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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Christy is one of those films that I really wanted to like. To begin with, there’s the fact that it’s about legendary West Virginia boxer Christy Martin; it’s also a queer story, since Martin is also a lesbian. I knew, of course, that critics were very lukewarm on the film but, as is my wont, I wanted to give it a chance on its own merits to see whether it was better than it was being credited for being. Reader, I regret to say that my fellow critics are right. This is a frustratingly mediocre sports biopic, one that fails to make adequate use of its bloated runtime or its talented cast, and though Sweeney in particular does everything she can to lift it out of its run-of-the-mill artistry.

Sweeney, of course, stars as Christy Martin, who when the film begins has gotten into trouble for having relationships with women. However, she is also remarkably talented when it comes to boxing and, after crossing paths with coach James V. Martin, she soon becomes a success. However, once the two of them get married, things start to go sour, and it’s not long before James starts to exert more and more control over Christy, with nearly fatal consequences.

I’ll start with some of the things that I actually did enjoy about the film. I’m going to say it: this is Sydney Sweeney’s finest performance to date. I must admit that I’ve never really been a part of her fan club, for while I recognize that she has tremendous talent, I’m usually not blown away by most of her performances. However, one gets the sense that this is the sort of role she was born to play, and you can almost feel her digging deep to give us a portrait of a queer woman yearning to live life on her own terms. The only other time I’ve seen her capture the same amount of grit is in The Housemaid, which would probably be my second favorite of her screen performances. I just wish the film had made more effective use of her talents and grit, since she is clearly giving it her all, desperately attempting to elevate the film into something it refuses to be.

Ben Foster is, likewise, superbly loathsome as James, a slovenly man who deludes himself into believing that he’s the real genius behind his wife’s success. There’s not a lot of subtlety to this performance, and to say that James is grotesque would be a bit of an understatement. Indeed, it’s sometimes hard to see just why it is that someone like Martin would shackle herself to such a person, and this is but one of the many shortcomings of the screenplay, which is light on the character development and…well, pretty much everything else (more on that in a moment).

The strength of these two performances makes the film’s other shortcomings that much more frustrating. The rest of the cast is perfectly fine–Merritt Wever plays Christy’s disapproving mother with a remarkable verisimilitude (anyone who’s ever been on the receiving end of a West Virginia mother’s queerphobia will find much that reads as authentic in this characterization) and Ethan Embry is charming but largely underutilized as Christy’s father–but none of them are really given much to do, nothing that would really help them to stand out. This is unfortunate, since there are glimmers here and there of what a stronger film could and would have done with such a fine supporting cast.

To be clear, there’s nothing really wrong with Christy. It’s a perfectly serviceable biopic, as far as it goes, but the whole time I kept thinking: this looks and feels like a made-for-TV movie from the 1990s. Despite the strong performances from Sweeney and the others, there’s nothing about this film that sheds particular light on what made Martin tick, what drove her to be such a dynamo in the ring. Her queerness and her identity as a West Virginian are mostly pushed to the back burner, even though one gets the sense that those were key to who she was and is as a boxer. If nothing else, bringing these two elements of her personality and life story more into the frame would’ve allowed Christy the film to stand apart from every other sports biopic rather than becoming so hopelessly generic and forgettable.

One would think that, this being a biopic about one of boxing’s most famous female stars, that the scenes in the ring would have at least a bit of bite to them, some blood, sweat, and tears that would allow us to feel a measure of the adrenaline that Martin must’ve felt every time she stepped in there to take on a new opponent. Unfortunately, David Michôd’s rote direction is as uninspiring as the rest of the film, and I found myself even more bored by the fights than I was by everything else.

As other reviewers have noted, the only time the film seems to get some life to it is when Sweeny appears on screen with Katy O’Brian, who plays Lisa Holewyne, Christy’s rival and later wife. I couldn’t help but wonder what this film might have looked and felt like had it given more attention to their relationship and bond. There’s a crackling sort of chemistry between Sweeney and O’Brian, and I found myself yearning for the sapphic sports drama that might’ve been.

That, though, is the problem with so many of the biopics that are being made these days. In always opting for the safe route–or, in other cases, trying to tell too much story–these films end up not having anything really important or illuminating to say about their subjects. I can’t say that, having seen this film, that I have any greater appreciation for what made Christy Martin such a brilliant boxer, which is a shame, since she was and is a truly remarkable figure in the world of boxing and sports. Hopefully someday she’ll get the biopic that she so clearly deserves.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

If you’re a regular reader of this newsletter, you’ll know I’m not generally in the habit of reviewing films I don’t enjoy. I prefer to spend my critical and writing energies on things that bring me joy. Every so often, however, one comes along that I find so incredibly frustrating and disappointing that I simply can’t keep it to myself.

Outcome is one such film.

Written and directed by Jonah Hill, the film stars Keanu Reeves as Reef Hawk, an enormously successful film star who’s just returned to the limelight after a five-year hiatus (which he spent in recovery from addiction, though this isn’t public knowledge). His resurgent career and popularity are potentially derailed, however, by a scandalous video that could ruin his career. Most of the film revolves around his apologies to those he’s hurt in his past life, in the hopes of discovering which of them, if any, might be the ones who are blackmailing him. He’s helped (and hindered) by both his crisis lawyer, Ira Slitz (Jonah Hill) and his two childhood best friends, Kyle (Cameron Diaz) and Xander (Matt Bomer).

Let’s get one thing out of the way. Jonah Hill is without a doubt the worst thing about this film. He’s terrible as a director–this is truly one of the most garishly ugly movies I’ve seen this year–and he’s beyond unbearable as an actor. Whatever emotional insight or poignancy the more dramatic scenes manage to capture are utterly ruined by his endless hamming and borderline-nonsensical dialogue. Then again, what do you expect from a character who gets to spend at least five minutes sitting on the toilet while being ever more vulgar? I am, to be fair, not at all a fan of these kinds of scenes in general, but my distaste is made all the more acute by the fact that it doesn’t seem to serve any major (or minor) narrative purpose other than to be just abrasive and gross. And don’t even get me started on the scene in which he convenes as sort of council to help Reef massage his public image, which is both egregiously not funny and also wastes the talents of Laverne Cox (who’s clearly just there to get a paycheck).

However, if it were just Jonah Hill being insufferable this film might’ve had some chance of success. Unfortunately for both its stars and for those of us in the audience, it never really finds its footing or any sense of balance. In part this is because we never actually get to see Reef’s bad behavior, the sort of emotional abuse that clearly damaged his friends and left his ex-girlfriend with a significantly damaged sense of self-worth. Reeves certainly does all he can to convey Reef’s tormented and apologetic emotional state, this just isn’t enough to give this film the sort of emotional heft or insight to which it so clearly aspires. For that matter, while I adore Reeves and think he does the best he can with this very limited material, it was hard to imagine this particular character being the sort of abusive monster he’s claimed to be nor, to be honest, is it easy to see how he could be such a commanding presence in the Hollywood firmament.

There are, though, some genuine bright spots in Outcome. Critical opinion seems to be nearly unanimous in declaring that the one and only Martin Scorsese gives a remarkable performance as Richie “Red” Rodriguez, Reef’s former agent who continues to run a bowling alley and who has made his career on cultivating young talent, with the tacit understanding that they’ll one day leave him behind. Scorsese digs deep for this performance, conveying a world of sadness in just a few moments of screentime. This is a man on the outskirts of fame, who knows quite well that the young people he cultivates will one day leave him behind to pursue bigger things. Watching him say all of this, and convey so much with just his face, is truly remarkable. Reef’s subsequent phone call near the end of the film–in which he checks up on his old friend, just as Red had asked–is both sweetly funny and piercingly poignant.

It’s precisely the emotional poignance of these two scenes that draws attention to how glaringly flawed the rest of the production is. Why, one can’t help wondering, couldn’t Hill have given such remarkable talents as Cameron Diaz and Matt Bomer more to do? Don’t get me wrong. They both have genuinely affecting moments in this film, so I was hoping we would get to see more of them. Diaz lights the screen on fire when she gives Reef the dressing-down he deserves, her short scene allowing her to show how terrifying and terrible it is to love an addict careening toward total self-immolation. Bomer, likewise, proves (as he always does) that he’s more than just a pretty face, and when he tells Reef why he stayed–because Reef didn’t reject him for being gay when they were in high school–it’s genuinely affecting. When Reeves, Diaz, and Bomer are all on-screen together, you can well believe you’re watching three people with a lot of history. It’s just a shame they’re all stranded in a movie that doesn’t know what to do with these moments and also doesn’t know how to balance them against the more unhinged “comedic” scenes.

Ultimately, Outcome falls far short of what it could, and perhaps should, have been as a film. It might have had something useful or illuminating–or at least funny–to say about the extremes to which celebrities and stars will go in order to maintain their status and their reputations. It might have even had something to say about the extent to which fame can corrupt a person, turning them into a narcissistic shell of their former selves. It has some elements that work, but far too many that don’t, and they’re constantly fighting against one another, reducing the film to an incoherent mess. Indeed, Outcome becomes the very thing that it seems to be satirizing. That is to say, it becomes nothing more than a bit of self-indulgent nonsense. It might only run at a slender 80-odd minutes, but that just makes it all the more excruciating. When the best thing about your film is the riffing between Matt Bomer and Drew Barrymore that takes place during the credits, you know you’ve lost the plot.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Every so often, you just get in the mood for a subtle, understated drama film featuring two strong performances. In this crowded mediascape in which we find ourselves–where studios seem to be falling all over themselves to find the next sequel or IP, and where AI slop is clogging up every screen–there’s something almost magical about returning to the simpler magic of the moving image. Thus, when I saw that both Lesley Manville and Ciarán Hinds were going to be co-starring in a new film about an older couple whose marriage faces a challenge when they go on holiday to Amsterdam, I knew I was going to have to watch it.

The two star as Stella and Gerry, an Irish couple who migrate to Glasgow after Stella is shot in a skirmish during the Troubles. Though heavily pregnant at the time, she manages to survive, but she is tormented by guilt that she’s been unable to devote her life to God as she’d promised she’d do if her baby survived. Gerry, meanwhile, struggles with alcoholism and with a career derailed by the chaos of the Troubles. When they go on holiday to Amsterdam, the fraught truths they’ve both tried to hide come rushing to the surface, threatening to destroy what remains of their marriage.

There’s something quietly devastating about Manville’s performance, and as she’s shown time and again over the past few years, she’s remarkably adept at playing older women who carry a lot of grief in their soul. Stella certainly has a lot of that grief, as one would expect from a woman who survived a gunshot wound and still managed to give birth to a healthy child. From the moment we meet her Manville’s face shows the extent to which something is troubling Stella, something that goes beyond the fact that her husband doesn’t accompany her to church on Christmas. It’s not until they go to Amsterdam, though, that the full import of the past is truly felt, as it becomes clear Stella wishes to enter a life of religious service, only for her to discover that the religious order no longer exists as such.

The moment when Stella learns this devastating truth is, I think, the emotional core of the entire film. In that instant, in Manville’s aghast face, you can see the hopes of years come crashing down, as Stella realizes in a flash that this has all been for nothing, that she’s been holding onto a fantasy that hasn’t existed since the 1970s. The fact that this exchange happens with a stranger–a fellow Irish expat, no less, a woman to whom Stella has poured out secrets even her husband doesn’t know–and that it’s in yet another country that isn’t Ireland just makes this revelation all the more devastating. Manville brings such anguished beauty to the role that she almost becomes a Catholic martyr in her own right.

Indeed, Stella’s Catholic faith, as the film makes clear again and again, has been a cornerstone of her life since the moment she survived the gunshot wound and gave birth to her baby. At the same time, it’s also, paradoxically, a source of pain, since it’s equally clear that Gerry is as devout in his rational atheism as Stella is in her practicing of Catholicism. As she reveals near the end of the film, his dismissal and poking fun at her belief has been a source of agony for her, a burden she’s born throughout their marriage.

Fortunately, the film makes it clear just how much Gerry has also suffered. Like Manville, Hinds has excelled in recent years at playing haunted men who hide a troubled and wounded soul beneath a seemingly cheerful exterior. Time and again throughout the film we see the extent to which Gerry has sought to bury the past, both in drink and in an almost pathological avoidance of anything resembling religious faith or confrontation. To him, most things–including Stella’s seemingly miraculous survival–can be attributed to coincidence or to the random workings of the universe. It is, I think, precisely his desire to avoid anything resembling conflict that leads him to be so casually dismissive and even slightly mocking of Stella’s devotion. After all, to be devout is to invite a conflict, both within oneself and with oneself and the world, and for a man whose career and life were so fundamentally shattered by the violence of the Troubles, a conflict as much about religion as it was about politics, this is understandably too much.

Midwinter Break is a film that shows how the traumas of our youth can echo through our lives, leaving scars that never really heal and with which we must always contend if we hope to build a better future for and with those we love. At one point, Stella asks Gerry whether they’ve cut the cloth of their lives all wrong, whether everything has gone wrong since that fateful day decades previously. It’s the kind of line that could be trite, but thanks to Manville’s poignant delivery it lands like a hammerblow, both to Gerry and to those of us sitting in the audience. The fact that there is no really easy answer to this question–for how could there ever be?--makes it that much more wrenching. Just as wrenching is the scene in which Gerry relates to a bartender how his own career as an architect was derailed by the Troubles, and his bluff affability is clearly just a sheen over the deep hurt beneath.

And yet, for all that this is an undeniably grief-drenched film, it ends on a faint note of optimism. As Stella and Gerry stand at the window of the airport and gaze at the morning star, she gently reaches out and takes his hand, a silent gesture that suggests a reconciliation might yet be possible. It’s hard to say what might be in store for this couple in the uncertain future that stretches ahead of them but, just as they did when they were young–and this final scene is juxtaposed to them in the past, as they depart the land of their birth–they will no doubt find some way to endure. Given the extent to which we’ve been led to understand these characters, we want them to find some way to be together, to find a new dawn for their marriage.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

It probably comes as absolutely no surprise that I loved Project Hail Mary. After all, it has all of the things I could possibly want in a sci-fi movie: some genuine heart and soul (always a treasure in these IP-driven and soulless corporate Hollywood days); a nonhuman being that somehow manages to steal our hearts; and, of course, Ryan Gosling, one of those actors who manages to thrive in whatever role he appears. Having stolen our hearts time and again–most recently in Barbie–he does so once again, starring as Ryland Grace, who awakens in a space ship light years away from Earth, with no knowledge or memory of how he got there.

In a series of flashbacks, we learn that Grace has, in fact, been dispatched to the star Tau Ceti in an attempt to figure out why it’s immune to Astrophage, an organism that has begun consuming the sun. While in the vastness of space he encounters another spaceship, and he soon bonds together with its inhabitant–a rock-like intelligent being who he names Rocky–the sole survivor of a similar mission. The two band together to try to figure out a way of saving both of their planets, forging a powerful friendship along the way.

No matter how many times I see him, and no matter how many different characters he plays, Ryan Gosling never fails to steal my heart. There’s no denying that he’s one of the most beautiful men in Hollywood, with the perfect blend of boyish and manly features that age well. However, he also has that most elusive and hard to pin down quality in Hollywood, that appeal that can only be called “charm.” With Gosling, this usually manifests as a willingness to not take himself too seriously, and for someone who’s so beautiful, he always comes across as truly humble and authentic. What’s more, he excels at both the hilarious and heartwrenching moments that this film provides with such grace.

However, Gosling’s charisma and ability to deliver both humor and pathos is just one half of the dynamic in this film, and Project Hail Mary wouldn’t be nearly as charming without the presence of the character of Rocky. I am definitely one of those people who will immediately start to fall in love with any little creature that decides to grace the screen, and it certainly helps that Rocky is a delight. I’m a firm believer that practical effects are almost always superior to CGI when it comes to the creation of alien beings and, while they are often associated with the horrifying and the unsettling, this film also shows us the extent to which they can also be used to make us feel for and with an alien being that is in some important ways utterly not human.

While Project Hail Mary does lag a bit in places, one nevertheless gets the sense that it’s a film that both understands and appreciates the long tradition of sci-fi filmmaking of which it’s a part. It certainly doesn’t shy away from the science bits, particularly in the flashbacks, but it never loses sight of the fact that it’s the human magic and warmth that can make a sci-fi epic really sing. I’ll admit there were a few parts, particularly in the first third or so, where it can be somewhat heavy going, but thanks to Gosling’s performance, some neat science, and a reliably wry performance from the always-terrific Sandra Hüller, even these parts managed to be entertaining. Just as importantly, the film always makes it clear that it wants to grapple with some big ideas and thorny issues and that, moreover, it isn’t afraid to grapple with some of the darker elements of the human condition. The whole reason Grace is in space to begin with, after all, is because there’s no hope humanity would ever be able to band together to contend with an Ice Age; the only solution is to prevent it before it happens.

At the same time, this is a film that’s all about cross-species and cross-cultural collaboration. It would be easy for Grace to respond with animosity or belligerence to this strange little creature he encounters; instead, he responds with genuine curiosity and, ultimately, welcome. Their unlikely friendship brings out the best in one another, each one bringing something unique to the table. Thus, though Grace was ultimately unwilling to undertake this suicide mission–he eventually had to be sedated by Hüller’s Eva Stratt and bundled aboard the ship against his will–his bond with Rocky is a major contributor to his ability to rise to the moment. A reluctant hero he may be, but he repeatedly shows he is the very best that humanity has to offer.

Rocky, for his part, is also remarkably altruistic. The scene where he very nearly gives his life so that he can save Grace–and the whole mission–from near-certain doom is one designed to make even the most stone-hearted viewer weep. Even though I knew this wasn’t the type of movie that would kill our friendly little rock creature, I hadn’t read Andy Weir’s book and thus had no idea just how this was all going to end. Fortunately for me, and for Rocky fans everywhere, he manages to survive his near-death experience, and the two unlikely heroes find a way to save both of their planets, though not without some more sacrifices along the way.

Ultimately, Project Hail Mary is one of those films that reminds us of the power of hope. There’s no doubt we live in a cynical and often depressing age, one in which dictators seem to have no compunction about raining fire and death down on the other side of the world, climate change continues to bear down on us like an out-of-control locomotive, promising mass disruption and perhaps even mass extinction, one in which the very worst of humanity’s self-destructive impulses are indulged by the most powerful. This film, on the other hand, proposes that it’s not too late, that there are still heroes among us, and among the stars, who can save us all.

Maybe I’m just hopelessly sentimental, or maybe the world is just really shitty right now, or maybe the film really is that good, but for some reason Project Hail Mary more than lives up to its title. It gave me hope that there is still the possibility that humans can stave off annihilation. The fact that it is such a beautiful film, executed with such care and filled with such indelible performances, makes its message all that much more meaningful.

Perhaps the future might be a bit brighter, after all.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Zootopia 2 is one of those films that I’ve been putting off watching. Don’t get me wrong; I loved the first one. It’s actually one of the few Disney films of the 2010s–along with Moana–that truly stole my heart. At the same time, I’ll admit that I’ve been getting a bit frustrated with the House of Mouse’s refusal to really commit to a creative vision, let alone give new projects and new talent the chance to flourish. Gone, it seems, are the days when the studio was willing to take a risk on new stories that might take the studio in a new direction.

But I digress.

I finally got around to watching this sequel and, while I don’t think it’s nearly as good as the first one, it is still a lot of fun and, when it comes down to it, that’s enough.

The film begins soon after the conclusion of the first film, and it’s clear that not all is well with Judy and Nick, due in no small part to the fact that they have very different attitudes about their work. Things get even more complicated when they find evidence that snakes, long exiled from Zootoppia, might be returning. Soon enough, the two of them are drawn into a conspiracy involving these slithering reptiles, and it becomes clear that the history of their home might just be based on a lie.

To state the obvious: this film is a heck of a lot of fun. It has a zany energy and a vibrant color palette that grabs hold of you from the beginning and doesn’t let go. While this can get exhausting at times–particularly in the first third, when Judy and Nick go from one action set piece to another–it’s handled with enough aplomb that I was willing to go along for the ride. What’s more, I actually found the film at its most enjoyable whenever it leans into the caper/buddy cop dynamic that made the first film such a hilarious delight.

It certainly helps that both Ginnifer Goodwin and Jason Bateman are once again at the top of their game when it comes to their voice acting. Their vocal chemistry was a major part of what made the first film so beloved a decade ago, and it’s good to hear the two of them in such fine form again. What’s more, we actually get to see some character development, as Judy and Nick have very different ideas about what it means to be a member of the police force. Of course, this is no surprise, given that they are very much an opposites-attract kind of duo.

Indeed, it quickly becomes clear that Judy, unsurprisingly, has become the more dominant partner, sometimes steamrolling right over whatever Nick might think or feel, just as long as she ends up getting what she wants. This works quite effectively as a setup for the conflicts that occupy the film’s middle parts, and it allows us to see how each of them has to do some work in order to make both their partnership and their friendship really work. Fortunately, they each end up making some compromises, which helps them to grow as characters and also allows their bond to deepen and grow stronger.

Now, I will say that storywise it starts to get a bit overcomplicated and muddled in the middle and, as tends to be the case with Disney sequels these days, attempts to do a bit of worldbuilding end up making the world feel more confused than it probably needs to be, though I will say it was nice to see some other parts of this world that we hadn’t encountered in the first film. Ke Huy Quan makes for a welcome addition as the voice of Gary De’Snake, who’s on a mission to prove that his great-grandmother’s invention–the weather walls that make Zootopia the haven it is–was stolen by the rapacious Lynxleys and that snakes have been framed for being evil. There’s a really endearing quality to Quan’s vocal delivery that makes you love this character, even before you learn about his righteous crusade to clear his family’s good name.

And, of course, the film is also very funny. As a geriatric millennial I’m obviously sad that Disney produces fewer musicals than it used to–and certainly fewer original musicals–but I do like that it’s leaning into comedy. Indeed, it ‘s the dazzling and very witty dialogue and repartee that help keep this film afloat, even when it gets bogged down a bit in its plot. When it comes down to it, if a Disney movie can make me laugh, that goes a long way toward earning a positive review. The film has quite a few funny scenes, though I was left wanting more from some of the voice cast, which includes such comedy heavy hitters as Quinta Brunson (I’ll always take more of Quinta Brunson, to be honest).

One of the things that struck me the most about the film, though, was that it made it through Disney at all. This is a movie, after all, that takes pretty square aim at ruthless oligarchs who seek to pillory and scapegoat vulnerable minorities in order to solidify their power. The Lynxley’s make for captivating villains, and one can see more than a little of Succession in their characterization (in particular Pawbert’s desperate desire and efforts to impress his father, efforts that include trying to kill both Judy and Nick). Given just how unapologetically nefarious they are, and given how much they resemble the baddies in our own world, it’s especially satisfying to see them get their eventual comeuppance.

Zootopia 2 effectively makes the case for empathy and for looking out for one’s fellow people (er, animals), even when doing so comes with significant risks. Though I don’t want to push this interpretation too far, I would argue that this sort of message in a kids’ film is all the more needed these days, when so many of those in power are even worse than the Lynxleys and in a world where empathy is seen as a sin. In that respect, this film goes a long way toward showing the extent to which good stories like this one can, at their best, allow us to imagine a world that’s better than our own.

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You know, it’s really a pain in the ass that I have to keep returning to the subject of AI in the movies. Hell, it’s a pain in the ass to have to talk about it at all, but since it seems that tech firms and movie studios and just general assholes are going to keep ramming it down our collective throats, I guess I’m going to have to keep talking about it. And condemning it. And reminding everyone why, despite its ubiquity and its encroachment in various creative spaces, AI is like a blanket of smog, blighting and smothering everything it touches, strangling our future under the oppressive hand of the past.

The most recent affront surrounds the late Val Kilmer, who died last year after a lengthy battle with throat cancer. He was originally intended to star in a film titled As Deep as the Grave, but his health struggles meant he was unable to do any filming for the project. Now, with the blessing of his daughter and thanks to the efforts of director Coerte Voorhees, he’s going to be in the film thanks to the use of AI technology. Kilmer, it seems, will live again.

Except, of course, that he won’t.

It’s hard to know just where to begin with this whole shitshow, so let’s start with just how ghoulish it is for an actor to be present in a film thanks to AI trickery, despite the fact that never filmed a single scene for said film. Yes, it was absolutely awful that Val Kilmer died before filming finished his work on the film, and yes, I’m sure he would’ve liked to have appeared. And yes, it is good that, according to Voorhees, he got the approval of Kilmer’s children and also worked within the constraints of the Screen Actors Guild.

And yet, at the same time, I can’t deny that this whole thing gives me the ick. No matter how realistic the likeness, and no matter whether they manage to complete filming with some combination of digital AI technology and perhaps a real actor, the entity that finally makes it to the screen is in no way going to be Kilmer, and its performance–if we can even give it that much acknowledgment or recognition–can never and will never be anything other than a simulacrum. It will be soulless creation, devoid of the human spark that made Kilmer’s actual performances so indelible and so memorable.

Look, I get it. It’s terrible when an actor dies before they can begin work on or finish a project, and one is often left wondering what it might have looked like had they been able to see it through. What would Solomon and Sheba have looked like if Tyrone Power not died so early in filming? What might The Crow have been had Brandon Lee not been killed during filming? These questions are unanswerable, of course and, whether we like it or not, that’s just how it is sometimes. The universe doesn’t owe us closure, and there’s a certain kind of peace that comes from acknowledging that fact.

When, then, filmmakers–again, assuming that they deserve the respect such a designation confers–decide that they can use AI to do what a dead actor no longer can, I can’t help but cringe. In this case, rather than recast the role that Kilmer was supposed to play–or do the even harder work of reworking the script so that his scenes aren’t necessary–Voorhees and his collaborators have chosen instead to engage in a tricky bit of digital necromancy. This digital creation of Kilmer is an embodiment of our collective fear to let things and people go. It holds out the phantasmatic promise that our beloved stars are no longer dead; we can just keep using their likenesses however much we want. Because we’re encouraged to never grieve, we never learn how to move forward (or accept that we need to do so).

However, this new digital necromancy is even more pernicious than that, and it will likely exacerbate an already frustrating rise in the use of AI to enforce the tyranny of the past, smothering innovation and stymying the careers of young and upcoming actors in the process. After all, in just the past couple of years we’ve seen efforts to use Jimmy Stewart’s voice to narrate bedtime stories, despite the fact that the man has been dead since the late ‘90s. We’ve also seen the use of AI to “reimagine” The Wizard of Oz and to stitch together a new version of The Magnificent Ambersons. And, of course, there’s the infamous case of Tilly Norwood, the eldritch “actress” who is entirely AI generated. Even before all of this there were signs that Hollywood was content to lean on its past–both in terms of story and in terms of talent–with the notoriously uncanny recreations of Peter Cushing and Carrie Fisher for Rogue One. While I loved that film, I’ll admit using these dead actors’ visages was not a choice I would’ve made.

As a culture and as a society, we’ve got to get back to accepting that, yes, actors die, and sometimes they die before they’re able to finish their projects. Yes, people in the general population also die, and that’s okay. It’s sad, to be sure, but holding onto the past is not only unhealthy; it also smothers the future in its cradle. How can we expect Hollywood as an industry to truly move forward–to find new ways of storytelling, new talent behind and in front of the camera–if it remains obsessed with resurrecting the past? How can we as a society and a culture ever hope to advance when we remain in thrall to the endless repetition and recreation of our past greatness without the work and the spirit that motivated that greatness in the first place?

To put it bluntly: these AI replicas that seem to proliferate with every single day are in no way actually replacing our deceased loved ones, no more than using AI to write or to create a movie character is any way an act of artistic creation. What we’re going to see if and when this new Kilmer movie makes it to the screen is a simulacrum, an empty signifier. Though it might be unwilling to admit it–blinded as it is by the relentless pursuit of cheap profit over anything else–Hollywood’s embrace of this kind of AI “creation” will be the signing of its own death warrant.

Don’t we all deserve something better? Don’t we deserve the divine human spark of creativity that has made our great art?

Sometimes, I just don’t know.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

It’s safe to say that Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! was one of my must-see viewings of the year. From the moment I saw the absolutely bananas trailer, I knew this was going to be the kind of film that was going to just work for me. Indeed, the film is a blast, and as other critics have noted, it does not hold back in any respect. It takes some big risks, it mashes a whole lot of genres together, and it lets its actors just go all-in and, while not all of this pays off as one might hope, it’s one of those films that sticks with you long after it’s over.

Jessie Buckley stars as both Mary Shelley and Ida, the former of whom possesses the latter in an effort to write the story she never got to write while she was alive. After a pair of mob goons kill Ida, she is resurrected by Dr. Cornelia Euphronious (Annette Bening), who does so at the request of Frank (Christian Bale), Frankenstein’s infamous monster, who yearns for companionship after a century of loneliness. Frank lies to Ida about her past and, thereafter, the two embark on a sort of Bonnie-and-Clyde reign of terror, before it all comes crashing down.

I’ve been a fan of Jessie Buckley’s ever since I saw her in Fargo a few years ago, and she is definitely one of those actors who gives 110% to any production in which she appears, and that is certainly the case in The Bride! While I found her performance as Shelley a bit distracting (more on that in a moment), she brings a remarkable depth and emotional sensitivity to the Bride, a woman who, at the end of the day, is trying to figure out her own desires, her own motivations and, perhaps most importantly, her own story, desires, and self. Just as she did in Hamnet, Buckley gives us a portrait of a woman yearning to be free, and damn the consequences.

Indeed, one of the central questions motivating this film is: how can a woman assert her own sense of identity, or reclaim her agency, when her own story is constantly wrested from her control by those who may or may not have her own best interests at heart? This, of course, is not an easy question to answer, particularly not when the Bride slowly finds herself falling for Frank. They are bound together both by circumstance and by their status as “monsters,” two beings who’ve been brought back from the land of the dead, and there’s undeniable chemistry between Bale and Buckley (though, to be sure, the latter outshines the former in practically every scene in which they appear together). And yet, despite their bond, Frank’s revelation that he lied to her about her own past is devastating, a betrayal of the very foundations of the Bride’s sense of herself, who she is, and where she came from.

For that matter, one could argue that Shelley’s possession of the unsuspecting Ida is itself yet another moment in which a woman’s own autonomy is taken over by a force she cannot name, control or, perhaps most sinisterly of all, even see. Is it any wonder that the Bride is such an unhinged character or that, in the end, she clings to Frank, who seems to genuinely love her, even if he lied to her? This film denies us easy answers, and therein, I think, lies its unexpected brilliance.

I will admit that some elements of the film didn’t quite gel for me. I’m still not quite convinced that we need the periodic interruptions of Mary Shelley, particularly since this particular conceit starts to play less and less of a role as the film goes on. I mean, I get what Gyllenhaal was going for here, but I’m just not quite sure it worked for me. Buckley’s enunciation is just a bit too affected in these sequences, and there’s not enough narrative or character payoff for this to really land.

This is, I think it’s safe to say, a very disjointed and generically promiscuous film, drawing on genres as varied as the procedural, the horror film, and the womans’ film, with more than a bit of noir thrown into the mix. Do all of these pieces always fit together? No, they most certainly don’t, and some viewers will probably find themselves experiencing whiplash. The more I’ve thought about it, though, the more I’ve actually become convinced that the disjointedness of this film is, consciously or not, very much of a piece with the Bride’s own journey as a character. Just as the Bride is stitched together out of various pieces and identities who finally attains some form of wholeness when she reclaims her own agency and autonomy, so this film, somehow, becomes something that, if not entirely coherent, is nevertheless searing and powerful and unforgettable.

At the end of the day, The Bride! is nothing less than a scream of feminist rage, the roar of a woman determined to wrest her destiny–and even her very identity–back from the men who constantly try to contain, control, and dominate her. If there’s a young actress working today who’s able to capture so many complexities, it would be Buckley, who more than deserved her Oscar win last night for Hamnet. It’s also fitting that the credits sequence shows us the mobster responsible for her death getting his own comeuppance at the hands of the women who’ve taken to initiating the Bride, launching their own feminist revolution. If ever there was a man who deserves the grisly fate meted out to him, it would be Lupino. It’s also fitting that the last we see of the Bride and Frank is of their hands clasped together, having been brought to life (again!). Nothing, not even death, can stifle or defeat feminist rage.

Like Wuthering Heights–another piece of gothic horror directed by and focusing on a woman’s experiences and centering a woman’s desires–The Bride! is a challenging film, shattering all of our conceptions of what the cinema can and should be. It writhes under your skin like an electric charge, daring to push back against the male-dominated regimes of understanding that so often undergird literally everything we take for granted about film, from the way it’s made to the way its narratives are structured to how critics write about it. It might have been a failure at the box office and among critics, but I predict that someday, hopefully not too long in the future, it’ll be seen as the feminist masterpiece that it is.

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I’m going to be brutally honest about something. I am not Pixar’s biggest fan. While I admire some of their truly great films–such as WALL-E, Toy Story, and Inside Out–the truth is I’ve always been more of a traditional Disney aficionado. I respect Pixar, I’m even moved by it, but I wouldn’t say that I’m a fan, and I’m certainly not one of those that will rush out to see a movie just because it’s being released under the Pixar banner.

Even so, I must admit that I was more than a little devastated–and angry, and sad, and infuriated–upon hearing the recent remarks from Pixar CEO Pete Docter to the effect that most of the LGBTQ+ themes and scenes were stripped out of the 2025 film Elio because “We’re making a movie, not hundreds of millions of dollars of therapy.” I wasn’t surprised, mind you, because Pixar, like so many other studios and companies, has proven remarkably spineless, but Docter’s comments were remarkably tone-deaf, and they reveal just how artistically bankrupt and cowardly this particular studio has become.

On one level, all of this nonsense is a little beside the point. If you’ve seen Elio, you’re no doubt aware that, regardless of what the studio tried to do, there’s still a lot of queerness in there. However, it’s the kind of queer valence that was the norm in past decades, when it took some work on the part of the viewer to see themselves reflected in Elio and Glordon to both fit in and to become the people that their parents/parental figures want them to be. I know that I certainly saw a lot of queerness there, and it was what made me love the film so much.

On a deeper level, however, I find this particular move on the part of the studio deeply concerning. It’s yet another sign that, after many years of significant growth when it comes to the representation of queer folks in media, we’re experiencing a backlash that is out of all proportion to the inclusion that preceded it. This isn’t shocking, of course, but it should nevertheless make all of us a little worried, particularly given the enormous influence companies like Pixar wield, not just in the stories they tell but also in where they choose to spend their money (i.e., which candidates and policies they decide to support, or not).

It’s even more troubling when one really thinks about what Docter’s saying here. He’s essentially arguing that representing queer people and their experiences, identities and yes, even their struggles, must somehow equate to millions spent on therapy. It’s impossible to imagine Docter, or any other studio mogul, saying something similar about straight or cisgender creators (or White ones, for that matter). The staggering tone deafness of his statement is glaring even for this shameless (and shameful) era in which we now find ourselves, and this comment, more than anything else, reveals just how much the queer community is being hung out to dry by those who supposedly had our backs just a few short years ago.

The irony here is also almost too rich in so many ways. To begin with, there’s the fact that, since the beginning, Pixar movies have essentially been multimillion dollar therapy sessions for young Gen-Xers, millennials, and older Gen Zers, as well as those, including Docter himself, who made them. Who among us, after all, hasn’t learned to process grief as a result of watching Bing Bong disappear in Inside Out, having sacrificed himself so Joy and Sadness can escape the Memory Dump? Who hasn’t grappled with the bittersweet experience of growing up through watching Toy Story and its sequels? For that matter, who hasn’t also attempted to make sense of the ongoing environmental crisis by watching WALL-E? At their best, Pixar films teach us how to be human, how to feel, how to contend with all of our messiness as human beings. The fact that one of their most prominent leaders seems to either not realize this or is willing to sacrifice artistic ingenuity in the pursuit of endless sequel-ification is incredibly discouraging.

What’s more, despite the fact that Pixar apparently stripped out the queer elements of Elio in order to make the film more palatable (read: profitable) to audiences, the film ended up being a true flop. Some of this is no doubt due to the fact that the studio hardly marketed the film at all (I remember only seeing a few ad spots for it, as well as some random cutouts at the local Regal). But I also wouldn’t be surprised if the film’s lack of specificity might have had something to do with it, too.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not naive enough to believe that corporations–either entertainment or otherwise–will ever make steadfast or enduring allies to the queer community. They are, after all, in the business of making money, and at the end of the day that’s going to be their chief concern. If that means they need to cozy up to a fascist regime in order to protect their bottom line, then that is what they are going to do, each and every time. At the same time, it really has been something watching these powerful billionaires capitulate to every single demand the resurgent far right has made of them, throwing their own creators under the bus to satisfy an administration and a movement that really doesn’t have an end goal beyond owning the libs. I know it’s a lot to ask for capitalists to have even the barest bit of a spine, and I know it’s even more of an ask to expect them to stand up for the people who make their movies, but come on now. Pixar can and should do better, and until they do I refuse to see any more of their movies, either in the theater or on streaming.

I’m under no illusion that my choice to no longer go see Pixar movies is one that will move the needle in any significant way. Nevertheless, I do think it’s important that those of us who are in a position to do so–such as film and culture critics–should let the studio know how much we disagree with this stance that is both morally and artistically wrong. I did have at least some vague idea of going to see Hoppers but, in the aftermath of Docter’s comments, I’ll be skipping it.

And many more to come.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

It makes me rather sad that the new sci-fi film In the Blink of an Eye, has been a bit of a flop with critics. To some degree, I can see why this would be the case. It’s too short, and there are some missteps in the third act that could have been rectified with some more development and a more expansive script and runtime. At the same time, it’s also a piece of sci-fi fiction that asks some big questions and, just as importantly, it has a big heart that it’s not afraid to wear on its sleeve. It also features some strong performances from the likes of Rashida Jones, Daveed Diggs, Kate McKinnon, and several newcomers, and I found myself enjoying it far more than I thought it would.

The film is split into three different time periods: the end of the Neanderthal Age, the present, and the distant future. In the ancient past, a Neanderthal family–comprised of Thorn, Hera, and Lark–face the challenges of the Paleolithic era, with Thorn and Lark ultimately finding refuge, and happiness, with a group of Cro-Magnons. In the present, Claire and Greg (Jones and Diggs) find connection and eventual wedded bliss, though not without some heartbreak along the way. In the distant future, astronaut Coakley (McKinnon) attempts to get a group of human embryos to a new planet, a mission that comes at great cost.

Of the three, I’d agree with those who think the Neanderthal is the most moving. There’s an elegant simplicity to both the story and the performances that allows it to really shine, and I give Jorge Vargas, Tanaya Beatty, and Skywalker Hughes a lot of credit for bringing a remarkable depth and complexity to their roles, particularly since their dialogue remains untranslated. Theirs is a tale of struggle and grief and trauma–both Hera and her baby end up dying–but it’s also one of triumph against all the odds, since young Lark ends up marrying one of the Cro-Magnons. It is, in the end, something of a parable, a reminder that human history is filled with moments of unexpected reconciliation and joy, that out of great grief can come great happiness.

Coakley’s story, likewise, is one of triumph and the ability of the fundamental human spirit to endure even in almost complete isolation. I must admit that I was a bit surprised to see McKinnon in a dramatic role, but she more than rises to the moment. I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised, given that she is one of her generation’s most remarkable comedic talents. I was also strangely moved by the extraordinary bond she forms with the ship’s AI, which ultimately sacrifices itself so the human embryos can flourish. It turns out, though, that being the guardian of humanity’s future is a heavy burden indeed, and as time goes on Coakley feels the weight of her quasi-immortality, even as she also remains steadfastly committed to her mission. Indeed, she gets the film’s final speech, and it’s one of the most moving moments in the entire film, as she speaks about the enduring strength of the human spirit, even as she says farewell to the first embryo she brought into the world.

The second portion is, I think, the film’s weakest, but that’s not the fault of either Jones or Diggs, both of whom are as sexy and charismatic as always. It’s not that the story is bad, necessarily, it just often feels like a story that we’ve seen many times and in much more interesting ways. Even so, I do think there’s something poignant and touching about their struggles as a couple, in particular Claire’s grappling with her mother’s death from cancer. Anyone who’s ever coped with a parent’s significant health issues will, I think, find her storyline resonant.

I will say that I found the third segment of the film quite rushed, and it’s essentially a series of montages showing the ways in which humans, whether past, present, or future, contend with major life events. Lark gets married and Thorn dies peacefully, Claire and Greg watch their son grow up to be a major scientist, and Coakley safely lands the ship and introduces her charges to a whole new planet. I repeatedly found myself wanting to spend more time with these characters, particularly those in the future, so that I could get a better sense of what life might look like for these new humans on the distant planet. For the life of me, I don’t know why you’d try to tell an epic story like this one in a roughly ninety-minute feature. Personally, I think just a half hour more would have really helped this film become something truly great.

Still, there is much about it to enjoy and to ponder. Like the best of sci-fi, In the Blink of An Eye asks us to think deeply about what it means to be human and, just as importantly, it also examines our very conception of time. This is particularly true for Coakley, since her extended lifetime has given her a very unique perspective on the human condition. Though the film’s timeline stretches for literally thousands of years, some things are eternal, including humanity’s ability to constantly reinvent itself, whether through the mating with Neanderthals or through finding new ways of propagating life and sending it to the furthest limits of the universe. As much as things change, however, they also stay the same, echoing in our bones and in our souls.

So, in other words, don’t listen to what the critics have been saying. While this film may not be the most groundbreaking piece of sci-fi cinema to have ever hit the screen, it is nevertheless moving and heartfelt and thought-provoking and this, combined with the equally authentic performances from its main cast, makes it more than worth an hour and a half of one’s time. It’s one of those rare films that’s stayed with me for quite a while after I watched it, and I wish that it had been given the kind of resources–a greater runtime, a theatrical exhibition–that would have really allowed it to soar.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

A few weeks ago I reviewed Richard Linklater’s Nouvelle Vague, the director’s heartfelt homage to the French New Wave and its brightest lights. That film, as one might expect, is very much about the perils and pleasures of making art, of daring to push back against those who would keep the creative impulse contained. Well, I’ve finally gotten around to watching the director’s Blue Moon–also released last year–and I loved it. It makes for an interesting companion piece to Nouvelle Vague, since both films are, in one way or another, concerned with the nature of art and the artist, what it takes to be a creative person in the midst of an industry and a society that doesn’t always reward authenticity and which can be notoriously fickle.

Ethan Hawke stars as Lorenz Hart, one half of the songwriting dynamic of Rodgers and Hart. The film largely takes place on the opening night of Oklahoma!, which Hart loathes but which is poised to become a cultural phenomenon. Holed up in the nearby Sardi’s, Hart waxes eloquent on art and his career and love, all while partaking of the bar’s generous spirits. As the evening goes on and Hart gets ever more drunk, he becomes more than a little pathetic. At the same time, there’s no question he knows what he’s talking about when he discusses art and its power to move us. In addition to chatting up the bartender, Eddie (Bobbi Cannavale), he also has a heart-to-heart with his old friend and collaborator Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott) and an equally heartfelt conversation with his failed love interest, the Yale student Elizabeth Weiland (Margaret Qualley).

Hawke is, unsurprisingly, nothing short of electrifying in the role. He slides so easily into the persona of a washed-up songwriter that you can really believe you’re watching the real Lorenz, in all of his bundled up anxieties and shortcomings and brilliance. It’s not every actor who can so capably portray the nuances of a musical genius, but this is the kind of role that Hawke was born to play. Such is his skill with the role that he makes you feel for and understand Hart, even as you can’t also be aware of the fact that he’s a snob and a bit of a jerk. (If, like me, you’ve ever spent any time in academia, you’ll recognize the type right away).

While there’s no question the stench of has-been-dom hangs heavy around Hart–he is drinking himself into oblivion at a bar while his former writing partner is celebrating the opening night of what will go on to become a true Broadway phenomenon, after all–you also have to admit that Hart has a point when it comes to his criticism of Oklahoma!, which he essentially sees as nothing more than cheap shmaltz designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator. If you’ve ever seen a traditional production of this show, or its film adaptation, you’ll know that he’s got a point. Art should be at least a bit difficult, at least according to people like Hart.

That, though, is his own personal tragedy. Unlike Rodgers, Hart is fundamentally a cynic, and he can’t quite bring himself to really believe in the power of cloyingly optimistic “art” like Oklahoma! Oh, sure, he knows the damn thing will become a classic of the stage, but he constantly asks his interlocutors–and those of us in the audience–to consider: is that enough? For someone like Hart, the answer is a resounding no, and it genuinely seems to befuddle him why others, including Rodgers, simply can’t wrap their heads around the fact that he hasn’t bought into the hype, why he doesn’t think it’s enough that a stage show should lean into the bright and glammy and glitzy American optimism of it all.

As other critics have noted, Hart is truly his own worst enemy, and he repeatedly swings between the extremes of arrogance and desperation as he tries to convince Rodgers to collaborate with him again, even as he also can never resist the urge to needle him and belittle the vapidness of Oklahoma! Such is the power of Hawke’s performance that you can almost feel his desire to get the next big break he needs, even as we also know that his chronic drunkenness will ultimately prove to be both his professional and physical undoing. The fact that the entire film essentially takes place within the confines of Sardi’s gives the film a claustrophobic feel that dovetails nicely with Hart’s increasing desperation as the night wears on and his dreams–of a career resurgence, of a reunion with his friend, even of a romance with Elizabeth–come to seem increasingly unattainable dreams.

While Hawke, Scott, and Qualley all give fantastic performances, I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention Bobby Cannavale. I’ve adored him since I first encountered him as Vince on Will & Grace, and he’s only continued to impress me since. There’s a certain warmth in Eddie’s eyes when he engages with Hart, and you can tell he’s quite used to Hart’s behavior. While he’s not afraid to tell him how it is, he also radiates a calming sympathy that adds richness to his character. (As a side note, I’ll also say that he looks like he belongs in a film set in the early 1940s. The same is true for essentially everyone else).

Blue Moon is a film that breaks your heart more than a little, but it also reminds you of the transcendent power of art. True art, after all, lives on long after the person who created it, as Rodgers and Hammerstein could definitely attest. Moreover, this is a film about a brilliant man who, more than anything else, simply wanted to be adored. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that I, too, crave adoration and approval, but I found something deeply resonant about Blue Moon (I’ll leave it to others to determine whether or not I’m brilliant). It captivated me and, at the end of the day, I’m always going to be a sucker for a film about an artist musing about his art.

Suffice it to say, then, that I really did love Blue Moon. I’ve admired Linklater from afar for a long time, but it’s only recently that I’ve really begun to immerse myself in his work. I love it when a director is open and honest about how much he loves movies and art, and in that regard Linklater’s recent films do not disappoint. They consistently remind us of just how much goes into the act of creation, and how the best art, and the best artists, are aware of the sacrifice that’s often required.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Look, I know it’s very popular to hate on Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” among a particular type of online person. Yes, it’s certainly not above criticism, particularly when it comes to its strategies for engaging with–or, more precisely, not engaging with–the eternally vexed question of Heathcliff’s race and yes, Fennell doesn’t always do herself any favors with the way she promotes her own work. And yes, one could make the argument that it’s the kind of film that privileges style over substance (or, to use more common parlance, vibes over substance).

For my part, though, I absolutely loved this film. It’s raw. It’s carnal and debauched and more than a little unhinged. It’s also beautiful and deliciously sinful. It features a pair of performances from two of their generation’s most intriguing actors.

In other words: it’s Gothic, and I am here for it.

As the film opens, we’re greeted with the sound of creaking and a man’s exhalations, and so we’d be forgiven for thinking we’re hearing the sounds of fucking. Of course, Fennell loves to subvert our expectations and, when the blackness finally recedes, we discover that the sounds we’ve been hearing of a hanging. As all of this weren’t grotesque enough, the poor fellow is sporting an erection, an unfortunate byproduct of being slowly strangled to death. Bearing witness to this are young Cathy and her attendant Nelly and, shortly thereafter, she’s introduced to the young Heathcliff. It’s not long before the two are inseparable and, as they become adults, their nascent fondness turns to something much more perilous, particularly once they cross paths with Edgar Linton and his charge Isabella.

Thus the stage is set for a film in which desire and death–like Cathy and Heathcliff–will be bound together in a perilous and pleasurable dance danse macabre that will torment them both until the very end. Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi are perfectly cast in their roles, no matter what the haters might have to say about the matter. I’ve adored Robbie for years now, and she once again brings her unique energy to the role of Cathy, a young woman who is, in some ways, desire incarnate, someone absolutely determined to get what she wants, even when she doesn’t quite know what that something is.

To say that Jacob Elordi is sex on legs would, I think, be something of an understatement. Whether with shorn locks or long, whether mucking out a stable or slaughtering a hog or engaging with surreptitious liaisons while she’s married to Linton, he just captures the screen and your eye and your libido. And yet, at the same time, there’s always something more than a little sinister to him, a certain glint in his eye that speaks to the simmering resentment and anger he feels, not just toward Cathy’s father–who’s an alcoholic and an abusive monster–but toward Cathy herself, particularly since she decides to go off and marry Linton. Despite, or perhaps because of, the air of menace Elordi exudes with such potency, we find ourselves relentlessly drawn into his erotic orbit, as prone to destruction as Cathy herself.

Indeed, “Wuthering Heights” is filled with images of death, blood, and desire. It’s there in the gruesome moment in which Heathcliff slaughters a hog, its blood splattered all over the walls and ground the flagstones of Wuthering Heights. Watching Cathy’s white skirts become drenched with blood calls to mind a whole host of associations, from menstruation to the loss of virginity to the little death of orgasm. The screams of the hog are eerily reminiscent of Cathy’s later cries of pleasure, further cementing these nested meanings.

Whereas the novel conveys the darkness at the heart of their desire through its intergenerational traumas, this version of the story displaces it onto the realm of the sexual relations between the various characters in the present. Thus it is that Cathy bears witness to a pair of servants and their kinky encounter, only for Heathcliff to interrupt her, laying on top of her with his hand over her mouth, an encounter that, I think it’s safe to say, will shape her understanding of desire and what she wants for the rest of her life. The bond between Cathy and Heathcliff is one that is, at root, one based in cruelty and control; these are two star-crossed souls who are fated to be together, for all that they excel at pricking one another and constantly mingling pain with pleasure.

It would be one thing if their dysfunction was kept to themselves, but it radiates outward to contaminate and ruin everyone around them. Linton’s ward Isabella (a delightfully deranged Alison Oliver) develops an obsession with Heathcliff, one that leads her to submit to his ever-more-demeaning demands. Though the film makes it clear she does all of this of her own content, it’s still more than a little disturbing to see just how willing she is to sacrifice every shred of her personal dignity to his relentless quest for vengeance against Cathy. Even more sinister is Hong Chau’s Nelly, a woman whose own desires remain somewhat enigmatic yet are nonetheless destructive for all of that. Throughout the film it remains unclear whether she desires Cathy or loathes her, whether her thwarting of her romance with Heathcliff is motivated by jealousy (and, if so, of whom), and just what it is that she wants. All credit to Chau for giving us this endlessly captivating sphinx of a woman, someone who ends up being the handmaiden of Cathy’s death, ignoring the signs of her septicemia until it’s too late and she’s bled out upon the floor.

It’s fitting, then, that the very last shot of the film shows Heathcliff, gripped with remorse, kneeling by Cathy’s body. It’s a beautifully-shot tableau, gaining extra resonance from the fact that it mirrors almost exactly a similar one from when they were children, when their fates were first bound together. For better and worse–definitely for the worse–these two damaged and ever-hungry souls have been brought together again and again, the flames of their passion burning down their world and everyone in it. Death and desire have left a trail of destruction behind them and, though Heathcliff survives, it’s clever his world has fallen into a ruin, just like Wuthering Heights itself.

Fennell has repeatedly shown that she is a director with her own unique visual style, and there were numerous moments where the film just held me rapt with the overwhelming power of its visuals, whether the expanse of the moors, the looming menace of Wuthering Heights, or the sight of a bridal veil spread out over the landscape. Watching this film I repeatedly found myself reminded of Josef von Sternberg’s Scarlet Empress, a film with a similarly baroque sensibility that also dared to ask the question: what happens when the cinematic woman is the one doing the desiring?

To say that I loved “Wuthering Heights” would be a bit of an understatement. I was captivated from beginning to end, held rapt not just by the performances but from how the film so powerfully manages to wed together death and desire, showing how these two elements constantly haunt the human, particularly the gothic imagination. It’s the kind of film that worms its way into your mind and doesn’t let you go, twisting you up into knots of desiring death, just like its doomed lovers. The film invites us to, in the words of D.H. Lawrence in “Love on the Farm” to “die, and find death good.”

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

It’s hard to think of a French film more influential than Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless. Endlessly imitated and referred to, it has yet to be surpassed. It’s one of those films that is truly a landmark, heralding the arrival of one of the French New Wave’s most notable and enduring voices. Anyone who has seen the film can never forget it and even now, so many decades after it first saw screens, it still maintains its electric, iconoclastic power.

The making of said film is the subject of Nouvelle Vague, directed by Richard Linklater, another director who has made a lasting mark on contemporary cinema. While I’ve never worshiped at the altar of the French New Wave in the way of many of my grad school colleagues, I nevertheless appreciate what Breathless was able to do. Watching Linklater’s film gave me a new appreciation for just how revolutionary Godard was and how his film was not just a slap in the face to established modes of classical filmmaking but also a grasping toward something else, something new, something only cinema itself could hope to capture.

The film has an immersive quality that almost makes you feel as if you’re right there in the heady atmosphere of late 1950s Paris, when the air is thick with cigarette smoke and rich with artistic ferment. There’s a physicality to the film stock itself that heightens this sense of realism, and this effect is certainly helped by the uncanny resemblance between the cast and the characters they’re playing. Guillaume Marbeck is close to perfect as Godard, an irreverent sort of character who enjoys tweaking his cast and crew almost as much as he does his producer, who desperately wants this enfente terrible to just produce the kind of film that will be easy to distribute and that will hopefully make some money. Aubry Dullin is also a dead ringer for Jean-Paul Belmondo and, while he may lack some of the late Belmondo’s innate sex appeal, he nevertheless captures his twitchy energy perfectly.

It was really Zoey Deutch, however, who was the standout when it came to performances, and she is perfect as Jean Seberg, who plays Patricia Franchini in Breathless. Deutch has repeatedly shown herself to be one of her generation’s most versatile and interesting stars–she reminds me a lot of a young Juilanne Moore–and she puts her remarkable talents to extensive use here, giving us a Hollywood actress who truly doesn’t know what to make of this director with whom she now has to work. She locks horns with Godard almost immediately, in large part because she feels she’s been misled by what kind of a person she’ll be working with. As so often happens in the history of cinema, however, it’s precisely the volatile relationship between directors and stars that makes the most compelling and unexpected movie magic.

Linklater brings some nice stylistic touches to this sometimes very straightforward behind-the-scenes story. Periodically we’ll meet new characters, and the action will pause for a few moments as they stand, framed by the camera in an almost documentary-like pose. Through these moments we get to meet many of the luminaries of the French New Wave, from men like François Truffaut and Claude Chabrol to women like Agnès Varda. Once again the casting here is truly on-point, and one could be forgiven for thinking they were truly bearing witness to a documentary chronicling the making of a masterpiece.

To me, one of the most captivating moments happens once all the footage has been shot, and it’s time for editing. Godard, of course, dispenses with all of the rules of classical editing–and the advice of his editors–insiting on the jump cuts that, as any good cinephile knows, will become one of the most notable stylistic and formal flourishes in the film. This whole sequence is a reminder of the old magic of the movies, of how it’s really in the editing that a film coheres into a narrative, into a world in which viewers can lose themselves. It’s at this point that we realize just how absolutely brilliantly mad Godard is; he wants to jettison all of the traits associated with classical realism and instead do something radical, something that can only happen when cinema is allowed to be its true self rather than something so rigidly controlled and corralled. It’s also a reminder of why, despite all of the ballyhoo and inundation of AI slop that assaults our eyeballs and newsfeeds each and every day–and despite the tech oligarchs attempts to replace cinema with robotic creations–no bot or artificial intelligence can ever capture the unique, mad spark of human creativity.

I will say, though, that there’s a certain irony to the fact that this mostly very conventional film focuses on one of cinema’s iconoclasts. Even so, as other reviewers have remarked, I found myself charmed by Linklater’s obvious love for Godard and what he set out to achieve with his film. When it comes down to it, I’m more than happy to celebrate a film that draws attention to cinema’s rich history. Given the extent to which far too many of today’s media producers are content to demolish cinema’s past, present, and future, films like this one are most welcome.

I’ll also admit that I’m always a sucker for a behind-the-scenes look at cinema. Maybe it’s the English graduate student in me, but the meta-ness of something like this is always moving. What’s more, I adore a film with a good story, and there truly are few stories in the history of cinema quite like the making of Breathless. What makes this one particularly striking, however, is the extent to which Linklater doesn’t try to demystify the magical process of filmmaking. Godard is something of an enigma right to the end. This, I think, is entirely appropriate, and it’s a final reminder that there really is no explanation, whether narrative or otherwise, for the strange genius of creativity.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

We seem to be living in the age of reinventions of reimaginings of classic gothic tales. Late last year we had Guillermo del Toro’s take on Frankenstein, and this month we have Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights and then Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! This week we have Luc Besson’s Dracula, which is very much in the vein of Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula, except a whole lot wackier (and also, somehow, far less coherent).

The film opens with a young Dracula (Caleb Landry Jones) enjoying erotic romps with his wife, Elisabeta (Zoë Bleu). However, things take a tragic turn when she’s killed, and he becomes an immortal vampire. Several centuries later, after searching for her, he manages to find her in the form of Mina Murray (also Bleu), who’s engaged to be married to Dracula’s prisoner, Jonathan Harker (Ewens Abid). He’s opposed by a man known only as the Priest (Christoph Waltz) and a doctor, Dumont (Guillaume de Tonquédec).

To get the negative out of the way, I’ll be honest: there were some elements of this film that just make absolutely no sense or that lack anything resembling a coherent explanation, particularly when it comes to Dracula’s transformation from human to undead vampire. Despite the fact that we get quite an extended flashback as he explains his life to the captive Jonathan Harker, it’s left unclear how, exactly, he became a blood drinker. It’s not that I as a viewer require every single plot detail to be explained in-depth, but it would be helpful to get some insight into how the mechanics of this world operate, particularly since Besson seems intent on leaning into the fantasy action part of the story (particularly toward the end). Instead, he leans on some very frustrating plot contrivances.

And, to be honest, some of these plot contrivances are really quite silly. I’m not sure what we get from having Dracula concoct some sort of aphrodisiac perfume that essentially makes any woman–but strangely not men–a slave to his will. As someone put it on TikTok, it’s like either a bad rip-off of Sweeney Todd or a bastardized Hammer film. To be fair, though, it does lead to one of the campiest moments in the entire movie, as we see Dracula lead a number of flash mobs in various European courts (before, of course, he goes nuts and bites and slaughters a whole bunch of folks at Versailles, leading to the creation of one of his many vampire acolytes).

Arguably the most egregiously ridiculous element, however, are the gargoyles that serve as Dracula’s henchmen in his vast castle. I’m really not quite sure exactly what Besson was going for with this particular touch, but it had me both scratching my head and also giggling a little, particularly when they all band together to try to stop Harker from escaping Dracula’s castle. It’s one of those elements that defies easy explanation, and even their transformation into emaciated children at the end of the film ends up being more confusing than anything else.

I’ll also be the first to admit that I just didn’t buy the love story between Dracula and Elisabeta, no more than I did in Coppola’s film. Maybe it’s just because I’m so used to vampires being queer (thank you, Anne Rice), or maybe there’s just not that much chemistry between Jones and Bleu, but for whatever reason, it just fell flat. Their romance is all very stylized, and the opening sequence of their bedroom antics is clearly meant to imbue their romance with a bit of spice, but I found myself wanting to get through these parts as quickly as possible.

While it is an undoubtedly uneven film at the narrative level, there’s still something captivating about it. Perhaps it’s because Besson is one of those directors who always swings for the fences, which means that, even when he doesn’t necessarily attain greatness, he nevertheless manages to make a film that holds you rapt at its spectacle. Some scenes are almost painterly in their composition, including one in which Dracula and his soldiers appear on a hill and present the impaled heads of Ottoman soldiers to their leader, their bodies silhouetted by the red flames raging in the background. Even more disturbingly beautiful and evocative is the scene in which he seduces an entire convent full of nuns–using his perfume, of course–leading them all to essentially build a human pyramid in their desperation to get closer to him. It’s blasphemous and very much in keeping with this being who’s given up the comfort of death (framed here as God’s gift) because of His taking of his wife.

Undoubtedly, though, this film sinks or swims based on the performance from Caleb Landry Jones. As a number of other reviewers have written, this is the role he truly was born to play, and there’s an ease with which he inhabits the character of Dracula that makes for deliciously unsettling viewing. One sometimes gets the sense he’s not really acting at all but instead just channeling aspects of his own feverishly intense personality. His eyes flicker with a sometimes terrifying fire, and he has the twitchy grace of an unhinged predator. Even when he’s playing the suave dandy in the streets of Paris it’s there, and it’s precisely Jones’ ability to tap into Dracula’s feral nature that makes his every moment on screen so compelling. It takes an actor who’s ever-so-slightly funny looking to add something new to the Dracula canon, and Jones more than delivers.

It’s really when he appears as the desiccated version of himself, though, that the film really sings, and I relished each gothic horror moment of these sequences. This iteration of the character has the macabre grace of Gary Oldman and the desiccated huskery of Orlok in Eggers’ Nosferatu, and I found myself absolutely captivated by the grim spectacle of it all. He delights in playing a game with Jonathan Harker, baiting the trap he knows the man will fall into. The costume and makeup work here is extraordinary, giving Dracula an almost reptilian look that’s more than a little terrifying. I found myself wishing, though, that the rest of the film had committed to the horror and dispensed with both the romance and the action fantasy elements, which don’t work nearly as well.

Is Dracula a great film, or even a great adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel? I honestly don’t think so. In fact, I’m not sure it’s even a great or particularly good film. Somehow, though, I get the feeling it’s going to be one that manages to stick with me for a long time to come. Its various elements pull and tug at each other and, while they never quite come together into anything resembling a coherent whole, I actually think it’s their jagged edges that makes this a unique take on the immortal legend of Dracula.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

If you know anything about me and my tastes in movies, you’ll know that I’m not one of those people who generally likes “cinema.” Yes, I like movies that are artistic and meditative and sometimes downright slow, but they’re not usually the types of films that I naturally gravitate to. I can positively wax poetic about how irritating and sometimes unwatchable I find most of the output of Terrence Malick. However, once I found out that Train Dreams had been nominated for several Oscars, I figured it was worth a watch, particularly since I’ve made a habit recently of watching as many of the Best Picture nominees as I possibly can in a given year.

Reader, I loved it.

Narrated by Will Patton and based on the novella of the same name by Denis Johnson, it focuses on Joel Edgerton’s Robert Grainier who, after a troubled childhood, ends up married to Gladys Olding (Felicity Jones), with whom he has a daughter. The two build an idyll, but he is absent for long periods of time working for the railroad. Unfortunately, as tends to be the case in films like this, he loses his wife and daughter to a raging forest fire and, though he never recovers their bodies, their memory lives with him for years to come. He forges some meaningful connections among his fellow railroad workers and, as the film draws to a close, he goes for a ride in a biplane, a moment that crystallizes for him, and for the viewer, the aching beauty of life itself.

Director Clint Bentley has credited Terence Malick as an influence, and one can see this in almost every frame of the film, which unfolds as in a dream, languid moments unspooling before our eyes in a sort of hazy otherworld. The film contains many moments of tenderness and aching beauty, of landscapes and of people and, perhaps most importantly, of the bond between Robert and Gladys, who really do seem a match made in heaven. The two share some touching moments and, for a time at least, they manage to craft their own little idyll in the woods, complete with their daughter, Kate. These moments have an aching simplicity to them, and you find yourself wishing, along with Gladys, that Robert didn’t have to leave to pursue dangerous work with the railroad.

Yet, for all that it’s a film that’s very much in the dream register, there’s also something bracing, haunting, even, about the periodic bursts of violence that occasionally erupt, including the devastating moment when a Chinese worker is murdered by several other railroad workers, an incident that will haunt Robert for the rest of his life. It’s a moment designed to punch you right in the feels, especially since it’s so starkly juxtaposed to the more intimate and gauzy atmosphere that structures so much of the rest of the film. As such, it’s a reminder of how our lives are often marred and ruptured by violence of one sort or another.

The fire is another of these moments, made all the more devastating because neither Robert nor those of us in the audience ever get the closure of knowing exactly what happened to Gladys and their daughter. Did she panic and run into the woods, where she succumbed to fire and smoke? Did she even make it out of the cabin before the fire got to her? It’s not that finding the charred remains of his wife and child would have been satisfying; it’s that not knowing allows a space to exist inside of Robert that nothing can ever truly fill. Instead, these parts of his life become the sediment of the future, and a potentially phantasmatic appearance of Kate ensures that Robert will stay in the rebuilt cabin, holding onto the hope that someday she might return.

Yet, again and again, Robert manages to rebuild out of the ashes of the past, and his ability to do so is a treatment to his fortitude and also a reflection of how all of us, in one way or another, are the product of the events that shape and mar us. Just as the forest in which he works can regrow from both fire and from the destruction wrought by the railroad, so we too can experience repeated moments of rebirth. Despite all of the violence of our world and that of the film, there are moments of tenderness and warmth and hope, moments when Robert makes friends and adopts puppies. Train Dreams, then, is all about life, about how the tides of life can either make us or break us, and sometimes both.

Indeed, Robert can no more escape the relentless forward movement of history than he can escape the specter of violence, and like American history itself, his life is made up of equal parts tragedy and joy. Though the film is certainly transcendent in many ways–and, as other reviewers have noted, it is often more in the vein of poetry than prose–it still has something to say about the moment in which we find ourselves. It’s impossible not to watch the murder of the Chinese worker without seeing it as a brutal reminder of ICE and the racist violence currently being inflicted on America’s most vulnerable.

While Edgerton is obviously the heart and soul of the film, the other performances are just as powerful, just as poignant. Take, for example, William H. Macy’s Arn Peeples, an explosives expert who’s arguably more adept at giving advice and spinning tales than anything else. This is the type of role Macy was born to play, and you can’t help but love him despite (or perhaps because of) his ability to bullshit with the best of them. It’s more than a little heartbreaking to see him succumb to a wound from a tree branch, his mind slowly wandering as his very serious brain injury slowly overwhelms him. Railroad work is tough and grinding and leaves behind a trail of bodies, and once again the parallels to 20th century American history are potent.

Train Dreams is one of those films that’s a slow burn. Much like Celine Song’s Past Lives and Oliver Hermanus’s The History of Sound, both of which save their emotional sledgehammers to the very final moments of the film. There’s something uniquely devastating about the last scene of Robert in a biplane, soaring above the earth while his life flashes before him. This is a man who has lost so much, who has seen so much of the world change around him, who has felt himself carried–like a passenger on a train–into a future he never quite understands and yet, to the end of his life, he holds onto the beauty in all things. He dies alone, yes, but the film leaves us with an understanding that, at the end of it all, we’re all connected.

What a gift.

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

I honestly had no idea what to expect going into Gus Van Sant’s Dead Man’s Wire. All I knew was that it was directed by Van Sant and that it starred Bill Skarsgård and that it was based on a true story. When it comes down to it, those three things were enough to get me into the theater, particularly since it’s relatively rare these days to see a film at a small theater like mine that isn’t a franchise offering or something from Disney. Much to my surprise this ended up being a gripping and thought-provoking film, a reminder that perhaps cinema isn’t dead, after all.

From the beginning, I was put in mind of films like Dog Day Afternoon (a comparison that many others, including the ever-perceptive Matt Zoller Seitz, have rightly drawn). There’s no doubt that Van Sant is a director who has a keen eye for both image and sound, and he effectively brings both to bear in Dead Man’s Wire (even the title is evocative of the crime dramas of an earlier decade). There were numerous times when I had to remind myself I wasn’t actually watching something from the 1970s, so meticulous is Van Sant’s attention to detail and to atmosphere.

The film focuses on Bill Skarsgård’s Tony Kiritsis, who believes he’s been taken advantage of and cheated by a local mortgage company. That being the case, and not being the most stable of men, he kidnaps the owner’s son, Richard Hall (Dacre Montgomery), rigging him with a simple device that ensures that, should something happen to Tony, he’ll be shot in the head with a shotgun. What follows is a tense standoff as Tony tries to negotiate concessions–including an apology from Richard’s father, M.L. Hall (Al Pacino)--while the police plan how to take him down.

It probably goes without saying, but Bill Skarsgård gives an absolutely magnetic performance as Tony Kiritsis. With his ever-so-slightly buggy eyes, his jerky movements, and his general intensity, he is the perfect place to play a man who has absolutely bought into his own self-mythologizing. Skarsgård is one of those performances who really does throw his entire being–mind, body, and soul–into his performance, and it’s perhaps for this reason that we, in the 21st century audience, can so easily find ourselves falling under his spell. Yes, what he’s done flouts the law and yes, it’s not fair to hold Richard Hall entirely to blame for his father’s misdeeds and shady business dealings. At the same time, there’s magnetism to Tony that keeps him from becoming entirely a villain. He has the makings, as we see again and again, of that phenomenon we call the folk hero: a person who, despite (or because of) existing outside of the law and civilized society manages to tap into our desire to do the same, to see the system and those who prop it up humbled.

Van Sant is one of those filmmakers who is meticulous in his approach to his craft, and he always manages to marshal just the right mix when it comes to his cast. In addition to Skarsgard and Montgomery, we also get Colman Domingo, who portrays Afrocentric DJ and town mainstay Fred Temple. If ever there were an actor who was made to convey the sort of stylish cool that we associate with the 1970s, it would have to be Domingo, and he moves with an undeniable swagger and confidence, both behind and in front of the microphone. Small wonder that he becomes the one person that Tony will actually talk to, even if he also seems more than a little befuddled as to how he suddenly got sucked into this truly bizarre but undeniably captivating hostage situation.

The film’s anti-corporate America ethos also works because Al Pacino fits into his role so perfectly, and he is pitch-perfect as the slightly sleazy and obviously quite mercenary M.L. Hall, a man willing to sacrifice his son rather than his honor (such as it is). To draw from Seitz again, this is a really remarkable piece of casting, since Pacino himself was in Dog Day Afternoon, as a man also on the wrong side of the law. With his gravelly, drawly voice and his slovenly appearance, Pacino now gives the impression of a small-town fat cat who is more than capable and willing of swindling anyone and everyone, all while enshrined in his own ego and sense of old man self-importance.

It quickly becomes clear, though, that Tony has bitten off a bit more than he can chew. It’s one thing to kidnap someone and hold them at gunpoint until you get what you want; it’s quite another to get away with it and live your life as if you’ve been totally vindicated. Indeed, there’s something almost hubristic, perhaps even naive, about the extent to which Tony seems to believe that he’ll actually be able to get away with what he’s done and go on about his life as if he hasn’t just broken numerous laws, and that is arguably the tragic flaw that brings him down. In the end, the postscript tells us, he spent time in a mental institution–more than he needed to, in fact, since he refused to acknowledge that there was anything wrong with him. It’s a rather bleak and inconclusive ending, but that is perhaps the point. Given the real-life grain of the film, it makes sense that it would leave us with the same kind of uncertainty that so often afflicts us in real life.

Despite the fact that the events of the film took place a half-century ago–and it pains me to admit that the 1970s really were that long ago–the story and the issues themselves seem more timely than ever. There’s a reason, after all, that Tony comes to be seen as a bit of a folk hero by the people in his community, given the extent to which lending companies and other unscrupulous capitalists have continued to hollow out the American middle class while ensuring that the working class is pushed perilously close to the poverty line. The periodic moments in the film that abruptly shift to still photography give us a documentary sense of realism, further bringing the point home.

Dead Man’s Wife isn’t a flashy or even particularly innovative film. It doesn’t have a whole lot of bells and whistles, and its story, though one that was well-known in the 1970s, has largely faded into obscurity. What it is, though, is a gripping story told by a true master of his craft, someone who realizes that the power of cinema lies in its ability to tell stories that matter and that makes us feel and allow us to think. It’s a film as timely as it is potent. Go see it if you can!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that Netflix movies are, with some notable exceptions, almost completely forgettable. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the streamer has created a film that managed to stick with me the day after I watched it. I’m happy to say that People We Meet on Vacation, the romantic comedy based on the novel by Emily Henry, is one such. I found it a perfectly enchanting, deeply touching, and often surprisingly hilarious film that had me laughing and crying.

In other words, it’s the perfect rom-com. When the film begins, Emily Bader’s Poppy Wright is a travel writer but, despite her rather lavish lifestyle and the fact she can go anywhere she wants on her magazine’s dime, feels disenchanted with her life. Thus, she leaps at the chance to attend the wedding of her friend, David (a criminally underused Miles Heizer), whose brother used to be Poppy’s best friend. A series of flashbacks show the beginning and growth of their friendship, while in the present the two of them struggle to remember what brought them together, all while trying to figure out just what it is they feel for one another. Eventually, of course, they realize that what they want most is one another, and they end up falling in love.

I think it’s fair to say that there’s tremendous chemistry between Blyth and Bader. From the moment Poppy and Alex meet it’s clear these two people are fated to be with one another, whether as friends or as something else. While Poppy is a bit of a wild child and a free spirit–someone who has a very flexible understanding of what being on time means and is quite happy to eat a very messy breakfast burrito in the car of someone she’s just met–Alex is the quintessential homebody, someone who just wants to move back to their small Ohio town and raise a family. As it turns out, though, there are rich depths to both of them, depths that are only really revealed each year when they reunite for their vacations.

The film is at its best in the past, when we see these two good friends getting to know one another, simply enjoying being away from the world and all of its pressures. Different as they are, there’s clearly something strong and deep between the two of them and, though neither one of them wants to admit it, that something is more than just friendship (though, as time will tell, that friend bond will be key to their burgeoning romantic feelings for each other). These scenes manage to be both poignant and often deeply hilarious, particularly the moment when Alex, after deciding to go skinny-dipping with a potential romantic interest, allows his clothes to get washed away in the river, leading him to walk the rest of the way back to camp naked. It’s a moment that allows Blyth to show off some of his comedy chops, and the movie is better for it.

Finally, we get to the infamous trip to Italy which brought their long-standing friendship to a screeching halt, thanks to a pregnancy scare, an almost-kiss, some awkward babbling from Poppy, and Alex’s impromptu proposal to his on-again/off-again girlfriend Sarah. This is classic rom-com miscommunication, and it works pretty well. Bader really captures Poppy’s sense of confusion as she tries to work through her confusion, a dynamic that will persist until very nearly the film’s end. It’s only once she kisses Alex in the present, though, that the pieces start to click together.

At first, I was a little conflicted about the film’s resolution, which sees Poppy essentially giving up her career as a successful journalist to quasi-settle down with someone who is, as another character puts it, a bit like limp lettuce. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that wasn’t really an accurate read of what happens in the film. To be sure, Poppy is the one who gradually comes to realize that her career isn’t satisfying in and of itself, while Alex has always been happy being what he is: a small-town dude who likes living in his hometown. However, we’ve known from the jump that she’s not particularly happy with her life or, frankly, with some of her life choices. For some, being a free spirit and jetting around the world is a source of empowerment and joy; for Poppy, though, it seems to be something else, an escape from an emptiness inside of her she doesn’t quite know how to put into words.

The thing of it is: these two characters make the most sense, and are happier, when they’re together. No matter how hard they try to get away from it, and no matter how much they’ve managed to hurt one another (largely inadvertently) over the years, the truth is they bring out the best in one another. More to the point, they are quite simply enough. And, having seen them together in so many wonderful scenes–whether dancing as only two straight people hopelessly in love with one another can dance or taking care of one another when they’re sick–we actually believe they have what it takes.

While People We Meet on Vacation is quite touching and, contrary to what other critics have claimed, filled with at least glimmers of emotional insight, it’s also quite funny. This will come as no surprise to those of us who had a field day watching Bader shine in the batshit fun that was My Lady Jane, but she’s even more in her element here. Whether it’s spilling the aforementioned breakfast burrito all over Alex’s car or acting like a total weirdo when she’s encountering other people on vacation, Bader simply owns the moment. Blyth, likewise, is the perfect straight man, his intense style of performance perfect for someone like Alex, who feels thanks deeply but often has trouble expressing them (he is a man, after all).

I do have a few quibbles with the screenplay. I would’ve liked to see more of Poppy’s friendship with Alex’s brother, David, particularly since that bond is important enough for the latter to invite Poppy to his wedding. As it is, the screenplay doesn’t really give us any insight as to when they met or how they became close or even whether they’re that close at all. I also would’ve liked to have seen more of Poppy’s parents, particularly since they’re played by two geniuses like Molly Shannon and Alan Ruck. Still, these are relatively minor quibbles.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that People We Meet on Vacation is one of the truly great rom-coms, I do think it’s one of the better ones. There is genuine emotional insight here, about how we sometimes are our own worst enemies, sabotaging what could be beautiful and satisfying relationships because we’re afraid we’re not enough. It’s funny and sweet and, at the end of the day, that too, is enough.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

I am a sucker for a good ape movie. I’ve been obsessed with Planet of the Apes for literally decades, and I continue to find apes both fascinating and more than slightly terrifying, particularly chimps. Of course, the news has been filled with stories of pet chimps (and their own owners) going amuck, as the recent series Chimp Crazy makes clear. Indeed chimps in particular are eternally coming up in our popular culture. In addition to Planet of the Apes, Jordan Peele’s Nope featured a chimp attack as a key part of its story, suggesting that our dear simian relatives are an enduring source of fear and fascination for us. They seem so understandable and yet so utterly alien, and what better way to make sense of, or at least experience, this contradiction through the vernacular of horror?

This brings us to Primate, the new slasher film from director Johannes Roberts (who co-wrote the script with Ernest Riera). Arguably the emotional center of the story is Lucy (Johnny Sequoyah), who returns home to her family’s isolated cliffside mansion in Hawaii, where she’s reunited with her father, sister, and the family’s friendly chimp companion Ben, along with some other equally bland personalities. It soon turns out that poor Ben has been infected with rabies and, sans treatment, he soon goes on a rampage, quickly turning from cuddly and affectionate to sadistic and murderous. It’s all Lucy and her sister and the rest of the gang can do to stay alive (spoiler alert: almost none of them make it out alive).

Primate is undeniably gripping. Roberts is a skilled visual stylist, and he has a keen command of space, lighting, and sound. A number of wide shots show us just how isolated the family home is from anywhere around, situated on a bluff that offers no easy escape once Ben becomes murderous, while dim lighting effectively creates a nightmare landscape from one which our protagonists cannot escape. Of equal note is an unsettling scene in which Ben presses his face up against some distorting glass, creating a nightmarish image that will stick with you as his murderous rage grows. Even props have their part to play, from the speech device that Ben uses to convey his feelings–which becomes ironic later in the film–to a broken chair that becomes key to his demise. Adrian Johnston’s soundtrack, likewise, helps to keep your nerves constantly jangled as you wait for the next bout of slaughter to unfold, and I appreciated a scene in which Lucy’s deaf father, played by Troy Kotsur, returns home, even as the film muffles sounds so we inhabit his deafness. The juxtaposition of silence with Ben’s renewed attacks on Lucy is quite effective.

In my opinion, every horror movie worth its salt has one kill that’s both exceptionally gnarly and also deeply disturbing, and in this regard Primate does not disappoint. The unfortunate victim in this case is Drew, one of the dude-bros from the airplane that Lucy and her friends meet right at the beginning who, upon encountering Ben in the bedroom, has his jaw ripped right off. There’s something almost poignant about the way his eyes continue to dart around, filled with an anguished knowledge that death is imminent as he chokes on his own blood. It’s also bleakly funny, as Ben, seeming to sense his victim’s dismay and to find humor in it, uses the detached jaw to mock his anguished gurgling and then, as if that weren’t enough, almost seeming to try to reattach the torn-off jaw (the resulting sound of teeth clacking against bone is viscerally unsettling). It’s a brilliantly-executed piece of horror cinema and this scene alone was worth the price of admission, though I did find myself wishing we had more scenes like this, as perverse as that sounds.

As other critics have noted, the script is at times a bit too lean, particularly when it comes to giving these characters or even providing much insight into Ben as a character prior to his infection. It’s not that this is necessarily a requirement, but as a fan of both chimps and Planet of the Apes, I kept hoping for at least some gesture toward helping us to feel the barest bit of sympathy for Ben, a creature brought into the human world and then turned into a monster by a force he has no control over. Fortunately, there are at least a few moments when we see the anguish he’s in, and there are even some signs he knows something is wrong, even if he can’t quite comprehend why he’s now filled with such murderous rage.

When it comes down to it, there’s just something uniquely terrifying and appealing about chimps, which helps to explain why we keep returning to them again and again in popular culture. As one of our closest living relatives–and as some of the most intelligent nonhuman animals–they hover in a strange liminal space, both eerily like and unlike us. This is particularly true in a film like Primate, which relies on practical effects and puppetry rather than CGI (except for some moments). Miguel Torres Umba does a fantastic job inhabiting Ben, and the practical effects may not make Ben into as realistic an ape as, say, Caesar from Planet of the Apes, but he’s definitely more terrifying. For all that he’s a killing machine, there are glimmers of a not-quite-human intelligence lurking behind those eyes, which is precisely what makes him such a dangerous enemy once the rabies-induced madness starts to take over.

And that, ultimately, is the irony of Ben going mad. As the tragic case of Charla Nash made clear back in 2009, even the tamest and most human-acculturated chimps are only one mild disturbance or moment from tearing a person apart. Even though the film doesn’t go too deeply into Ben’s backstory, there’s enough there to glean that he was, for all intents and purposes, raised as a human, and there are just enough glimpses of who he was to make us feel the pangs of sympathy for this creature forced to live in a human world for which is so manifestly ill-suited. Just like Travis, he’s a bit of the untamed wild just waiting to destroy the fragile human family and the civilization built atop it.

Primate is one of those genre-horror flicks that wears its influences on its sleeve, and one can see strands of everything from Cujo to “The Murders of the Rue Morgue”in its plot, themes, and execution. Its success owes much to Roberts’ skills as a filmmaker, his ability to take tried and true elements of the genre and use them in ways that hold us rapt and make us grip the arms of our chairs in terror. This film burrows deep in your brain and doesn’t let go, and I can’t wait to see what Roberts has in store for us next.

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Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Let me tell you something: I am a sucker for an erotic thriller. There’s just something about the genre that never fails to pull me in, keeping me riveted to the edge of my seat as I wait to see just what’s going to happen. And if a thriller can manage to do something a little new and unexpected with the various twists and turns that the story takes before the violent finale, then it’s going to absolutely be a winner (for me, at least). The Housemaid ticks all of those boxes. The film had me absolutely hooked from the first moment to the last, anchored by unsettlingly good performances from Amand Seyfried and Sydney Sweeney, a narrative that has just the right amount of twists, and a resolution that is a reminder of the power of sisterhood and the ability of women to band together to take down the patriarchy.

The film begins, as such films usually do, with Syndney Sweeney’s Millie arriving at an opulent mansion, where she hopes to become a housemaid. There, she’s interviewed by Amanda’s wide-eyed and slightly manic Nina Winchester who, it turns out, seems to be deeply disturbed and to have deeper motivations for wanting some live-in help. Adding to the strangeness are Nina’s solicitous and very hot husband, Andrew (Brandon Sklenar) and off-putting daughter, Cece (Indiana Elle). As time goes on, however, and Millie is drawn ever further into the Winchester’s lives, it soon turns out that nothing is as it seems and that it’s going to take her considerable wits to make it out alive (if not entirely unscathed).

Now, I may not be Sydney Sweeney’s biggest fan, but I will say that she’s the perfect fit for roles like this one. She always has that little bit of a rough edge with her characters, one that suggests that this is a young woman who knows how to survive and knows how and when to cut a bitch. This is certainly true for Millie who, when the story begins, fudges the truth about her past–she’s spent time in prison for murder–in order to secure a position with a wealthy family and thus a ticket out of her dead end life. And, while Millie might be the type of person who’ll have an affair with a married man (who also happens to be her employer), at the end of the day she’s also someone who’ll put female solidarity ahead of base desire.

Amanda Seyfried, likewise, is expertly cast in her role as Nina. From the moment we meet her we get the sense that there’s far more to her than meets the eye, that her manic energy is hiding some deep, inner pain. As it turns out, it’s even worse than we could’ve expected, and when Andrew breaks up with her and kicks her out of the house it’s actually a moment of liberation, and it leads to a remarkably gripping monologue in which, in a letter to her daughter, she reveals the truth about her relationship. The way that Seyfried uses her very expressive face and wide eyes to convey Nina’s inner pain–even while making Millie’s life a misery and masquerading as a seemingly dutiful, if troubled, Stepford wife–is nothing short of magnetic.

To the surprise of no one, it turns out she had every reason to be a woman on the verge. Her husband, dashing and handsome and wealthy as he might be, is also a control freak and a sadist, someone who undeniably takes pleasure in forcing women to live according to his rules. He is, in other words, someone who has definitely drunk the Kool-Aid of patriarchy and who isn’t afraid to use his power over the women in his life; in Nina’s case this leads him to lock her in an upstairs attack and force her to pluck out 100 of her hairs (twice!), all as punishment for the fact she forgot to get her roots and thus rendered herself into an object of ridicule for the rest of the town. It’s a moment that’s sublimely ridiculous and terrifying, and Feig, like Jordan Peele in Get Out, uses the frightening absurdity of this scenario to highlight both Andrew’s monstrosity and the dehumanizing system of which he is a key part. Indeed, the film brilliantly points out how both Milie and Nina have been disenfranchised by a system designed by and for men and all too frequently upheld by the sorts of White women who benefit from it.

Which brings us Sklenar’s Andrew. To say that this man is sex on legs would be a bit of an understatement, and one can see why both Nina and Minnie are so drawn to him. At the same time, there’s always something just a little off about him, and at first I thought it was simply Sklenar’s wooden acting. The more I thought about it, though, the more I came to see that this is a man whose beauty and wealth and power have deadened his soul, until all that’s left is a glassy stare and a body that’s as beautiful as it is dangerous. His beauty is only matched by his propensity for violence and control, and it’s ultimately his savagery that proves his undoing.

The Housemaid is, as other critics have pointed out, one of those over-the-top, borderline-histrionic thrillers that were all the rage in the 1980s and 1990s. It plays on big emotions and, when it comes to my own viewing preferences, nothing gives me as much of a high as seeing a living embodiment of the patriarchy get his just desserts at the hands of two badass women. When Millie pushes him over the railing–sending him plummeting to his death–and when a female cop (whose sister was one of his earlier fiancees) decides to take Nina’s word for it that he fell while changing a lightbulb, one can’t help but cheer for them all.

This type of film hits all the harder in 2026, when we continue to live in a patriarchal hellscape, one in which the scourge of male violence and misogyny and the deceitful siren-song of tradwife influencer culture continues to try to bind all of us into a regressive and toxic vision of the relations between the sexes. The Housewife reminds us, though, that patriarchal violence always contains the seeds of its own destruction, and that those men who are determined to enforce their shitty rule on the women in their lives will eventually get their comeuppance. While it would’ve been slightly more satisfying to see the system broken down a bit more, the film’s scream of primal feminist rage still manages to be pretty cathartic.

I’ll take it!

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Well, we’re now on the cusp of 2026 and, that being the case, I thought it was time for me to put together a list of the best movies I watched in 2025. This was certainly a banner year for me, and I watched some truly great films across genres. Obviously I focused a lot on queer movies–this is me we’re talking about, after all–but that wasn’t all I watched, and looking back I was struck by how many of the films I really loved were ones grounded by performance more than anything else. When it comes down to it, I’m a star girlie all the way. Thank goodness that there are still so many stars who are capable of delivering dynamite performances!

Note: Some of these films were released in 2024, but I only got around to watching them this year, so I decided to count them among this year’s crop of viewings.

Pillion (Directed by Harry Lighton)

Like many other thirsty queers, I was eagerly awaiting Pillion, the drama/comedy/romance film starring Alexander Skarsgård and Harry Melling. I honestly had no idea what to expect from this movie about a dom and his sub (or a sub and his dom, depending on how you look at it), but it still managed to blow me away with its mix of humor, tenderness, and potent eroticism. Skarsgård is of course sexy and terrific, but it was really Melling who blew me away, with his nuanced portrayal of a young man with a certain gift for devotion who gradually discovers his own agency and the vitality of his own desires.

Twinless (Directed by James Sweeney)

Along with Pillion, Twinless was one of those films that had all the gays slavering with anticipation, due again to the fact that it was supposed to include some very intense and no-holds-barred depictions of gay sex. The film did not disappoint in that regard, but it’s also so much more than mere titillation. In its twisted tale about a young man (James Sweeney’s Dennis) and his efforts to seduce the twin of his dead lover (a superb Dylan O’Brien) by masquerading as someone who has also lost a twin, it explores the dark side of desire, how easily in can turn into obsession and make us do things that go beyond the pale of acceptability. And yet there is tenderness to the film, too, and that’s what makes it so uniquely and troublingly heartbreaking.

Hamnet (Directed by Chloé Zhao)

Man, this movie. I should’ve known going in that it was going to absolutely ruin me, but I’m not sure that anything could’ve prepared me for the shattering experience that is watching Hamnet. Based on the novel by Maggie O’Farrell, it stars Jessie Buckley and Paul Mescal as Agnes and William Shakespeare, whose lives are left devastated by the early death of their son. Thanks to both Chloé Zhao’s meditative direction and Buckley’s performance, this film becomes something deep, profound, and devastating. I’ve only rarely seen a film that understands grief on a visceral level, and Hamnet is one of those. This is a film that will ruin you but also, paradoxically, show you a way forward out of the ticket of grief.

Sinners (Directed by Ryan Coogler)

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is rightly regarded as one of the best films of 2025, and it’s easy to see why this would be the case. It’s a film that doesn’t try to leave its horror trappings behind or somehow transcend them but, instead, embraces them. What’s more, like all great horror it does so to excavate the terrors and fears of America’s racist Jim Crow past. Michael B. Jordan once again shows that he is one of his generation’s greatest talents, playing a dual role in which each character is fully-fleshed out. The film is beautiful and terrifying and gloriously alive–ironically, given the subject–and it stays with you long, long after it’s done.

Frankenstein (Directed by Guillermo del Toro)

Oh, Guillermo del Toro, you mad Gothic genius! To say that I loved this film would be an understatement. Like all the truly great works of horror, del Toro understands that fear and revulsion are only part of the equation; you also need love and despair and a rich, deep well of human feeling. All of these are on offer in his lavish production of Mary Shelley’s classic novel and, while Oscar Isaac is perfectly hubristic as Dr. Frankenstein, it’s really Jacob Elordi’s tortured but strangely beautiful Creature who steals the show, giving us a tortured creation grappling with what it means to exist in that fraught realm between the human and the monstrous.

Wicked: For Good (Directed by Jon M. Chu)

I didn’t think it would be possible for me to love Wicked: For Good as much as I loved its predecessor, and yet that’s exactly what happened. To say that this film broke my heart would be a bit of an understatement. There are moments here of extraordinary beauty and aching tragedy, and it’s all anchored by a trio of terrific performances from Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande, and Jonathan Bailey. The film achieves emotional highs that just aren’t accomplished by its stage counterpart, and while it didn’t become quite the phenomenon as the first installment, it nevertheless stole my heart and left me both weeping and smiling at the end.

A Nice Indian Boy (Directed by Roshan Sethi)

A Nice Indian Boy is one of those films that’s enchanting simply because it’s a good story told well. Both Karan Soni and Jonathan Groff give rich, textured, and emotionally resonant performances, and the film is by turns funny and bittersweet. At the end of the day, though, it really is a love story, one focused on two very different people coming to terms with who they are and how they fit together. It is, moreover, one of those films that achieves a level of beauty thanks to its emotional authenticity, and it makes us want these two characters to find their way to one another, despite all the obstacles in their way.

The Return (Directed by Uberto Pasolini)

If you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am always down for a retelling of ancient myth, and I’m also down for anything starring the divine Juliette Binoche. Imagine my delight, then, with The Return, which stars Binoche as Penelope and Ralph Fiennes as her long-lost husband Odysseus. The film is spare and uncompromising in its depiction of the Greek hero’s return to his home of Ithaca after years of wandering. Though I’m sure this will be quite overshadowed by Chrisopher Nolan’s forthcoming retelling of The Odyssey, for my money this will always rank up there with the greatest adaptations of ancient myth, in large part because it doesn’t shy away from showing just how much of Odysseus’ humanity has been stripped away by the horrors of war.

The Last Showgirl (Directed by Gia Coppola)

I didn’t think it was possible for Pamela Anderson to break my heart, but boy did she ever in The Last Showgirl, one of the most criminally underrated films of 2024. She puts her considerable dramatic skills to excellent use as Shelly Gardner, a Las Vegas showgirl who is left adrift after the show she has starred in for decades is slated to close. There’s a raw and deeply human vulnerability to Anderson’s performance in this film, and it really is nothing short of a crime that she didn’t get nominated for an Oscar. Like her character, Anderson has been dismissed throughout her career but, with this film, she showed that there’s far more to her than just her physical assets.

Bring Them Down (Directed by Christopher Andrews)

Bring Them Down was one of those films that was released in 2024 but only made its way to my local cinema in early 2025. It boasts a pair of often terrifyingly good performances from both Christopher Abbott and Barry Keoghan, who play a pair of neighboring sheep farmers who end up in a bloody struggle that leaves destruction behind them. It’s a film that manages to do a lot with a little and, despite its lack of bombastic filmmaking, it still manages to hit you like a ton of bricks, searing itself in your mind.

So, there you have it! This one queer critic’s best-of list. What were some of your favorite movies of 2025? Let me know in the comments below!

Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!

Warning: Full spoilers for the film follow.

Pillion was on my list of must-see movies of 2025, so you can imagine my excitement when I managed to get a screener for it (one of the many advantages of being part of a critics group). I mean, how could I not be excited about this film, when it stars Alexander Skarsgård as a leather-garbed dom and Henry Melling as his sub? I literally had no idea what to expect when I watched it but, from its first moments, it had me hooked. I found it to be surprisingly poignant and sweet, if unflinching and even a little titillating in its depiction of BDSM and queer desire.

When the film begins Henry Melling’s Colin is about as square as it’s possible to be, and with his curly mop of hair and his shy demeanor he certainly looks the part of a sub-in-waiting. Indeed, it’s not long before the two have entered into a full-on dom/sub dynamic: Colin shaves his head; wears a padlocked chain around his neck, and pretty much waits on Skarsgård’s Ray hand and foot, showing time and again that he really does have an “aptitude for devotion.” As their relationship deepens, however, it becomes clear that they want very different things from each other. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say they have very different understandings of their feelings and emotional needs. In any case, the result is a film that is surprisingly touching and thought-provoking, the type of queer love story we need to see more of (and, given the success of Heated Rivalry, maybe we will!)

From the moment the two men meet in a pub–where Colin has just performed as part of a barbershop quartet with his father–it’s clear there’s some sort of mutual understanding between the two of them. Part of this, of course, is due to Skarsgård’s smoldering gaze, which holds Colin–and us–in its grip as he sits at the bar. Would any of us have the ability to resist such a man if he commanded us to join him, even if we didn’t know him from Adam?

Things quickly escalate when the two meet up the next day, where Colin soon learns the exact contours of their relationship: he will serve and obey, and Ray will give the orders. It’s a dynamic that works for a while, and that gives Colin a measure of escape from the rather dull life he’s been leading up until now. While his parents–played by pitch-perfect Lesley Sharp and Douglas Hodge–are unequivocally loving and accepting of their son, it’s clear that Colin wants something more and, for a while at least, Ray is able to provide it.

There’s undeniable chemistry between the two actors, and Skarsgård and Melling are each attuned to the niceties of their characters, with the former exuding his usual effortless sex appeal and the latter conveying wide-eyed innocence tinged with a desire for exploration. One can easily believe one is watching two people exploring boundaries. Sometimes, these explorations take place in the confines of Ray’s apartment–where Colin is ordered to cook dinner and where he sleeps on the rug at the foot of the bed–and at others out in the wild with the members of Ray’s biker gang. Indeed, it’s among the latter that Colin begins to see the possibilities of this new lifestyle and, just as importantly, it’s also where he starts to see the limitations of what he has with Ray.

In that sense, it’s not an accident that these realizations occur out in the bucolic setting of a riverside outing. It’s only once they’re in the out-of-doors, away from the prying and judgmental eyes of everyone else–including Colin’s parents who, it’s safe to say, take a very dim view of their son’s relationship with Ray–that Colin can really figure out what it is he wants and how much of that Ray can provide. A conversation with one of his fellow subs is particularly revealing in this regard, as is a moment when Colin is momentarily replaced in Ray’s affections by another sub.

Of course, the dangers of emotion and vulnerability are never far away, and they finally come to the surface when the two men end up sharing a “normal” day, one that is similar to the types of dates that other, more normal couples regularly enjoy. After having spent most of the film keeping his feelings locked behind an impenetrable mask, it’s really rather startling to see him open up, especially once they start rolling around on the ground. There’s such naked and raw vulnerability in Ray’s eyes at the moment that it breaks your heart a little, as you can’t help but wonder whether this is the first time he’s ever really felt something for another person that isn’t structured around domination and emotional withdrawal. As we all know, love requires opening oneself up to another, and this is clearly something Ray struggles with, which helps to explain why he immediately disappears afterward, leaving Colin, and us, with no closure. Ray has disappeared into the ether, as insubstantial as a dream.

However, despite the fact that this little interlude spells the end of Colin’s relationship with Ray, there is hope, as Colin has clearly learned a great deal about what he wants and needs out of a relationship like this one. The film allows us to be both sad at this outcome–I mean, who wouldn’t be disappointed about the departure of a hulking statue of a man like Ray?--but also a fair bit of joy, too. The last we see of him, he has started a new relationship with another dom, and there are already signs that this time around Colin has developed a keener, more sure sense of himself. He may still have that “aptitude for devotion,” but he is now able to advocate for himself and to set better, firmer boundaries.

Pillion is one of those films that stays with you long past the final frame. It asks so many important questions about the nature of consent and queer desire and control and, thanks to a restrained approach, a deft sense of humor that elicits sly chuckles rather than guffaws, and a pair of exquisitely-matched leads, it answers them but also leaves us asking more. Like the best of queer cinema, it’s equal parts titillating and touching, and I hope we see more like this from director Henry Lighton in the not-too-distant future.