Stories about toxic MMF polyamory matter. They just matter!
From my Tinder bio: dreaming about being in a loving throuple with two boyfriends. is that you (and you)? say hi
Zendaya’s devilish grin, big and greedy, spread across the entire expanse of an IMAX projection while she watches her little white boys make out? It’s her best on-screen serve yet, so much better than any hollow close up from Villeneuve in either installment of Dune. Deeply personal and naughty and…
The most expensive episode of television ever made. A filler installment of Buffy the Vampire Slayer inside the 30 Rock cinematic universe hastily packaged as a Final Destination-esque emotional rollercoaster. S.J. Clarkson has only directed TV until this point and every frame shows it. You can tell she looked at the dailies, her eyes trained to spot broad strokes that pop on small screens for broad audiences, and giddily said to herself, I fucking did it. In the words of Cassie Webb: You…
See? It’s a magic trick.
Rohrwacher stands as one of the few among her peers to truly tap into the vivacious 1970s mode of hazy, sun soaked, pseudo-guerrilla neorealist filmmaking. Uses what she can find around her, digging into the specificity of a very particular place and a very particular set of people, and creates so much. She really doesn’t give a fuck about genre, haters looking for more conventional storytelling be damned. What’s more established than Biblical allegory? And…
Eighth viewing. I’ve now seen this thing the same amount of times as Madame Web. I might go on a date to see it again tonight, I don’t give a flying fuck. It’s beautiful and sensuous and supremely well-crafted; it’ll be taught in film schools in years to come. As the viewings pile on I find myself volleying back and forth between Challengers being a Body Movie and a Words Movie. An older, much more introspective crowd at the Directors Guild today—a…
Even fucking better a second time. Nothing will top the feeling of getting absolutely railed by that first watch but goddamn what a feat. A feast! Two hours of deepthroating churros and sitting back to give myself over to the action. Love is a stream.
Obsessed with how abrasive and obstructive the score gets during moments with mushy, tense, emotional, vulnerable dialogue. Moments that, in the sweaty palms of another director, would be otherwise scored with sentimental strings, twinkly piano,…
A supremely frustrating experience. Pissed me off and broke me wide open. Dysphoria that builds and builds and builds through juvenile audiovisual metaphors, clunky subversions of trans tropes, and so many direct-to-camera asides. White transfeminine filmmakers are having a banner year in 2024, yet they can’t overcome their urge to confess, to explain, to talk through the pain. Or, even worse, they’re still forced to mine their pasts—their fledgling transness—over all else because that’s what studios will get behind. I think…
