Before judging “Honey Don’t” – the second installment of a “lesbian B-movie trilogy” from filmmaker Ethan Coen and co-writer/spouse Tricia Cooke, which opened last weekend to wildly mixed reviews – it might be useful to brush up on what exactly is meant by the term “B-movie.”

A designation originating in the days of classic Hollywood’s studio system, it was coined to refer to the kind of lower-budget, less-prestigious “filler” movies that were produced to accompany the main attraction in the then-standard double feature format. Customarily written off by critics of the day as unworthy of serious attention, they nevertheless provided a proving ground for ambitious young film artists, and some of the classic-era films deemed most influential today – particularly within the film noir category, which seemed a particularly convenient fit for B-movie treatment – came out of it.

Later, when the studio system began to implode during the cultural shift of the 1960s, the same kind of cheaply produced films evolved into the grungy, countercultural “exploitation” movies that entertained a drive-in generation that had learned to see outside the bubble of conventional expectations, These movies were wild, imaginative things that often pushed boundaries with gratuitous excesses of sex, violence, and authority-challenging attitude, and while they sometimes dared to tackle controversial themes under the guise of sensationalist escapism, they, too, were largely written off as “trash” by most contemporaneous tastemakers. They also inspired a whole new wave of cinema artists, from Quentin Tarantino to Ari Aster, who would build critically-lauded careers with work that not only emulated the over-the-top extremity of their style, but treated it like the high-concept art that it was.

With that in mind, “Honey Don’t” plays like both a campy spoof and an artful homage. Embracing the generic-yet-classic film noir “private eye” formula, it upsets the cart right from the outset by flipping the gender of its central archetype to offer the stylish, savvy, and no-nonsense detective Honey O’Donaghue (Margaret Qualley) as the story’s hard-boiled protagonist. Set in a nebulously contemporary Bakersfield (which feels like a picturesque metaphor for blighted-and-corrupt smalltown America), it follows her as the unexpected demise of a would-be-client draws her into a mystery with connections to a charismatic local church leader (Chris Evans); finding an ally and love interest in butch bad-girl police officer “MG” (Aubrey Plaza), she uncovers a sinister thread of predatory corruption that may threaten even her own family – specifically her beloved niece (Talia Ryder), whose relationship with an abusive boyfriend places her at particular risk of becoming a victim of whatever twisted mind is operating behind the town’s string of mysterious deaths and disappearances.

It’s a wild-and-wooly, ludicrous tale, a self-aware exercise in style which winds its bemusedly hard-edged mystery around a core that mirrors both the cynicism and the romance of its hard-boiled neo-noir inspirations. Full of red herrings, implausible coincidences, and blatant plot holes, it plays into a pitch-black sense of irony (a Coen trademark, after all) as it twists its way through a near-absurd landscape of banality, disaffection, and casual amorality, weaving a labyrinthine narrative that leads to multiple dead ends before delivering an over-the-top climactic confrontation and a tauntingly murky resolution. Along the way, it indulges in near-baroque levels of cartoonish-but-grim violence, graphic sex, and bleakly misanthropic character study, all of which highlight the themes of misogyny, cyclical violence, casual cruelty, and corrupted humanity that underscore the whole bemusedly perverse plot.

All of that might be hard to digest for audiences who are looking for a mystery story, who come to it for the queer representation or as a nostalgic throwback with a sexy twist. “Honey Don’t” offers those things, to be sure, but it packages them in a hyper-violent, iconoclastic reinvention of “detective noir” fiction and claims feminine space in a genre almost always dominated by males. It’s a movie designed to challenge the status quo, to disrupt conventions, to push past comfortable boundaries and shake us up; threads lead nowhere, circumstances change unexpectedly in an instant, and the archetypal wise-cracking private dick is now a sex-positive, out-and-proud “lipstick” lesbian. We’re prepared for a neo-noir movie to exist in a bleak and meaningless universe, but all that is a lot to take if you’re not expecting it.

That means that “Honey” might not be for everyone – but for those with a taste for it will find a lot to appreciate.

Coen (directing solo from brother Ethan for the second time) exerts a more consistent control over tone this time out than with last year’s “Drive-Away Dolls,” while still maintaining the kind of unpredictable anarchy that ties it to the pulpy thrillers that inspired it. The heat-blasted Bakersfield setting gives the movie a sense of place that feels at once distinctive and universal, and there’s a clear love of cinema that manifests in subtle nods to numerous classic movies of the past. 

He also populates the movie with a smart, game cast who seem to embrace the chance to play outside their lines of their normal career. Plaza takes her familiar edge of vaguely hostile irony to new heights as Honey’s butch and antisocial “girl Friday,” and Evans clearly relishes the opportunity to go against type as a smug, slimy, self-satisfied pastor that seems like the polar opposite of his “Captain America” image. Lera Abrova is electrifying as a mysterious French femme fatale, while Charlie Day provides a great comic foil as a police detective who can’t quite get it through his head that Honey likes girls; Gabby Beans makes for yet another strong, intelligent female character as Honey’s assistant and confidant.

It’s Margaret Qualley’s movie, though. She gives a star performance as Honey, providing a welcome and much-needed portrait of a fully empowered female hero. She can outthink, outmaneuver, and see through any opponent she encounters, and she can look great doing it; she’s a genuine badass – and on top of all that, she’s queer, too! Qualley takes all of that and makes it convincing, proving once more that she’s an actor on her way to becoming an icon.

As for the movie itself, we won’t pull punches: It’s the kind of out-of-the-box film that people are either going to love or hate; so if you have a problem with any of what we just wrote about it, maybe you should just skip it. For everybody else, it’s a sexy, thrilling, funny and artfully filmed little gem, perfect for late summer enjoyment.

Like so many others of my generation, I first became aware of Terence Stamp when he appeared as General Zod in 1978’s “Superman,” and I was struck by the fact that, despite his relatively short screen time and the fact that I had never heard of him, he was featured in the movie’s advertising as if he were a major player.

As a budding young cinema nerd, that, coupled with the cool charisma he projected through his villainous turn as an interplanetary supercriminal, piqued my attention. It wasn’t long thereafter when a late-night broadcast of “Billy Budd” – the 1962 film version of Herman Melville’s posthumously published novella in which the then-young Stamp was first thrust into stardom – introduced me to him as he had been introduced to the world that came before me. And it was electrifying.

Here was a young actor whose breathtaking beauty was rendered even more irresistible by his palpable intelligence and his carefree disregard of contemporary standards of masculinity. I was captured by the ease with which he embodied his role as young 19th-century sailor, conscripted into service on a British warship and turned into an outcast for his gentle nature and optimistic spirit; pitted against an aggressively masculine superior whose obsessive dislike of him snowballs into tragedy, he embodied a quality that resonated deeply with parts of myself I was still not fully prepared to explore. Though I may have been too young to catch all the obvious queer subtext that was built into the story by Melville himself (Google it if you’re skeptical), I knew that there was something about this movie that had been ignored or missed outright when it was released. The film was largely dismissed as a weak and pointless effort, almost certainly because of a refusal to acknowledge its homoerotic subtext – but that I somehow understood and into which I felt immediately entwined, all because I recognized something of myself in Stamp’s near-angelic personification of the role.

I was not the only one, nor was I the first. Coming into the public spotlight in a time when post-war British austerity was yielding to new and more socially aware attitudes toward masculinity and sexual expression, Stamp – who received his first and only Oscar nomination for “Billy Budd,” despite its lukewarm reception – soon became a fixture of “mod” popular culture, parlaying his confidently androgynous appeal into international stardom. He was a film star who worked with revered artists like Fellini and upstart auteurs like Pasolini, half of the era’s “it” couple with model Jean Shrimpton, and a jet-setting fashion plate as famous for his sense of style as for his skills in front of the camera.

Indeed, while he was the embodiment of his era’s particular flavor of fame and glamour, the kind of stardom afforded to more conventionally masculine UK-born contemporaries – like Sean Connery, Michael Caine, or Peter O’Toole – eluded him. Adored by the glitterati, he was ignored by the mainstream, who found his work in films like “The Collector” (as a deeply repressed sexual predator who kidnaps a young woman) or “Far From the Madding Crowd” (opposite fellow “mod” icon Julie Christie) too challenging, too ambiguous and vaguely transgressive to fully embrace, no matter the considerable appeal of his physical beauty. In hindsight, it’s easy to recognize the brilliance of his boundary-pushing work during these early “salad days,” but to the masses of the time, there was perhaps something too uncomfortable about the feelings he evoked onscreen.

And then, there was Pasolini’s “Teorema,” in which he played an angelic, otherworldly figure who seduces an entire Italian bourgeois family – mother, father, son, daughter, and maid – without regard for conventional notions of sexuality or socially condoned boundaries. More than any other film, perhaps, it was the lightning rod through which his entire film career would eventually be illuminated. Confidently embodying a radical vision of sexual fluidity before the language for such things was even available in common public discourse, he became a symbol of gender ambiguity decades before appearing in the film that would eventually cement his legacy as a queer cinema icon: 1994’s “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,” in which his stately portrayal of a transgender drag performer mentoring a pair of younger queerlings earned him a well-deserved and long-overdue “comeback.”

In the intervening years, of course, there was “Superman” and its 1980 sequel, in which he turned a one-dimensional villain into a fan-favorite symbol of elegantly campy outsider-ism. Before that, there was a retreat from the spotlight, during which he explored his spiritual side in India; after, he embarked on a whole new career of boundary-pushing projects (like Stephen Frear’s 1984 gangster-centered character study “The Hit”) and mainstream cameos (as in 1987’s “Wall Street” and 1988’s “Young Guns”). But it was “Priscilla” – despite a later appearance in the “Star Wars” franchise (in 1999’s “The Phantom Manace”) – that permanently cemented him in the cinematic firmament, embodying a dignified, confident, and utterly aspirational portrait of queer identity that continues to inspire today.

After my discovery of “Billy Budd,” all of Stamp’s work was on my radar; but alas, in an industry that values easy conformity over open-minded exploration, so much of his career remained obscured in the public eye by indifference; I went on the journey undertaken by countless fans before me, disturbed by “The Collector,” titillated by “Madding Crowd,” and thrillingly corrupted by the radical transgressiveness of “Teorema.” I was further drawn to his performances in “The Hit” and “The Limey,” and forever empowered by his unflagging commitment to challenging his audiences in a way I had to assume he wanted to challenge himself. In the end, there was far too little of Terence Stamp in the public imagination than he deserved – and that, perhaps more than anything else, made me enthralled by his unique place in pop culture history.

And while it may have been “Priscilla” that introduced him to a new audience of queer fans, just as “Superman” had brought him back into a spotlight he had long since abandoned, it was ultimately his fearless dedication to stretching cultural boundaries around sex, gender, masculinity, and identity itself that made him the unsung giant we are left to mourn in the wake of his passing last week, at age 87 – a personal hero for myself and the countless other queer people who saw what he was doing and found themselves magnified, validated, and truly seen because of it. Never content to be defined as a sex symbol, a leading man, or any other easily-categorized “type” (though he openly discussed his non-conforming sexual leanings, he always declined to identify as “bisexual” or “queer” or any of the other labels we all feel so compelled to embrace in our militant modern age), he instead embodied a spirit of open-minded exploration and individually-defined humanity, in which cultural boundaries and expectations are not only unnecessary, but counter to our national inclinations to live an authentic life.

If I had been a movie star, I would have wanted to be the kind of movie star that Terence Stamp was – and that is saying a lot.

The Los Angeles Blade will serve as the official media partner for CinePride Film Festival, debuting from September 11th to the 14th. The four-day celebration of queer cinema will make its debut at Landmark Theatres Sunset in Los Angeles, presenting a powerful lineup that reflects the richness, resilience, and diversity of the global LGBTQIA+ community.

Thirty one films have been selected, featuring a dynamic mix of feature-length narratives, documentaries, and shorts spanning a wide range of genres, including drama, comedy, romance, thriller, and experimental film. Six films will make their world premieres at CinePride, with an additional four celebrating their U.S. or North American debuts. Ten more will be screened for the first time on the West Coast. Showcasing both international voices and emerging homegrown talent, CinePride 2025 provides a bold and inclusive platform for queer storytellers to share their visions on the big screen.

“We are thrilled at the response of the global LGBTQIA+ community of filmmakers who submitted for CinePride’s inaugural edition,” says Cecilio Asuncion, Executive Director of CinePride Film Festival. “This year’s selections are excellent and are a strong testament that LGBTQIA+ voices and stories from around the world will not be erased! We can’t wait to welcome audiences to celebrate these incredible stories with us in LA this September.”

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Highlights from the 2025 official selection include: 

◊ QUEERBAIT – A precocious classics student is invited to dinner after he piques the interest of a tenured professor. But when his teacher’s mentorship starts to push boundaries, he’s forced to make a choice: protect his academic future, or preserve his dignity? This intense drama is executive-produced by Cate Blanchett and makes its film festival debut at CinePride. 

◊ Maxxie LaWow: Drag Super-shero – an animated musical fantasy featuring  the voices of Jinkx Monsoon, BenDeLaCrème, Heide N Closet, Monét X  Change, and Rosé. When drag queens start disappearing, a shy young barista must summon his inner super-shero to rescue them from an ambitious evil drag queen bent on harvesting their magical anti-aging tears. CinePride marks the first time this fun animated feature will be screened theatrically in Los  Angeles.  

◊ A Life Inside Me – Set in rural South Asia, this captivating drama tells the story of a terminally ill father who wishes to live his final days as his true self  — a woman — and his daughter who is trapped in an abusive marriage. The U.S. premiere of this groundbreaking Indian film will happen at CinePride. 

◊ And You Are…? – Jane Seymour stars in And You Are…?, a most unlikely buddy film that follows Lynn, a grandmother suffering from Alzheimer’s who only has the past to prove she exists. Her grandson Max desperately wants to erase his past, as it has never proved his true existence. Already winning acclaim on the international festival circuit, the film makes its Hollywood premiere at CinePride! 

◊ Lip Sync Assassin – Sampaguita, a fabulous drag queen moonlights as a hired killer to earn extra money and provide a good life for her talented daughter and sickly mother. Just when she thought she could handle any contract killing mission, her new target tests how far she can go to support her loved ones. The thrilling Filipino short film makes its world premiere at  CinePride! 

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Screenings will be enhanced by workshops, filmmaker Q&As, panel discussions, and a  Director’s Brunch. Additionally, CinePride Film Festival will present awards in categories  including Best Narrative Feature, Best Documentary Feature, Best Lead Performance,  Best Director, and the Trailblazer Award. The coveted Audience Choice Award will be  decided by festival goers. 

“CinePride isn’t just a film festival; it’s a movement that belongs in Los Angeles, the epicenter of the film industry,” declares Programming Director Miguel Santos. “It’s about creating space for globally resonant queer stories that challenge conventions, defy genre, and deserve to be seen in theaters. We’re setting the stage for the next generation  of storytellers who will redefine what’s possible in film.” 

For more information, visit CinePride.org and follow @CinePrideFilmFest on social media. 

Few classics of the Hollywood Golden Age have stood the test of time with as much stamina as Billy Wilder’s “Sunset Boulevard.” 

Released on Aug. 10, 1950, it became a near-instant classic, earning rave reviews for its savage portrayal of the very industry that produced it and the fearlessly intense performance of former silent screen goddess Gloria Swanson — as tragically deranged former silent screen goddess Norma Desmond, whose fictional history mirrored her own more than enough to make the casting provocative. It was one of the year’s biggest “award season favorites,” a creative triumph for the longtime director/screenwriter team of Wilder and Charles Brackett (along with co-credited D.M. Marshman Jr.), and it quickly gained a reputation — one that it largely still holds — as the best film Hollywood has ever made about itself. It would go on to become a frequently cited example of the film noir genre at its finest, a near-legendary insider’s tale of the movie industry, a meditation on the dangers of ego and the fickleness of fame, and a damning indictment of callousness within a system that exploits its best and brightest before casting them aside when they cease to be profitable. 

It’s inarguably a great movie, fully worth the reverence with which it is held in the “cinephile” community — but while that’s more than enough reason to observe and celebrate its 75th anniversary, what makes the occasion noteworthy for us here at the Blade is its status as one of the most beloved “gay” film faves of all time.

Not that there’s anything explicitly “gay” about it, at least on the surface. Indeed, if you watch it at face value, it adheres more or less to conventional heterosexual “normalcy” in the specifics of its story. Struggling screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) is the image of mid-century American masculinity: worldly, handsome without being “pretty” and oozing with an almost smug virility; there’s the air of a “hustler” about him, sure, but we all know there’s an appeal to that, too. He’s an attractive enough package to make a movie star — albeit a faded one — want to turn him into her own private rent boy, especially when he has talents that might help her accomplish her delusional dream of a return to stardom. Considering how he looks in those mid-century swim trunks, we can’t say we blame her.

Then there’s Norma. To say she’s larger than life is an understatement; exuding a persona that speaks of a need to be seen and acknowledged, she’s made a place for herself by commanding every room (and every movie screen) with her sheer presence. It’s an identity built on artifice, on the carefully mastered tricks of her trade — the elevated vocal expression, the broad gestures and glamorous presentation that establish her as… well, a queen. Yet she’s been rejected, cast aside in a world that no longer recognizes her glory, which worships youth and beauty and views those who are older as unwanted and irrelevant; how many queer men, especially in the repressive days of “Sunset Boulevard,” have been able to relate with that?

Naturally, there’s a certain amount of camp to be found here, too, which in itself could explain the queer fascination with the movie.  The exaggerated acting style of the silent screen, embodied so menacingly in Swanson’s iconic performance, adds a certain air of the ridiculous — and of the terrifying — yet (like all good camp) invites our empathy, too. 

That, of course, is why this nugget of classic cinema speaks to us still after three quarters of a century: no matter how flawed, how unlikable, how ridiculous or self-serving the denizens of “Sunset Boulevard” might be, they are so recognizably human that we cannot help but be moved by them. Yes, it’s ultimately a dark comedy, a pitch-black satirical commentary on vanity, amorality, and self-delusion, but it also jolts us throughout with unexpected (and un-ironic) moments of truth.

It’s impossible to watch without feeling a tinge of sympathy for Joe Gillis — dead in a swimming pool before he even gets to tell his own story, and not even a good enough opportunist to avoid feeling sorry for the woman who will eventually put him there. It’s impossible to consider the fate of Norma Desmond — the years of loneliness, of living in memories, of finding connection only through the fawning servitude of her ex-husband-turned-loyal manservant (Erich Von Stroheim), and of finding companionship only through the proxy of a pet monkey — without becoming aware of the profound sadness of her existence. It’s even impossible not to believe in the idealism of naive “good-girl” Betty (Nancy Olson), despite the fact that everything else we see in the film makes a mockery of it.

Wilder and Brackett may have been renowned for their cynicism, but their collaborative film work never failed to touch you with their deep sense of humanity, either — and those moments do not happen by accident, but through careful craftsmanship. “Sunset Boulevard” is a movie full of iconic quotes precisely because they provide those glimpses of profound humanity; they hit us with the recognition of our own pretensions, our own delusional moments of self-importance, our own embrace of ego over candid self-awareness. All of them sting us with a wisdom we cannot ignore, but they also offer a nudge toward our own redemption, perhaps most pointedly with the climactic observation spoken by Joe in an appeal to Norma’s fast-deteriorating sanity: “There’s nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25.”

It’s the thesis statement of “Sunset Boulevard,” in a way, a hard-candy truism toward which the movie builds with easily traceable deliberation from the fateful moment its anti-hero turns into the driveway of that decaying mansion on the eponymous street of its deeply metaphoric title. It’s delivered to Norma, not as a slap in the face but as a lifeline, but it’s really aimed at the audience; while it may come too late to save either of these two doomed characters, Wilder and Brackett clearly intended it as a message that it’s not too late for us.

Likewise, though we never see even a hint of queer identity depicted on the screen, the overtones and undercurrents of queerness are so recognizable — and would have been so to queer audiences even in 1950 — that it’s hard to convince us they are there by coincidence. Though neither Wilder nor Brackett identified as queer themselves, they were veteran workers in the Hollywood industry, and knew full well that there was a “secret world” behind the scenes that the censors of the time would never let them portray directly. Yet understanding that their film’s powerful message was equally relevant (if not moreso) to the queer community, they would have known that they could reach them with it, anyway. So when Joe Gillis, watching the grim nocturnal funeral for that aforementioned monkey from his window, voices his opinion that “it was all very queer,” you can be sure they chose that word on purpose, too.

Of course, for many queer audiences, understanding “why” they like it is not really necessary — after all, it’s an entertaining enough movie, with a wickedly transgressive attitude about social norms and constructs (the reversed gender dynamics between its two “romantic” leads add an overall sense of discomfort for anyone who might feel vaguely threatened  by such things), and if you’re a fan of old Hollywood, it offers a host of pleasures in its incorporation of real-life personalities — filmmaker Cecil B. DeMille and legendary gossip columnist Hedda Hopper make appearances as themselves, as do several silent stars (including Buster Keaton, Anna Q. Nilsson, and H.B. Warner) as Norma’s “bridge circle.”

Ultimately, though, what matters most of all is that it is a film with universal appeal — a timeless story, despite its aging stylistic and technical contributions — and the fact that it remains so after 75 years is testament of the universal power of cinema to speak to us regardless of when it was made.

When “Taxi zum Klo” was released 45 years ago, it’s doubtful that anyone realized the extent to which the time and place in history it was capturing would someday be iconic — but watching it today, in a new 4K restoration which begins a multi-city “roadshow” tour in New York City this weekend, the world and the lifestyle it shows us feel not only familiar, but woven inextricably into the DNA of gay culture as we know it.

An underground sensation in West Germany upon its initial release, it made its U.S. premiere at the New York Film Festival in 1981, and was given a theatrical release in America that same year. It quickly achieved cult status, becoming a hit with queer audiences even as it became a flashpoint of controversy and a target of censorship in the repressive sociopolitical atmosphere of the Reagan era. Poised between the heady “golden years” between the rise of Gay Liberation and the nightmare of the AIDS epidemic, it offered a then-shockingly explicit, inherently transgressive inside look at the “secret” world of gay Berlin, in all its promiscuous, leather-clad, gender-bent, unapologetic glory.

Produced on a shoestring budget, with Ripploh and his cast of non-professional actors playing characters who share their real names and a cinematic style that seems equal part social documentary and absurd comedy of manners, “Taxi zum Klo” feels thrillingly authentic to anyone who has ever participated in gay “hook-up” culture — though the lifestyle it presents might also feel like a far cry from its modern equivalent, in which “dating” apps like Grindr and Sniffies have largely replaced the non-virtual sex clubs and porno theatres of a grungier and less impersonal time. There’s no exchange of “dick pics” here, no convenient listing of stats, likes, preferences or pronouns — just the unpredictable and potentially risky rituals of in-person connection. For those too young to remember when such things were the way of the gay world, the behavior of Frank and his various fellow “sex-plorers” might well seem just as scandalous as it would have been to the homophobic prudes of its day.

Produced on a shoestring budget, with Ripploh and his cast of non-professional actors playing characters who share their real names and a cinematic style that seems equal part candid documentary and absurd comedy of manners, “Taxi zum Klo” feels thrillingly authentic to anyone who has ever participated in gay “hook-up” culture — though the lifestyle it presents might also feel like a far cry from its modern equivalent, in which “dating” apps like Grindr and Sniffies have largely replaced the non-virtual sex clubs and porno theatres of a grungier and less impersonal time. There’s no exchange of “dick pics” here, no convenient listing of stats, likes, preferences or pronouns — just the unpredictable and potentially risky rituals of in-person connection. For those too young to remember when such things were the way of the gay world, the behavior of Frank and his various fellow “sex-plorers” might well seem just as scandalous as it would have been to the homophobic prudes of its day.

Likewise, there’s something about the film’s unabashed graphic nudity and sexual content that seems more “obscene” than the raunchiest OnlyFans content; Ripploh’s fearless choice to show male nudity, complete with erect penises and un-simulated sex, brings a visceral (and vaguely unsanitary) reaction that’s as inflammatory as it is erotic.

Still, Ripploh’s movie cannot help but arouse us; its raw and un-romanticized prurience makes it somehow easier for us to imagine ourselves as a participant despite (or perhaps because of) the voyeurism it evokes, and the effect is both lascivious and liberating, inviting us to embrace our sexuality as a visceral part of our queer identity — a concrete and gloriously queer touchstone of natural human experience that feels validated by the instinctual response it evokes in our physical being, defying any construct of “appropriate” behavior through its undeniable ability to turn us on.

Ripploh, who passed away from cancer in 2002, was in real life both an actual secondary school teacher and a popular drag performance artist known as Peggy von Schnottgenberg; he made “Taxi zum Klo” while on probation from his job, a disciplinary action imposed by school authorities after coming out as gay in a 1978 cover story for Stern Magazine. In a later interview, he said of the film: “I was not pursuing any political goals, but rather realizing purely private interests: my career as a teacher was ruined. And the film fulfilled a very simple desire for revenge, along the lines of ‘I’ll get back at you’.”

He also claimed it was not intended as a “gay movie” at all. Rather, he described it as “a sad film that expresses the longing for a relationship and its impossibility, despite all the humor… I definitely wanted to confront two dead ends: a bourgeois dead end where someone suffocates in pillows, coffee and cake, and a dead end of pseudo-free gay sexuality where you use drugs to blur boundaries but not eliminate them.”

Although his film was made decades ago, it’s those same conflicts, as much as any “shock value” or sex-positive embrace of our libido, that resonate with us now. While we may thrill at recognizing ourselves in its seminal portrait of liberated gay sexuality, it’s the still-potent longing to reconcile our conflicted impulses that speaks to us most urgently.

In a time when we face a struggle to keep ourselves from being shoved back into the shadows, it offers a powerful — yet still defiantly joyful — reminder that our real human struggle toward happiness on our own terms transcends all the irrelevant differences of sexual identity for which we have been continually persecuted, and inspires us to say, yet again, “we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.”

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 locals, the sheriff tries to diffuse the tension with a level-headed “business as usual” approach which prioritizes 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 home 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.