climate like today’s, when joy itself seems as much under attack as sexuality, identity, or any of the other personal traits which separate us from the supposed “norm” imposed by prevailing political attitudes, it becomes an almost radical act, a declaration of independence asserting our natural right to be who we are and like what we like.

That’s why “Pink Narcissus” looms so large in the landscape of queer filmmaking. It’s the irrefutable evidence of queer joy singing out to us from a time when it could only exist in our most private of moments; it’s unapologetically campy, over the top in its theatricality, and almost comically blatant in its prurient obsession with the anatomy of the anonymous male models who make up most of its cast (and Kendall, who seems to dress himself in various outfits only to undress for the next erotic daydream), but it feels like a thumb on the nose to anyone who might shame us for for celebrating our sexual nature, which Bidgood’s movie unequivocally does. 

Restored to the vivid (and luridly colorful) splendor of its original 8mm format, “Pink Narcissus” is currently touring the country on a series of limited screenings; VOD streaming will be available soon, check the Strand Releasing website for more information.