Since 2009, RuPaul’s Drag Race has been chugging along on a steady incline, from its humble roots as a micro-budget America’s Next Top Model spoof on Logo TV to a fully-fledged franchise on MTV with countless international spinoffs, all-stars seasons, and alumni like Jinkx Monsoon, Bob the Drag Queen, and Trixie Mattel transcending the Drag Race bubble and finding mainstream success. 

From Vegas residencies to international tours to mobile gaming apps, Drag Race has helped the art of drag permeate pop culture through simultaneous internet virality and industry recognition, and the culmination of nearly 20 years of herstory is STOP! THAT! TRAIN!, the first feature film with a cast primarily comprised of drag queens. Though the mile-a-minute gags don’t always land, and strange pacing causes this otherwise high-speed comedy to lose steam, the film is gleefully ridiculous as an unapologetically gay disaster comedy spoofing the likes of The Naked Gun and Airplane!. 

Written by Christina Friel & Connor Wright and directed by Adam Shankman, STOP! THAT! TRAIN! follows best friends/train stewardesses Tess (Ginger Minj) and DeeDee (Jujubee) who leave their dead-end jobs at Stank Rail to join the crew of the Glamazonian Express, much to the chagrin of the first-class crew (Brooke Lynn Hytes, Symone, Marcia Marcia Marcia). When a freak storm threatens to derail the train, Tess and DeeDee join forces with their cliquey coworkers and President Gagwell (RuPaul) to prevent a national catastrophe. 

With more than a dozen main seasons and hundreds of queens to choose from, the potential Drag Race casting pool for STOP! THAT! TRAIN! is massive, and it’s a curious list of names that made the final cut. Leading the charge with boundless charisma and coquettish charm is Jujubee, whose well-meaning but inept DeeDee spends most of the film romancing the train’s hunky assistant conductor Cal (Brian Jordan Alvarez). 

Not as obvious a choice for co-lead is Ginger Minj, who (despite her controversial All Stars 10 win) doesn’t have a particularly large or memorable personality on or off Drag Race. Nonetheless, as the film’s blank canvas, Cady Heron archetype, Minj makes a serviceable (for lack of a better term) straight man. 

Other Drag Race alums with memorable turns include Marcia Marcia Marcia, who shines as the Karen Smith of the Mean Girls trio, while Brooke Lynn Hytes makes a formidably icy Regina George type, and Latrice Royale is a perpetual scene-stealer wherever she pops up. 

Shankman and co. have also assembled a formidable cast of LGBTQ+ or gay-adjacent, non-drag queen celebrities to fill out the ensemble, including Rachel Bloom as the perpetually beleaguered traffic controller/weather analyst Donna Dusk. Jesse Tyler Ferguson, June Diane Raphael, and Sarah Michelle Gellar are standout Glamazonian Express passengers, while the likes of Charo, Matt Rogers, and Joel McHale also deliver in memorable bit parts. 

At the center of it all, though, is RuPaul as the statuesque, pantsuit-clad President Gagwell, whose resolve to steer the country steadfastly through the potential crisis is threatened by her own sordid history with trains. RuPaul, of course, is no stranger to the big screen (with brief but memorable roles in films like  But I’m a Cheerleader and The Brady Bunch Movie), but STOP! THAT! TRAIN! finally puts her front and center, allowing her to flex her (sizable) comedic muscles in a role tailor-written for her, simultaneously commanding yet playful presence. 

Unfortunately, the film isn’t without its flaws – the film’s overall structure is strangely lopsided, frontloading the first half hour with spectacle and leaving the remainder of the runtime to limp along with inconsistent gags. There’s also the issue of the film’s visual effects – Shankman has released a statement addressing the scope of the AI usage following backlash, but it’s nonetheless a disappointing decision, especially for a film made by and for LGBTQ+ artists. 

Still, despite pacing issues and some ill-advised visual effects choices, STOP! THAT! TRAIN! is an undeniable achievement not just for RuPaul and Drag Race, but for the community as a whole. Camp, queer, and utterly stupid, this flick is an instant classic that gives RuPaul her long-overdue star turn on the silver screen.

STOP! THAT! TRAIN! is now streaming on Prime Video, Apple TV, and World of Wonder.

In 1996, after the AIDS epidemic had cast its shadow over the gay community for a decade and a half, the breakthrough finally came: the success of antiretroviral medication turned a fatal disease into a manageable and survivable condition — and suddenly, “queer joy” began to feel like a possibility again.

The year 1996 also saw the release of “The Birdcage,” a remake of the farcical French film comedy “La Cage aux Folles,” about a gay couple who attempt to “play it straight” when their son brings his fiancée’s conservative parents over for dinner, starring Robin Williams and Nathan Lane — in one of his first (non-animated) film roles — as the couple. It was notable as one of the rare studio films of the era to center on gay characters, and the fact that it was a certified box office hit represented a welcome cultural shift after the years of homophobic stigma fostered by Reagan-era “moral majority” conservatism.

These two landmarks were coincidental, of course, and obviously the significance of the first (though it came a few months later) was, in the scheme of things, far more monumental. Nevertheless, there’s something about the timing that marked a definitive moment in the ongoing struggle for queer acceptance. It was a palpable turn of the tide, a moment in time when we could collectively “unclench”  — and 30 years later, in the midst of a whole new onslaught of conservative bigotry that threatens to erode the progress of the intervening years, it’s a moment worth celebrating, if for no other reason than to remind ourselves of what is possible when we refuse to hide who we are.

That, after all, is the central conflict in “The Birdcage,” just as it was in the earlier French play (by Jean Poiret) and film that inspired it, as well as the hit Broadway musical (“La Cage aux Folles” (adapted by queer writer Harvey Fierstein and queer composer Jerry Herman) that came in between. Set in the famously gay Miami neighborhood of South Beach, it centers on a popular queer nightclub owned by longtime partners Armand (Williams), who runs the business, and Albert (Lane), a flamboyant drag performer known as “Starina” who serves as the club’s headlining act; as a result of a long-ago one-night stand, Armand is father to Val (Dan Futterman), whom the couple have raised together, and who has become engaged to Barbara (Calista Flockhart), the daughter of a prominent conservative senator (Gene Hackman). Fearing that knowledge of his parents’ true relationship will prevent the senator from allowing the marriage, Val convinces Armand and Albert to temporarily “straightwash” themselves for a dinner party with the would-be future in-laws. Naturally, things do not go as planned (this is a farce, after all), but by the end, the gays “save the day,” as they say, by helping the senator and his wife (Dianne Wiest) avoid a scandal, and the kids get to have their wedding, after all.

It’s true that “The Birdcage” has invited criticism from within the community over the years for offering exaggerated stereotypes, especially in its depictions of “femme” characters like Albert and Agador (Hank Azaria), the couple’s Guatemalan housekeeper — and, in more recent times, from younger queer viewers who brand Val as “the real villain” of the movie for his insistence on making his parents pretend to be straight. There’s also the quibble that two of the film’s leading gay characters are played by heterosexual actors (Williams and Azaria) and that neither the writer nor director of the film were queer themselves. We can’t dispute the validity of such positions, but we can certainly suggest that they might be missing the point. 

The director, Mike Nichols, was a man who had transitioned from being a comedian to becoming a celebrated director for both stage and screen, responsible for (among many other films) “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” and “The Graduate,” and the script was by Elaine May, his former comedy partner, known for her witty, sophisticated, and savvy screenwriting. Both came with a pedigree that included extensive collaboration with queer performers and creators, and a track record that clearly showed their dedication for humanity and truth over the social constructs they repeatedly undermined with shrewd observational satire.

Williams, known then and now for his manic, over-the-top cartoonishness, plays Armand with complete sincerity, balancing his signature lunacy (like the classic “Fosse, Fosse” moment as he directs a new act for the club) with a deeply considered emotional solidity that never strikes a false note; and Azaria, whose performance became an instantly iconic fan favorite of outrageous femme-boy camp, is lovable precisely because his iteration of the cliché is so completely un-self-conscious, and is still beloved arguably as much for this as for his decades of voice work on “The Simpsons” — not because he is ridiculous (he is, and hilariously so) but because he is so recognizably real. 

As for Lane, Albert’s character is explicitly written as a “diva,” the kind of gay male “show queen” stereotype that never quite offends because we all know someone — or are someone — who fits that profile to a tee; underneath it all is a person determined to live life on their own terms, and it makes his emergence as an eleventh-hour hero/heroine all the more satisfying. Let’s face it, when the chips are down, none of us could ask for a better mom than he turns out to be.

Of course, the participation of incomparable actors Hackman and Wiest is invaluable, allowing even their stodgy characters enough grace to keep them from coming off as complete buffoons (though Hackman’s reprehensible senator, appropriately enough, comes close); for good measure, there’s even the delicious Christine Baranski as Val’s biological mother.

All those performances — along with the fabulous explosion of Miami decor in the scenic design, the depictions of vibrant queer nightlife, and a soundtrack that includes both spicy nuggets of iconic club music and a handful of songs by the great gay genius Stephen Sondheim — are enough to make “The Birdcage” a classic, but the reason it continues to resonate with queer joy emanates from the material itself.

Wrapped up in all the absurdity of its humor, “La Cage aux Folles” (in all its forms) proffers a simple story in which — despite misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and all the various kerfuffles which erupt throughout — everyone shows up for each other. It’s a portrait of a household built on love, about a family willing to leap hurdles and place the happiness of those dear to them above their own inconveniences. In the end, the queerness is really not the point; but the fact that it’s a queer family who embodies these values (and a messy one, at that) is, as the queer expression goes, everything.

Thirty years ago, “The Birdcage” was a fun celebration; today, in a world that once more feels weaponized against queerness, it’s more than that: It’s a great film that reminds us that our greatest victories arise from being ourselves, unapologetically — and that the only thing required to make a family is unconditional love.

No matter which generation you belong to, you have nostalgic memories of “teen comedy” movies from your adolescent years, even though you’re a little embarrassed about it today.

This is particularly true for the Gen X and Millennial crowd, who grew up with raunchy teen movies from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” to “Porky’s” to “American Pie,” and have lived long enough to experience the shock of watching younger generations deploring them for the very raunchiness and toxic behavior that made them appealing to us in the first place.

These are exactly the type of films that are channelled in “She’s the He,” a SXSW hit and Independent Spirit Award nominee that hit VOD platforms on June 30, which strikes a nostalgic chord that conjures both the extreme “political incorrectness” and heartfelt sensitivity of the movies that inspired it – but updates the formula to add an edge that’s especially relevant in our current time.

In other words, it recreates the “raunchy teen comedy” genre through a queer eye (with a focus on the fine points of gender identity), and it’s every bit as messy, awkward, inappropriate, and “cringey” as you might hope it to be.

Written and directed by trans/nonbinary filmmaker Siobhan McCarthy, it’s a movie that might result in mixed feelings from many audiences over a story that centers on two cis-male high school seniors, Ethan (Misha Osherovich) and Alex (Nico Carney), who pretend to “come out” as trans together as a way to get close to girls.

Actually, it’s mostly Alex’s scheme to gain “access” to his crush, Sasha (Malia Pyles), and quell the rampant rumors that he and lifelong BFF Ethan are gay, reasoning that being “trans” would technically make them girls, too. It works, incredibly, in the beginning, but as a burgeoning friendship with nonbinary Forest (Tatiana Ringsby) distracts Alex from his rampant teen hormones, Ethan begins to realize that she really is trans, after all. What started out as a juvenile ploy suddenly becomes a complicated mess, and the two best friends must try to navigate their way out of it; unfortunately, Alex can’t stop scheming for sex and Ethan is struggling with the prospect of coming out to her transphobic mother (Suzanne Cryer), and needless to say, it puts a strain on their friendship. Meanwhile, there’s a whole locker room full of testosterone-charged jocks who want in on the scam themselves.

If all that sounds incredibly problematic to you, you’re not wrong – it definitely is. The entire premise, with all its nonconsensual shadiness and its hormone-driven gaslighting, seems like enough to trigger calls for “cancellation” from both sides of our divided social mediaverse; add to that the fact that the whole thing is played for laughs, as a crass and foul-mouthed sex farce about high school kids, and the movie opens itself up to an even greater level of pearl-clutching.

Like most of those teen raunch-fests of earlier generations, however, “She’s the He” is doing it all on purpose. McCarthy’s wildly “inappropriate” movie is not just some cheap sexploitation comedy, but a savagely campy assault on the attitudes and expectations of the very people that might be offended by it. 

As McCarthy says in their director’s notes for the film, “By taking conservative talking points at face value and playing out their worst fears on screen, ‘She’s the He’ seeks to undermine and defang these harmful ideas while satirizing the very media that has fueled this fear-mongering.” 

Among the most obvious “conservative talking points” their movie lampoons is the whole obsession around gender and bathrooms (it is, after all, a story about two cis males who essentially disguise themselves as trans so that they can get into the girl’s locker room), but there are a whole lot of others, too: the excessive concern over pronouns, the obsession over  genitalia, the assumption that gender identity and sexuality are somehow synonymous, the sexed-up male fantasy of what happens between girls when they’re behind closed doors – all the typical exaggerated tropes are there, and exaggerated even further for full effect. In fact, it’s the film’s not-so-subtle subversion of the “male gaze” through a queer and feminist lens that might be its most satisfying flourish, underscoring the already absurd parody provided by Alex’s single-minded (and hilariously “incel”-ish) prioritization of his sex drive above all other considerations.

Yet what really raises “She’s the He” above the level of the crude humor it deploys has nothing to do with making fun of people, nor is it even about pushing against uptight social boundaries around sexual and/or gender expression; all the irreverent zaniness is wrapped around a deeper story about friendship, love, and growth, a journey of self-discovery and finding the courage to embrace who you really are. And at the center of it is a transgender nonbinary actor in the leading role – in itself a bold challenge to rigid expectations – with not just the talent, but the grace, nuance, and bravery to play it with full authenticity. Osherovich earned a well-deserved nomination for Best Breakthrough Performance at this year’s Independent Spirit Awards, and they’re the heart of the film.

In fact, it might be McCarthy’s deliberate choice to cast their film entirely with actors who identified in some way as queer that fuels its transgressive energy and keeps it feeling “real” even when it’s at its most ludicrously excessive. They make for a great ensemble of players, but naturally there are standouts: co-star Carney (who is also a successful standup comic, known for mining his own transmasculine experience for laughs) does a great job as Alex, endearingly unconcerned and frequently clueless about his shortcomings as he single-mindedly pursues the loss of his virginity, and his chemistry with Oserovich makes them a winning pair whenever they share the screen; Cryer brings a dose of needed maturity to the mix, while also conveying the struggle of a mom trying to navigate her child’s coming out; Pyles and Ringsby both bring the intelligence and depth to undercut our expectations of their characters; comedian Aparna Nancherla earns plenty of chuckles as a teacher haplessly trying to keep up with all the changing identities (and pronoun protocols) of her students; and knowing that the school’s entire male sports team is played by transmasculine actors adds a delicious flavor to the movie’s overall parody of conventional gender presentation that helps make its climactic “locker room showdown” scene all the more hilarious.

It’s worth noting that “She’s the He” is targeted mainly for Gen Z audiences – it’s their generation’s turn to put their stamp on the genre, after all – but older audiences needn’t feel left out; there’s plenty here that should feel universal enough for any age to enjoy; and if you’re afraid it will be too extreme, rest assured: the most shocking thing about it is that it might be the sweetest teen sex comedy you’ll ever see.

Considering they’ve been making them for decades, that’s saying a lot.

There are many documentaries that uncover forgotten history. Far fewer remind us that history was never really gone; it just wasn’t being told. Corps Man is unquestionably in the latter of the two, following Navy corpsman Dave Lara, whose extraordinary life spans the Vietnam War, surviving an abusive childhood, serving on the front lines, and quietly building a chosen family of gay servicemen during a time when simply existing could end his military career.

Lara has the rare ability to recount for us unimaginable experiences with equal parts candor, humor, and a keenly clear-eyed perspective. In our conversation, Lara reflects on finding “The Group,” the brotherhood that saved his life, why serving as a corpsman remains to this day the greatest honor of his life, and why, nearly 80 years on, he hopes his story not only preserves the past but helps create a few more allies for the future.

What was your initial reaction when you were told that someone wanted to tell your story in a documentary?

Not surprised. You see, I have been quietly lobbying for something like this to happen. I joined a veterans organization that centered on writing and media industries when I came to Los Angeles. These groups started with returning vets who served in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and who wanted to break into the movie/TV/writers industry. I’m a writer and knew they would hear my journey, and someone would want to do something larger with my story than I was capable of.

Before serving in Vietnam, what was your life like in your younger years? What led you to become a Navy corpsman?

I was born into a very poor family in Northern California farm country. We moved to Los Angeles when I was 7 years old. My father was abusive, and he realized that I was gay when I was around 9 years old. He began to beat me and made me work in his handyman company, sometimes leaving me at a work site until late at night, without food. 

At 13, he tried to kill me. In those days, it was normal for a father to hit their children, hell, their wives too. So reporting him was useless. But my mother kicked him out of the house, and that ended the beatings. 

Again, we were very poor, and without health insurance, my mother died of congestive heart failure at 48 years old. My older sister had already left the house to get married. My father came and took my little brother, and I was left alone. So I joined the Navy at 17 years old after getting the LA courts to declare me emancipated.

What did it mean to serve as a corpsman during the Vietnam War?

I have a simple answer, and it may sound like a canned speech, but I am sincere when I say it was an honor. With the training I received, I was able to help save men’s lives. To ease their pain or to be present when they died. To say that it was difficult to have men die in my hands is an understatement, and I have no words to describe the pain of those experiences. But I know that I performed my duty. And speaking for every Corpsman who served in Vietnam, our work was the most important thing we have ever done in all of our collective lives.

The film explores the close bond among your fellow service members, known as “The Group.” What fortified these friendships?

This was pre-Stonewall, so our community was nonexistent. But I knew I needed to have contact with others like me. So I began to look for my “sisters”. I found them at the aid station and aboard the ship. I managed to get both groups together in Hong Kong and Singapore, as well as China Beach in Da Nang, Vietnam. When we first got together in Hong Kong, we rented a double suite at the Hong Kong Hilton and spent the whole night talking. It was the first time any of us had known our own kind, and we bonded in friendship. It was there that we called ourselves The Group, after a novel written by Mary McCarthy and a subsequent movie. The movie had just come out and followed the novel’s storyline about a group of Vaser girls who meet and form a lasting friendship. It follows their lives from there into adulthood. It’s a campy sort of movie, and we’d all seen it. Basically, the story’s themes are sexism, job discrimination, and troubles with men. And those themes resonated with us. 

You see, at that time, there was no tribe of LGBT+ people. We didn’t even know that our love was valid. It’s hard for modern gays to understand that, but we had to start formulating and actualizing ourselves from scratch. And The Group was our starting point for shedding the self-loathing that had been drummed into our heads by society.

As a gay man serving during that time, what was the reality of having to conceal this essential part of your identity?

You hear the saying “Band of Brothers” as it relates to men who fight in war. I think it started during WWII. This Band of Brothers is men who have similar backgrounds as you: wives, children, manly jobs, drinking buddies. The term came about because you could depend on these men to help you get through the worst that war throws at you. They help each other psychologically and physically to persevere. Well, gay men didn’t have a Band. I did not start The Group to create my Band of Brothers, but as it turns out, that is exactly what we were doing. 

It’s true we had to conceal our true selves, but it didn’t stop each of us from buying Zippo lighters and having them engraved with the words “The Group”. My memoir, Zippo Boys, is about us and our experiences. We saw war at its worst, and I know I would be dead without my Group.

How did balancing your military responsibilities with the need to hide who you were affect you?

A reality in war is that you need bodies in the field (that metaphor is intentional). So on the ship, I am pretty sure command knew about The Group, but because we were doing such vital work, they chose to ignore our existence. If you did something overt, well, that would get you in trouble. But if you kept your head down and did not “fraternize” with your fellow sailors, then you were pretty much left alone. 

It was when you got stateside that the witch hunts started getting after us. No matter what you did in the war, they still hated us to the point of ignoring honorable service in Vietnam. 

Looking back, do you think your fellow service members knew more about you than you realized at the time?

Not really. You know, being in the military, you pretty much are at work all the time. It’s just not something that you think about whether someone is gay, or a racist or a religious fundamentalist. Believe it when I say that being in the military, you become a professional and an adult. Oh, sure, there’s the exception, but really, it was just a bunch of people working with a very mixed group from all over the U.S. It was the politicians who set up the homophobic rules dictating our removal. For the men and women in uniform just trying to do their job, that’s all they were concerned with.

Was there anything about revisiting your memories for the documentary that took you by surprise?

No. I’ve been formulating my story for the world to hear. I know that sounds grandiose, but I want the world to know what it was like for one person to grow up gay in a world that deems our existence wrong. A friend I’ve known for a long time said he was proud of my accomplishments on hearing about the documentary. I told him, “I don’t think I accomplished anything other than lived a life.” I’m almost 80, so that’s a lot of life.

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Were there stories or moments that were particularly difficult to share on camera?

Only when I talk about men dying and losing contact with my friends, The Group.

What do you hope young queer folks take away from your story? Additionally, what do you hope current service people take away?

I don’t think young queer folks much care about the past experience of our community. That’s not a diss. The world is better for them now, so they don’t have to think about the past struggle. 

But they will come up against the realities of discrimination, especially with the current power structure. They will find their battles soon enough, and I am confident that when pushed, they will rise up and fight for their rights as we did. 

For my service brothers and sisters, I hope what my story does is to get them the respect for their service that they deserve. 

Fundamentally, that is my goal with all of this I am doing.

How do you think public attitudes toward LGBTQ+ service people have changed since your time in uniform?

I don’t want to limit this question to uniformed LGBT+ military people. For us in general, you have the answer already: marriage equality, being able to serve as an LGB person in the military, adoption, and the ability to work openly. This shows that we made amazing progress. And there is a cadre of straight people whom we now call allies, because they want to lend their voice to our cause. 

We just lost the T of that equation. This has happened in the military, but also public thinking is turning against our Trans members. So it’s up to us to continue to fight back and get them back into our fold. 

You know society thinks of us as one entity, “the queers.” But we are not a “third” sex. We are a group of humans whose lives are normal, and we have been around throughout human existence. We have always been part of the world, and there is nothing they can do to erase us.

After audiences watch CORPS MAN, what conversation do you hope it inspires?

My hope is that we gain more allies. Maybe not overt allies that champion our cause like Christopher Sanders, the Director/Producer of the documentary, or Ty Woodson, who is part of KLCS Public Broadcasting and championed the documentary with Fireheart Entertainment’s Jeffrey Michael Deary for funding. But to reach people. And maybe they will become, in their mind and in their heart, our allies. If my story does that, well, that would be a lot.

What is the one thing you hope folks remember about your story?

It may sound like I am bitter about my service to my country, but really, my time in Vietnam and the Navy was the best time of my life. The United States Navy gave me so much more than it took away. 

You see, I received a General Discharge under less-than-honorable conditions. The witch hunt caught up with me. But I’m glad I served. And The Group? I so love them and think of them often. I would have never had them as my friends if it weren’t for the Navy.

CORPS MAN is available to stream nationally on PBS.org or through the PBS app on your smart TV: https://www.pbs.org/video/corps-man-lgdmoe/

When one watches movies for a living, it’s as easy to fall into routine as it is with any job. Each movie is different, of course, each with its own characters, its own viewpoint, and its own story – (or at least its own variation on one), but in so many other ways, they have a tendency to be very much the same. 

This is because there is an entire “language” of filmmaking, established from the earliest days of cinematic storytelling, a process so subtle that most of us are barely aware of it: the image directs our attention, the script provides the shape and structure of the story, and the actors are our stand-ins, allowing us to “experience” the reality of the film through a transference of identity that occurs so reflexively that we don’t even notice it’s happened. 

That’s why it can be such a jolt when we come across a movie that doesn’t follow the expected rules, and we can’t think of a better recent example than Avalon Fast’s “Camp,” which drew attention as it made the rounds at last year’s festival circuit and embarked on a series of screenings in select cities beginning on June 26.

Fast, 26, is a queer Canadian filmmaker who specializes in “Girl Horror” (a genre that centers female experience), and who has already become a prominent force in the “new queer indie” movement. Her first feature, “Honeycomb,” got a Slamdance “virtual” screening, and she’s appeared as a performer in films like Alice Maio Mackay’s “The Serpent’s Skin” and leading trans filmmaker Jane Schoenbrun’s yet-to-be-released Cannes hit, “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma.” With “Camp,” however, she stakes her claim to territory in a burgeoning field of queer/trans/feminist cinema to establish herself as a formidable “brand” of her own.

Rooted in a blend of trope-ish horror conventions and presented in a dreamy, ethereal style that elevates feeling over cognition, it’s the story of Emily (Zola Grimmer), a young woman accidentally responsible for two horrific tragedies, who feels hopelessly trapped by guilt and shame. At the suggestion of her father (Mike Tan), she takes a summer job as a counselor at a camp for “troubled” young people like herself, where she is quickly embraced and assimilated by the core group of female counselors – most of them “hot weirdos” who are more interested in all-night partying and a kind of home-grown witchcraft than they are in the wholesome camp activities they supervise during the day. Her initial response to this new environment is guarded, but as the summer goes on she comes to feel a strong connection to her fellow counselors, beginning to hope that she has – at last – found her place among a “family” that accepts her despite the life-shattering incidents that have come to define her sense of self. Yet at the same time, she becomes ever more aware of a call to confront and quiet the ghosts of her misfortunate past – even if it requires an unthinkable sacrifice.

Dreamy and purposefully opaque when it comes to differentiating between real experience and metaphysical reflection, Fast’s movie draws us in from the start with its edgy mix of visual atmosphere, blending an aesthetic that combines home-movie nostalgia with the ironically whimsical flourishes of the digital age to establish a tone that feels like a half-forgotten memory reconstructed in the form of an Instagram “reel.” It’s a potent effect, creating a milieu of surreal impressionism in which the plot advances more through mood and fragments of subjective experience than through concrete narrative form; at times, it feels untethered, yes, but it always manages to orchestrate its seemingly disjointed perspective into a shape that makes sense — even if we’re not quite sure how or why, or even what is actually happening.

The effect is cumulative, as the story becomes less bound to logic and realism while leaning further into a perspective that favors the arcane and mysterious over the rational and concrete. And while that might prove frustrating for viewers expecting a more traditional kind of “horror,” it provides for an experience that’s more likely to satisfy the kind of fans who appreciate being left to provide their own interpretations. The most obvious comparison would be with the work of David Lynch; there’s clearly an influence there for Fast’s darkly intuitive approach, which goes beyond the obvious parallels of its “Twin Peaks”-ish setting (the forest is most definitely a character here) to emulate the stream-of-consciousness narrative flow that marked much of Lynch’s late-career work.

“Camp” is far from imitative, however. While it may share some traits with the work of Lynch and other masters of contemporary surreal horror, it creates a unique “vibe” by allowing its own creative feminine energy to take the lead. The traumas it depicts spring from a definitively female space, from first-menstruation nightmares to the absurdities of having to defer to the “leadership” of a mediocre male who has more power than you (in this case, Austyn Van de Kamp as the camp’s supervisor, a naive but endearing yokel whose Jesus-centric worldview is undermined by the “coven” under his tentative command), and the overall treatment of its few male characters is largely less than forgiving. Yet on a deeper level, its subtext of carrying “unforgivable sin” that affects every aspect of one’s interactive life feels ultimately as much an expression of queer trauma as it does feminist ideology. The result is just cryptic enough to leave us pondering what we’ve just seen yet clear enough to deliver an emotional catharsis which feels, if not exactly curative, at least healing enough to pave a way forward.

Admittedly, it’s not a film that will likely tick off all the boxes for hardcore horror fans; while it might deal in dark emotions and a certain witchiness that ties it to the legacy of such pagan-flavored classics as “The Wicker Man” or “Midsommar,” its terrors are more existential than visceral, pondering the difficulties of overcoming self-hatred rather than pitting us against a palpable physical threat, supernatural or otherwise. Indeed, it’s more introspective psychodrama than it is traditional horror – which is less a criticism than it is a disclaimer.

Though it’s Fast’s moody aesthetic that emerges as the “star” attraction of “Camp,” much of its effectiveness hinges on the performances of its cast. Grimmer, especially, is central, and she succeeds admirably not only in winning our empathy but in peeling back the morally murky layers of Emily’s path to redemption in a way that feels like empowerment rather than ethical compromise. However, the ensemble of “soul sisters” that surrounds her (Alice Wordsworth, Cherry Moore, Ella Reece, Lea Rose Sebastianis, and Sophie Bawks-Smith) all play their own particular part in creating the “magic” that makes the whole thing work.

All in all, “Camp” is an exhilaratingly fresh – if sometimes opaque – expression of queer filmmaking from a feminine perspective; that’s a regrettably rare occurrence which makes Fast’s fastidiously unsentimental (yet deeply empathetic) exploration of queer guilt all the more powerful, and makes her movie an essential addition to your watchlist.

There’s something about horror films that makes them particularly apt as a vehicle for allegory. Vampires, zombies, ghosts, or seemingly death-proof serial killers can all easily be seen as metaphors for some lurking threat from the “dark side” of our own collective psyche, and stories about them are almost always cautionary tales that remind us that it’s the “dark side” of our own nature that we must confront in order for the danger to be eliminated.

This subtext has always been present in the genre, of course; but with the so-called “renaissance” of horror cinema that has taken place across the past decade or so, modern filmmakers in the genre have made increasingly bold choices with regard to how “sub” it is. “Get Out” or “Sinners” need no explanation to get across their allegorical points about racism, nor does “The Substance” require an expert to recognize its satirical observations about the toxic cultural obsession with youth and beauty. These are movies that wear their proverbial hearts on their sleeves, instead of masking them behind layers of cliched and “coded” plot tropes.

The same can definitely be said of “Leviticus,” the debut feature from Australian writer/director Adrian Chiarella, that not only hinges on a conceit that has obvious relevance to its not-so-hidden themes but tips off the whole thing by its very choice of title – a reference to the Old Testament book that is frequently cited by fundamentalist bigots as proof of God’s condemnation of homosexuality, and that sets up exactly what we are in for before the opening credits even begin to roll.

Set in a conservative rural town (in the Australian state of Victoria, though it will feel distinctly familiar to anyone who grew up in similar communities anywhere else in the world), it centers on Naim (Joe Bird), a teen boy newly transplanted there by his mother (Mia Wasikowska) – who has ties to a fundamentalist Christian enclave there – after the death of his father. Their new life – like seemingly everything else in the community – is tied directly to the church, which makes it doubly inconvenient when Ryan (Stacy Clausen), son of the town’s presiding preacher, invites him for an after-school “hangout,” which leads to a furtive make-out session in the town’s deserted mill. 

Though the boys promise each other to keep it secret, they are both soon “outed” to their parents and subjected to a ritual performed by a mysterious “deliverance healer” (Nicholas Hope), intended to “protect” them from their “sinful” impulses. Soon after, a series of mysterious and violent encounters lead them to investigate local rumors around incidents involving other local teens – and the revelation that the ritual has summoned a malevolent entity, which appears to them as the person they are most attracted to (in this case, each other) and unleashes its murderous wrath when they give in to temptation. Their only chance of staying safe is to stay apart – unless they can find a way to defeat the supernatural force that has been turned loose against them.

Yes, it’s all very obvious. There is no attempt to mask what Chiarella’s movie is really about, though the word itself – like the biblical book with which it shares a title – is never spoken aloud in the film. It’s hardly a spoiler, though, to confirm that “Leviticus” is a story about homophobia. From its obvious evocation of real-life “conversion therapy” to its more subtle exploration of the secrecy and social shaming that surrounds same-sex love for so many teens growing up in an environment of fundamentalist religious tradition, every nuance of the film’s ingenious premise announces the clear intent of its messaging: homophobia is the true evil at work here, and its deadly power lies in its ability to make queer people afraid of being who they are.

While some might argue that presenting such an “on the nose” allegory in what is ostensibly “just” a horror film is a heavy-handed choice, we suggest – in this case, at least – that it’s exactly what makes the movie work so effectively.

From the very first scenes (after a prologue that ominously hints at the arcane evil that will soon come into play), we are invested in Naim and Ryan, whose tentative-but-joyous afternoon tryst is bound to trigger our own individual memories of adolescent sexual awakening, and whom we hope will be able to navigate their way through to the other side – even before the introduction of supernatural hate demons being summoned to kill them by using their own feelings for each other as a trap. They’re almost a definitive queer “coming of age” archetype, echoing generations of treasured “first time” memories and “what if“ fantasies about what might have been; we want them to be together, to overcome the otherworldly forces deployed to keep them apart – and when their romance is distorted, inverting their natural attraction to each other into fear and mistrust, it’s their own inability to abandon their feelings for each other that continues to put them in danger, making us pull to their side even more.

That emotional stake is the anchor of “Leviticus,” which lends an imperative to what might otherwise be a campy B-movie thriller and turns it into a genuinely engaging – and therefore terrifying – supernatural drama that is all the more powerful for playing to our hearts. Much of this effect hinges on the chemistry between its two young stars (which hits just the right pitch between irresistible hormonal urge and inseparable soul connection), but it’s also underscored by the irony of their being immersed within a culture that would rather destroy them than allow them to exist outside its traditional “norms.”

Nevertheless, while “Leviticus” succeeds by making us identify with its cult-crossed teenage lovers, it pays off by delivering not just a genuinely unsettling, profoundly disturbing, and unflinchingly brutal personification of religious bigotry at its most cruelly hateful, but by providing a tense and terrifying horror scenario that works on a pure “genre” level. Simply put, even setting aside any wider subtext about the deadly impact of homophobia, it’s a creepy, nerve-wracking ride.

A critical hit as part of the Sundance Festival’s “Midnight” section earlier this year, “Leviticus” went into theatrical release on June 19, the latest in a continuing trend of fresh and inventive films that has elevated the horror movie to new levels of critical appreciation. For us, it’s worth singling out as a boldly original expression of queer experience, elegantly constructed from the reinterpreted formulas of a genre that has always had particular draw for those in our community who knew how to read between the lines.

The difference is, this time we don’t have to – the message is spelled out loud and clear, and that in itself is enough to make it feel a little bit like empowerment, at a time when we could all use as much of it as we can get.

Before I can begin a review of “Stop! That! Train!” (the movie that’s been algorithmically dominating your queer social media feed in the form of ads for weeks now), I feel it’s necessary to provide a disclaimer: I am not a superfan of “RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

That doesn’t mean I’m NOT a fan, mind you. I’m just disclosing that I have never been the loyal viewer for whom each new episode is the highlight of the week, or followed the careers of the contestants I loved the most; I don’t know who won each season, or how many times they’ve been on the show. I barely even know any of the catch phrases. I say all this because you should know that, as someone who didn’t get any of the show references I’ve been told were laced throughout the movie, I’m probably not the person RuPaul and filmmaker Adam Shankman had in mind when they were making it.

I do, however, respect and adore the art of drag, not just as an expression of queer identity tied to a long tradition stretching back centuries, but as a powerful tool for satire. It’s a queer-eyed view that exposes the hypocritical norms and mainstream “morality”of society in a form that goes right over the heads of anyone who isn’t in on the joke, and the Queens of “Drag Race” not only honor that tradition but live up to it. Make no mistake, the queer spirit of rebellion is alive and well in “Stop! That Train!” – even if it sometimes feels like it’s just along for the ride.

Mounted as a parody of old-school “disaster movies” – a genre that found its heyday in the same ‘70s and ‘80s period that also saw the success of classic movie spoofs like “Young Frankenstein” and “Airplane!” (which clearly serves as the primary blueprint) – Shankman’s film seems driven by an impulse toward the absurd as a kind of de facto social commentary, but puts the most emphasis on landing its jokes. It imagines a contemporary world where high-speed train travel is an actual thing in America (wouldn’t that be nice?) and a Black drag queen can be elected president (OK, maybe she’s a cisgender woman in context of the plot, but still), but in which everything is pretty much just as “off the rails” as it really is, anyway.

In the middle of it all are Tess and DeeDee (Ginger Minj and Jujubee, both popular “Drag Race” veterans), two “train stewardesses” who fake their way into jobs on the prestigious “Glamazonian Express” railway line and face hostility from the “mean girl” attendants who work there. The popularity contest soon takes a back seat, however, when the train finds itself speeding into a catastrophic “storm-o-ganza,” and they’re faced with the challenge of saving themselves – along with the train’s assortment of passengers – from all-but-certain doom. Fortunately, they’re not alone; under-appreciated train dispatcher Donna Dusk (Rachel Bloom) is doing her best to guide them from afar toward the least catastrophic outcome, and no less than American President Judy Gagwell (RuPaul Charles, of course) takes a personal interest in averting the disaster; after all, it could take a few points off of her popularity rating if she doesn’t. Can this plucky alliance of women-with-something-to-prove shepherd this runaway train (and everyone on board) to safety? Of course they can, and in the most ridiculous way possible.

Like the aforementioned “Airplane!” (the zany 1980 farce that was itself modeled after the popular “Airport” series of all-star disaster epics), “Stop! That! Train!” takes an approach to comedy that’s more like facing a high-speed pitching machine in a batting cage than watching a movie in a theater; it’s one joke after another, thrown rapid fire against the wall on the theory that at least some of them will stick – a time-honored tradition that, admittedly, results in a lot of them that don’t. For every belly laugh, there’s a real groaner, and a fair number of the chuckles are “polite” ones, at best; but that, of course, is part of the appeal. Screenwriters Christina Friel and Connor Wright skew their humor toward the lowbrow – something the popular drag movement fully embraces, anyway – and make most of their characters into clowns as they freely transplant plot points and tropes into their ludicrous scenario; all of it’s on purpose, and most of it works, because this is the kind of movie that is intended to be as “stupid” as possible and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

Of course, some viewers will inevitably be underwhelmed by the movie’s humor; its borrowed tropes may feel less funny for being too familiar, sometimes the “lowbrow” might edge too closely on the “tasteless,” and the overall spirit of “bitchiness” could easily just come across as just plain “mean” if one is in the wrong mood. Let’s face it, though: most of those people will probably not be going to see “Stop! That! Train!,” anyway. For the rest of us, even if more of its jokes fall flat than we might hope and some of the zingers don’t have the “zing” that they should, there’s still a cumulative effect that leaves the impression of a whole being greater than its parts. After all, sometimes we just want to have brainless fun at the movies instead of having to think too much about it, and nobody was expecting an Oscar-winner, were they?

As for the disaster movie plot, it’s impossible to take seriously, of course, but it does provide the opportunity to showcase a lot of characters – and caricatures – along the way. Minj and Jujubee are essentially the stars of the show, and their easy chemistry together helps them carry the film; RuPaul, every inch the superstar as ever, strides confidently into his presidential role and rightfully dominates every scene that he’s in, yet is graceful enough not to overwhelm or overshadow the work of his co-stars, especially Matt Rogers, who, as President Gagwell’s possibly psychopathic press secretary and confidante, shares more screen time with him than anyone else. 

Veteran comic actor (and “SNL” alumnus) Chris Parnell uses his hilariously deadpan lunacy to great advantage as the train’s conductor, and Brian Jordan Alvarez (“The English Teacher”) brings a smarmy charm as the co-conductor who doesn’t know how to operate a train – despite the questionable choice of using an exaggerated “Bill and Ted” era Keanu Reaves impression for his character’s voice. There’s a whole gallery of familiar faces on hand in bit parts and cameos as passengers on the train, who arguably provide more genuine comedy and interest than the main storyline. And even if she never sets foot on the train herself, Bloom (“Crazy Ex-Girlfriend”) is every bit on board for the ride, serving as a grounding force even as she gives herself over completely to the silliness.

And silly it certainly is. It’s as insubstantial as the AI-generated backgrounds used to create the action scenes of speeding train and the storm. And at the risk of repeating myself, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you think the idea of a movie about two gender-nonconforming buddies embarking on an anti-establishment crime spree feels dangerously radical in 2026, just think how it must have felt 25 years ago.

That’s when “By Hook or By Crook,” a DIY independent film shot in low-tech “Mini-DV” format by a pair of San Francisco artists (Silas Howard and Harry Dodge, who co-wrote, co-directed, and co-starred in it), became a sensation at the 2001 Frameline Festival. Their reason for making it was they were tired of waiting for someone else to bring authentic queer experience and stories to the screen, so they decided to do it themselves.

Now given a 4K restoration that preserves the filmmakers’ intentions for the look of their movie, it’s getting a 25th anniversary re-release in theaters (starting with New York on June 12 and Los Angeles on June 16) and a VOD premiere from “boutique distributor” Altered Innocence. It still feels confrontationally transgressive today, which says a lot about the progress that’s been made and lost in the struggle for queer visibility, especially when it involves those in the trans, nonbinary, or otherwise gender nonconforming parts of our community.

Described as a “trans and butch buddy film” in the publicity for its new release, “By Hook or By Crook” is centered on Shy (Howard), a young transmasculine dreamer who leaves his small Kansas town after the death of his beloved father and heads pennilessly for San Francisco with a plan to “fight the power” by living a life of crime. There, he meets the “deliriously expressive” Valentine, a “butch dyke and bulldagger” whom he rescues from a queer-phobic attack. The two become friends, embarking with Val’s roommate and lover, Billie (Stanya Kahn), on a “Bonnie and Clyde” inspired career as outlaws stealing from the system to survive – or at least, that’s the idea, if they can scrape together enough change to buy a gun. In the meantime, they grapple together with an assortment of personal and emotional issues, blending into a makeshift family as they learn to trust and support each other along the way.

Soaked in a gritty, streetwise aesthetic and a guerilla-style docu-realism, yet percolating with humor that bubbles up in all the right places throughout, it’s a movie that leans into its no-frills style instead of trying to cover or apologize for it. Its improvisational tone creates a flow that feels like a stream-of-consciousness drift, but it stays committed enough to its “hustler-in-the-big-city” narrative structure (which candidly co-opts the basic formula of “Midnight Cowboy”) that it never feels aimless. For millennial and pre-millennial viewers, it offers a nostalgic glimpse at the “queercore” scene in a San Francisco since-transformed; and although its narrative is sometimes a little rough around the edges, so are its characters, so the effect is complementary rather than jarring. There’s even a sly cameo from rocker Joan Jett (whose cover of The Replacements’ song “Androgynous” also shows up over the restoration’s “reconstructed” end credits) for a touch of celebrity appeal.

What stands out as the most striking feature of Howard and Dodge’s groundbreaking film, however, is the same thing that stood out when it debuted, which again speaks volumes about how far we haven’t come: ”By Hook or By Crook” makes no effort to pigeonhole its characters into neatly defined gender or sexual categories – it simply lets them be who they are.

As Howard explains it in his filmmaker’s statement for the new release, “One thing we did […] that I think was ahead of its time – back then surely, and still is today – is that we didn’t explain ourselves to anyone, we were non-binary and didn’t justify our characters’ gender expressions and experiences or define it to the audience. We wanted to make a film about a third gender, which is where I felt I personally lived, at the time.”

Dodge comments on the choice as well. “People note time and again that we don’t explain or use identity categories or labels in the film. A viewer is simply in the fishbowl with us. […] we didn’t label because — it was like, straight people don’t explain straightness, you know? So these characters, they’re loving, feverish, fallible. End of explanation.”

Additionally, the two filmmakers chose to avoid making their characters into (as Howard puts it) “model-queers,” who “have to be perfect and good and have qualities that the mainstream can agree are redeeming.”

Dodge explains their thinking by remembering a university screening shortly after the film’s initial release, where some viewers “were miffed that we had done this representation of queers as criminals. ‘Why did you feel free to make them, one, mentally ill, and two—criminal?’ And I remember saying, ‘We are not a PR outfit for the gay community.’ [In the] movies I love, man, the characters are flawed.”

Watching now, it’s still disorienting to hear Val using “he/her” pronouns despite her masculine presentation, and there’s still a thrilling sense of empowerment when Shy responds to a curious child’s question, “Are you a boy or a girl?” with an unhesitant “Both!” We still squirm at Val’s sometimes alarming behavioral quirks, though we might today recognize her more easily as being “on the spectrum,” thanks to a wider awareness of neurodivergence. These responses are visceral, but “By Hook or By Crook” evaporates them quickly by not playing into them. Instead, it just lets the characters’ humanity shine through. “Our characters are tender fuck-ups, like us,” says Howard, “forever trying to get to a better place,” and because of that, we merely accept them for who they are and roll with it – largely because its two filmmakers also prove themselves well-suited for working in front of the camera, too, and their performances are the glue that holds it all together, while also keeping us invested in their journey together, both as individuals and as a pair of buddies. 

In the end, that’s what “By Hook or By Crook” leaves us with. Its unapologetic disregard for “curating” its queerness may catch our attention; the fiercely anti-capitalistic thrust of its “stealing from The Man” premise might distract us with politics; its “anything goes” attitude toward the infinite spectrums of gender expression and sexual identity unquestionably sparks us with a sense of freedom and possibility. But when the final credits roll, it’s the universal recognition of camaraderie, of simple but vital human connection, that matters most of all. 

What better message could we hope for, during Pride month or any other time, than that?

When movies are labeled as “controversial,” the effect is often akin to Oscar Wilde’s quip that “there’s only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

Indeed, a whiff of controversy can be the best publicity of all, turning a movie that might otherwise have been no more than a blip on the cultural radar into the buzziest “hidden gem” of the season – and “Blue Film,” a two-character psychosexual drama about an encounter between a male sex worker and a much-older client, is a perfect example. The debut feature of filmmaker Elliot Tuttle, it was rejected for inclusion at last year’s Sundance and SXSW festivals before finally premiering at the Edinburgh International film fest; and even then, some audience members were walking out of the theater in disgust.

It’s easy to see why, really. The taboos it breaks run far deeper than just frank depiction of queer sexuality to rattle some among the ones most hard-coded into our cultural DNA, and the directness with which it pushes past our comfort zones is merciless. It begins with Aaron Eagle (Kieron Moore), a Los Angeles “fetish cam-boy” who specializes in financial humiliation and domination, proudly performing for his online fans by fondling his stacked physique on camera while deriding them with homophobic slurs and other forms of verbal abuse. He also taunts them by bragging that one of them is paying $50,000 to be abused in person overnight.

When he shows up for the gig, he’s greeted by an older man in a ski mask (Reed Birney), who wants to begin their session by asking him questions on camera about his personal life. Aaron agrees, but makes up the answers, only to have the client call out his lies; the mask soon comes off, revealing that the man behind it is Hank Grant, a teacher who had been fired from Aaron’s home town middle school after attempting to molest a student in the boys’ restroom, and who confesses that he has spent his life savings to set up this meeting because he was once “in love” with Aaron from afar. Claiming he doesn’t want a sexual experience, but simply the chance to “get to know” each other and achieve a kind of closure in his old age, he convinces a wary-but-intrigued Aaron to stay, setting the scene for a night of charged conversation, true confessions, and secretive soul-baring, which leads them to discover unexpected common ground.

It’s clear from even the barest description that Tuttle’s movie is not designed for all audiences. Even within the “niche” of queer cinema, these are “problematic” characters: sex workers, despite years of growing acceptance and decriminalization, are still largely stigmatized by the culture at large; and as for convicted pedophiles, you’re more likely to find tolerance for them in the halls of government than on a big screen. Yet in “Blue Film,” these are the characters we get, and as a result, it’s a movie in which almost everything that is said or done has a layer – and often, several layers – that’s likely to be objectionable to someone in the audience.

That’s not by mistake. In his director’s statement, Tuttle calls his film an “essay on perversion,” born from “the accumulation of a lifetime of private thoughts regarding sex, fetish, and relationships,” and fueled by his frustration with what he calls the “conceptualization” of sex on the screen. His purpose in presenting a two-person “echo chamber” is an exploration of how these sexually stigmatized individuals find a “reckoning with the ways in which they can and cannot connect with those around them,” in which his explicit intention is to make sex on the screen “feel uncomfortable, scary, and laced with significance.” It’s safe to say that he succeeded.

Of course, it would be easy enough to stave off the discomfort “Blue Film” creates for us to sit in by dismissing the whole thing as deliberately sensational, if not for the fact that it’s so well done. Tuttle directs it like a thriller – a fitting approach, considering the uneasy dynamic between its characters, each of whom might easily be operating with malicious intent, and the generally “sketchy” circumstances of their arranged meeting – and he uses the resulting tension as a subliminal undercurrent that keeps us feeling unsettled. When things do begin to get sexy (because of course they do, Hank’s protestations of wholesome intent notwithstanding), he plays into the anticipated uneasiness of sexually squeamish viewers by layering in some particularly ominous strains from Isaac Eiger’s moody electronic score; it feels like we’re about to see something horrible, when in fact we don’t even get any full-frontal nudity.

In fact, it’s in these sexual moments – which, though explicit enough to get the point across, never feel pornographic – that “Blue Film” may deliver its most directly transgressive imagery. Though both men are adults, participating in consensual acts, what we are watching is probably the ultimate sexual taboo of all, not because of what we see but because we know the fantasy being played out in their minds. It’s unsettling, perhaps even for the most open-minded fetishists out there, yet in the unvarnished honesty with which the movie strives to deliver its uncomfortable truths, it somehow plays as something almost sweet.

As always in a film that presents characters who push the limits of our ethical and moral boundaries, the actors carry the weight of responsibility for transcending (or at least tempering) our judgment of them; in this case, the two star players face a monumental task, and they rise to it with unflinching commitment. Birney, a Tony-winning actor who also served as an executive producer on the film, has the more challenging burden, but he defies the odds by bestowing Hank with both the grace of a man who has learned how to endure shame and the cageyness that comes from a life of keeping it hidden. Moore, an up-and-coming British actor (recently seen in the gays-in-the-military series, “Boots”), leans into the aggressive toxicity of his fetish “Dom” persona with a ferocity that makes the “sub” vulnerability he slowly makes visible feel even more delicate; indeed, they both navigate the spectrum of that dynamic in a way that emphasizes its subtle fluidity, and “Blue Film” could not work without their contributions.

But work it does, for those who are able to get past their many layers of discomfort over its subject matter; it will speak most directly to those who have already come to embrace their own alternative sexualities, who understand that sex work can be empowering, who recognize that forbidden desires are not a choice and can find empathy for those who must live with them. Still, a movie that acknowledges (among other things) the validity of rape fantasies, the ancient cultural traditions of pederasty, and the transcendence of self-loathing through fetish is a movie that has appeal for only a particular kind of viewer; and with “Blue Film” coming to VOD platforms June 12, you to decide if you’re one of them.

When Albert Camus published “L’etranger” (“The Stranger”) in 1942, he was living in Nazi-occupied France, so it’s no surprise that it became one of the most celebrated “existential” novels of all time. A fascist regime is great for inspiring thoughts of an indifferent and meaningless universe.

It wasn’t his first experience with authoritarianism. Born to a working-class white European family in then-French Algeria, he grew up observing the harsh treatment of the native North Africans by the colonists who governed them. It was this personal history, amplified by the spread of European fascism, that found its voice in “The Stranger.” Short, terse, and shrouded in a cloak of ennui, it was his first novel – novella, really – but its impact was seismic.

Naturally, its influence has run through the world of cinema, and, it has been translated to the screen three times — most recently by French filmmaker François Ozon, whose screen version won acclaim at last year’s Venice Film Festival, and is now available for on-demand streaming in the U.S.

Ozon’s vision is captured in gleaming black-and-white, blending the luster of modern-day faux-vintage fashion photography with the nostalgic flavor of classic era “arthouse” and European cinema, and it maintains a largely faithful connection to Camus’s novel, at least in terms of plot. It’s the story of Meursault (Benjamin Voisin), a French settler living in the capital city of Algiers, who receives word that his mother has died. He takes time off from work, traveling to the nursing home – where he had sent her three years before – in order to attend her funeral, but remains seemingly emotionless throughout, prompting members of the staff and other residents to mark his apparent lack of customary grief.

When he returns to Algiers, he encounters Marie (Rebecca Marder), a former co-worker, and after spending the day together, the two become romantically involved. Their relationship continues over the next few weeks, while they also associate with Meursault’s neighbor Raymond (Pierre Lottin) – a suspected pimp who, after beating his Arab mistress, is being followed and harassed by her brother (Abderrahmane Dehkani) and his friends. After a skirmish with the Arabs, Meursault encounters the brother alone during a walk on the beach, and shoots the young man dead with a pistol given to him for protection by Raymond. On trial for murder, he offers no defense and expresses no remorse. He is convicted and sentenced to death, facing it all with emotional detachment, and seeming to find liberation from the recognition that none of it matters, anyway.

Though it’s a tale that includes romance, murder, and courtroom drama, it feels like a story in which nothing really happens – which is, of course, the perfect effect to emphasize the point of Camus’s philosophical viewpoint; but while that might satisfy the kind of viewers who might be drawn to any film of a Camus novel, Ozon’s movie probably won’t hold much appeal for audiences seeking action, suspense, feel-good sentiment, or easy answers to the moral dilemmas that come hand-in-hand with being alive. Camus was interested in the opposite effect, a confrontation with existence which leaves no room for comfortable denials, and Ozon’s inflection on the original’s themes makes no effort to soften the blow. 

What it does, however, is introduce – without having to adjust the narrative provided by Camus – an element of queerness that lends the whole story a new layer of subtext through what can only be described as the “gay male gaze” that anchors the film’s visual aesthetic.

It’s in the way the camera – aimed by Ozon and cinematographer Manu Dacosse – remains fixated on its star, the exquisitely beautiful Voisin, lingering on his face, his frame, or his body in swim trunks. There’s a sensuality in the way the director shows us female beauty, too, but it’s never framed as the “object” of desire; and in the narrative’s key scene – the killing by the sea – there’s an inescapable element of repressed homoeroticism, born perhaps by associations with mid-20th-century queer aesthetic of writers like Jean Genet or artists like George Quaintance, or pretentiously artsy commercials for high-end men’s cologne, or just from real-life memories of cruising on the beach. On the surface, Meursault gives no sign of queerness; but the emphasis that Ozon brings to the story – almost purely through visual suggestion – lends the character, already an outsider to the world of “normal” human experience in the first place, an even deeper sense of “otherness.”

As to that, Voisin’s performance is effective for reasons beyond his model-esque physical perfection; there’s a vast inner life happening under that pretty face, and the actor conveys it with a “less-is-more” approach that aligns perfectly with the character’s dissociation from conventional humanity. He’s compelling enough to engage us, and intelligent enough in his expression of Camus’ ideas to help us grasp them even as he makes us feel them – and frankly, that’s saying a lot.

The rest of the cast is effective, as well, though most of them serve primarily as a foil to reflect Voisin and his character. Marder brings a relatably savvy-yet-romantic presence as Marie, and Lottin gives Raymond a kind of louche charisma that evokes a certain brand of appealing-but-toxic masculinity. Swann Arlaud also stands out as the prison priest who attempts to convert Meursault on the eve of his execution, bearing the full brunt of Camus’ existentialist arguments in a scene that somehow taps into transgressive homoerotic fantasies even as its characters discuss impending death.

Camus, for his part, did not see himself as an existentialist; instead, he embraced and promoted a viewpoint in which human life is defined by its relationship with what he called “The Absurd” – the gap between reality and our assumed expectations about it, where our circumstances and behavior become obviously ridiculous – and believed that, in a meaningless universe, we are free to find our own meaning. An essay he published around the same time (“The Myth of Sisyphus”) posited that finding happiness in the struggle was perhaps the most logical response to facing an unfeeling world, and the Absurdist movement he helped to define used humor – albeit often the dark and sardonic variety – as a means to expose the madness of trying to impose sense on a nonsensical world. In the end, his writings reveal him as a deeply humanistic thinker, whose acceptance of objective reality served only to deepen his dedication to the ideal of a better mankind.

Whether or not any of that comes across in Ozon’s artful film, which emphasizes the immediacy of experience – the beach, the sea, the sun, the visceral responses we get from sex or violence – over the intellectual arguments that Camus would elucidate throughout his life, probably depends on one’s own grasp of Existentialist thinking and its offshoots. In any case, while Ozon’s “The Stranger” might fall short in the challenge to convey its philosophical arguments, it more than succeeds as a stylish piece of international art cinema, and it just might – hopefully – inspire audiences to go on a deeper dive into the mind of Albert Camus.

And even if it doesn’t, it’s still pretty to look at.