If you are anywhere in the Queer rainbow and you grew up as a Catholic, it’s possible — if not likely — that your relationship with that religious institution might be, to put it mildly, conflicted.

Though there are voices within the church establishment today that endorse official acceptance of LGBTQ people and support their equality, for most of its history that has not been the case. Yet, it has also represented a sort of sanctuary for queer people who could avoid the otherwise socially mandated expectations around sexuality and gender by excluding themselves from the conversation — through ordainment into the service of the church and the convenient vow of celibacy that came with it.

While such a path may not be appealing to most queer spiritual seekers today, the church still looms large in the psyche of those brought up in its traditions, and revelations about the vast record of sexual abuse that has taken place behind its sanctified veil have only complicated things further. That’s one reason why the queer appeal of “Conclave” — the buzzy screen adaptation of Robert Harris’s 2016 novel from director Edward Berger — cannot be denied; perhaps, in some fictionalized story about the inner workings of the church at its highest level, some resolution might be found to the centuries-old struggle between sexuality and religious faith.

Packed into a brisk two-hour running time, it wastes not a single frame in conveying its narrative, which chronicles the election of a new Pope after the sudden death of the old one and explores the labyrinthine politics that underlie that highly secretive process. Tasked by his role as Dean of the College of Cardinals to preside over it all is Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), a stoic thinker whose recent resignation from his position over a crisis of faith was rejected by the late pontiff himself; nevertheless committed to conducting the titular proceedings — and hoping to advance the progressive vision of his church’s future represented by popular candidate Cardinal Bellini (Stanley Tucci) — he tackles his responsibilities with a full sense of commitment.

It’s a task that will require all his unbiased wisdom to complete. In direct opposition to Bellini is Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), a reactionary traditionalist who wants to return the church to the policies of its ancient past, with more “centrist” candidates Tremblay (John Lithgow) and Adeyami (Lucian Msamati) bringing additional layers of political nuance to the voting process. With the various contenders trying to manipulate the outcome in their favor and an unforeseen influence rising in the form of newly appointed Cardinal Benitez (Carlos Diehz), Lawrence must set aside his worldly concerns and seek the guidance he needs not only from his keen intellect and understanding of human nature, but from the very faith he struggles with, as well.

Constructed like an old-fashioned potboiler, a mystery set in the halls of power and woven through with political intrigue and private ambition, “Conclave” plays like the kind of classic Hollywood “prestige” movie guaranteed to stir liberal sentiments while couching them in a socially aware yet entertaining yarn. Like most dramas set within a religious context, it invites speculation about the “hidden hand” of the Almighty behind the story, providing an entry point for audiences seeking reassurance about their beliefs in the midst of all the skullduggery, and even delivering an ending that allows the devout to remain steadfast to their faith; it blends philosophical and intellectual sophistication into the kind of thriller which, like the stylized “whodunnits” of Agatha Christie, unearths all manner of human corruption behind the pomp and decorum of a fiercely protected status quo as it inexorably works its way to a clever and satisfying finish — shepherded by Lawrence, standing in for the more worldly “master detectives” created by Christie and other authors of her genre thanks to his sharp intellect and shrewd observational skills. As such, it inevitably provides the expected twists, hidden secrets, and clandestine alliances through which the “mystery” will eventually be traced, and while we can’t always see where it’s headed, it steeps us in a comfortable familiarity that feels predictable anyway.

Still, that’s not entirely a bad thing; the sum effect of “Conclave” rises far above its generic structure, and makes it easy to forgive its tendency toward formula-dictated storytelling. That’s partly due to Berger’s direction, which sculpts the movie’s overall impact through its meticulous attention to detail, immersing us in its world with a near-tactile depiction of the rarified Vatican environment — aided immeasurably by the exquisitely moody cinematography of Stéphane Fontaine, who delivers a richly intimate yet tantalizingly dark setting immersed in the kind of deep shadows that seem to invite conspiracy  — while putting an unwavering focus on the internal narrative of its characters and the sometimes murky motives that drive them. It’s also thanks to the screenplay by Peter Straughan, which crafts those characters as much through what they choose not to say as by what they do, while skillfully using them to explore culturally-relevant themes about the corrupting influence of power and the antiquated prejudices that still hold sway within its cloistered walls.

Most of all, however, the film’s ability to grip us and draw us in rests upon its actors, most particularly Fiennes, already an odds-on favorite for this year’s Best Actor Oscar, who gives a career-best performance as Lawrence, turning a character who might easily seem too good to be true into a layered, relatable “Everyman” that has our instinctive loyalty from the first moment we meet him. Tucci, Lithgow, and Msamati all have standout moments, and Diehz shines as the quiet and unassuming Benitez — but it’s Isabella Rossellini who almost walks away with “Conclave” with her largely silent performance as a Vatican nun who says very little but sees and hears everything.

All this A-list quality certainly succeeds in making Berger’s movie into an engaging, intelligent, and visually impressive piece of populist cinema; and even if its twisty-and-interconnected plot developments sometimes stand out as a little too apt to be believable, its strong points far outweigh those mainstream “compromises.” Still, what likely has made “Conclave” into the first must-see title of awards season is more about what is happening offscreen rather than off. Much of the Papal election it portrays reflects hard-to-miss parallels with the real-life presidential election (which, at the time of this writing, had yet to take place), from the sharp divide between progressive ideals and regressive conservatism to the entrenched misogyny, racism, and homophobia that inserts itself into the process everything about this fictional Catholic thriller reminds us of the American political campaigns of 2024. And as for specific relevance for queer audiences, we don’t like spoilers — but we can venture to say that at least a few of the film’s surprise developments have a profound resonance with LGBTQ concerns.

Of course, that might not be enough by itself to add this one to your watchlist; but there’s enough food for thought to be found in it that it is worth your while, no matter what.

 “Conclave” is now playing in theaters.

When Finnish-British filmmaker Mikko Mäkelä’s film “Sebastian” premiered at the 2024 Sundance Festival, he told Variety he wanted his movie to provide a “frank and honest portrayal of queer sexuality.” That’s surely enough to lure queer audiences – particularly gay male audiences, thanks to its gay male protagonist – with the promise of steamy onscreen sex, and his movie, now available on VOD platforms after a limited theatrical release, certainly delivers on it. 

That, however, is only half (perhaps less) of what it’s all about, because, like its title character, it lives in two worlds at once.

In fact, “Sebastian” isn’t even his real name. He’s actually Max (Ruaridh Mollica), an aspiring writer who works a “survival job” at a literary magazine while working on his first novel – a “pseudo-memoir” chronicling a gay sex worker’s encounters with various clients. It’s not exactly “pseudo,” though; the experiences he writes about are real, gained by advertising himself on a website for gay escorts to obtain “research” for his book. The results are getting him noticed, and a publisher (Leanne Best) is interested in the completed manuscript – but he finds his focus being pulled away from his “real” life and deeper into the anonymous thrill of exploring his own sexuality in the safety of an assumed identity.

It’s not just his work that’s affected; among the other things that begin to suffer from his growing obsession are his relationships: with his co-worker and bestie, fellow aspiring writer Amna (Hiftu Quasem); with his conservative mother back in Edinburgh, who already disapproves of his lifestyle in faraway, hedonistic London; and to a much older client (Jonathan Hyde) with whom “Sebastian” has developed an unexpected emotional attachment. Most of all, it’s his own sense of identity that is caught in the conflict, as he tries to keep both sides of his double life together while preventing his whole world from falling apart.

It’s a story with a lot of irons on the fire – a quality it seems to share with the novel its protagonist is writing, much to the irritation of his would-be publisher. What begins as the saga of a fledgling male escort – we first meet Max during his first booking as “Sebastian,” after all, suggesting almost from the start that it is this persona that is our true protagonist – soon shifts into that of an ambitious-but-frustrated young author attempting to fuel his creativity through lived experience, laced with the ongoing thread of his own sexual awakening and self-acceptance. It even makes overtures toward an unexpected (and unorthodox) love story, before venturing down a darker path to become something of a cautionary tale, a warning against the dangers of leading a compartmentalized existence and allowing the gratification of one’s personal appetites to overshadow all the other facets of our lives. Along the way, it throws in some commentary about the tense dynamic between creative expression and commercialism in the arts, not to mention the reinforcement of stigma and negative attitudes around sex workers – and sex in general – through the perceptions and representations created by social traditions and popular culture.

This latter perspective might be the key to what is really at the heart of “Sebastian” all along, toward which Mäkelä’s screenplay hints with a description of Max’s work-in-progress as being about “the shame of being ashamed.” From the beginning, it is his own fear of being found out that becomes his greatest obstacle; far more than his reluctance to cross lines he’s been raised to respect, it’s the dread of having his reputation and his prospects shattered that causes him to waver in his path – and that feeling is not unfounded, which is in itself a telling indicator that the power of social judgment is a very real force when it comes to living our authentic lives. Indeed, his personal taboos are quick to fall away as he pursues his undercover “research”, but the guilt he feels about being caught in a social position perceived as “beneath” his own is something he cannot shrug off so easily. With so many generations of religious and societal dogma behind them, such imperatives are hard to ignore.

Yet, there’s yet another aspect of “Sebastian” to discuss, that, while it is self-evident in the very premise of Mäkelä’s movie, might be easy to overlook in the midst of all these other themes. A story about someone pretending to be someone else is inherently about deception, and Max, regardless of his motives, is a deceiver. He deceives his clients to obtain the material for his writing, and he deceives his employers and his publisher about where he gets it; he deceives the people closest to him, he deceives potential romantic partners – but more than anyone else, he deceives himself.

It’s only by becoming honest with oneself, of course, that one can truly find a way to reconcile the opposing sides of our own nature, and that is the challenge “Sebastian” sets up for its protagonist, no matter which name he is going by in the moment. Whether or not he meets it is something we won’t spoil, but we’ll go as far as saying that a breakthrough comes only when Max is forced by circumstance to follow his instincts and “get honest” with someone – though we won’t tell you who.

In the end, “Sebastian” satisfies as a character study, and as a journey of self-acceptance, largely thanks to a charismatic, layered, thoroughly authentic performance from Mollica, a Scots-Italian actor of tremendous range who convincingly captures both sides of Max’s persona and transcends them to create a character that incorporates each into a relatable – if not always entirely likable – whole. Mäkelä’s steady, clear-eyed direction helps, as does the equally dignified and vulnerable performance from veteran character actor Hyde, whose chemistry with Mollica is as surprising as the relationship they portray in the film.

Even so, “Sebastian” suffers from the many balls it attempts to keep in the air. Though it aims for sex-positive messaging and an empathetic view of sex work, it often devolves into the kind of dramatic tropes that perpetuate an opposite view, sending mixed messages about whether it’s trying to diffuse old stereotypes or simply reinvent them for a modern age of “digital hustlers.” Further, in its effort to offer an unfiltered presentation of queer sexuality, it spends perhaps a bit more screen time than necessary showing it to us as explicitly as possible while omitting all but a glimpse of full-frontal nudity, but just enough to conjure the word “gratuitous.”

Don’t get us wrong, though; Mäkelä’s movie – only his second feature film effort to date – is an engaging, sexy, and ultimately thought-provoking ride, even if its tangled ambitions sometimes get the better of its narrative thrust, and it comes with our recommendation.

It’s just that, one of these days, we’d really like to see a movie where sex work is honestly portrayed as a job, just like any other – but I guess we’ll have to wait until society is ready for it before we get that one.

When filmmaker Sean Baker chose to shoot an entire feature film – “Tangerine” (2015) – using only iPhones, he caught the attention of film enthusiasts and turned it into his breakthrough. For LGBTQ audiences, however, what felt much more groundbreaking was that Baker had made a film about trans sex workers on the “mean streets” of Hollywood, cast real trans women to play them, and depicted them with as much humanity as the cis/het protagonists in any mainstream movie.

It really wasn’t much of a bold leap for Baker, who had from the beginning centered his movies around people from marginalized, largely stigmatized or disregarded communities. A story about transgender sex workers was a logical next step, and the years since have seen him continue in the same vein, both by advocating directly for decriminalization and respect for sex workers and by the compassionate treatment of their stories in his work, – such as 2017’s “The Florida Project,” arguably his most visible success so far.

In his latest film – “Anora,” now in limited release after a premiere at Cannes 2024 and a win of the festival’s prestigious Palm d’Or prize – that undercurrent in his creative identity may have manifested its most fully realized bloom.

The title character, who goes by the more American-sounding “Ani” (Mikey Madison), is an in-demand erotic dancer at a popular Brooklyn club, and she’s the walking definition of a seasoned “pro.” Even so, when Ivan (Mark Eydelshteyn) – a wealthy Russian oligarch’s son in America on a student visa – shows up at the club, she finds herself in uncharted territory. Smitten, he whisks her into a world of endless parties and unthinkable wealth – and when he impetuously proposes to her during an impromptu trip to Las Vegas, she embraces the chance for a “Cinderella story” and accepts.

Their wedded bliss proves short-lived when the tabloid gossip reaches Ivan’s parents in Russia. No sooner has the couple returned to Brooklyn than a trio of family “operatives” (Karren Karagulian, Vache Tovmasyan, Yura Borisov) stages a clumsy home invasion to take control of the situation, with orders from the top to have the marriage annulled immediately. The young groom, fearing his father will pull the plug on his free-wheeling American lifestyle and force him to return to Russia, flees the scene – leaving Ani to fend for herself, and ultimately leading her into an unlikely (and volatile) alliance with her supposed “kidnappers” as they attempt to track him down in the wilds of Brooklyn.

According to press notes, “Anora” began as an effort by Baker to produce a vehicle for Karagulian, a respected indie actor of Russian-Armenian heritage who has appeared in every one of his movies to date. He developed the story with the idea of the “home invasion” sequence as a centerpiece that transforms the narrative from edgy romance to character-driven “chase” adventure – and after casting Madison (previously best known for her regular role in TV’s “Better Things”) as Ani, decided to craft the story around her emotional journey. 

It was a fortuitous choice, supplemented by the filmmaker’s talent for making all his characters into relatable figures with whom we cannot help but empathize. Nobody seems a one-dimensional menace, but rather just another struggling human caught up in thankless circumstances and trying to rise to the occasion; this is hardly a surprising approach from Baker, oft-praised for the humanism reflected in his work, but in “Anora,” that egalitarian perspective makes for a dynamic that both heightens and undercuts the inherent tension; while the threat of violence may hover over the film’s second half like a patiently circling vulture, we recognize that none of the involved players desires such an outcome, and their resultant ineffectiveness adds a winning layer of comedic irony. It also helps his movie to deepen as it goes, and by the time he brings “Anora” home, it has transcended the genres from which it samples to leave us with a bittersweet satisfaction that feels infinitely more authentic than the “Pretty Woman” fantasy toward which it hints in the beginning.

It would be an affront to reveal much about how things play out, except to say that its final scene delivers a profoundly resonant impact that we understand without having to hear a word of dialogue; it’s the payoff earned by two hours of flawless performances from a cast palpably attuned to each other, guided by a cinematic master whose gift for bringing out the best in his collaborators has helped to make him one of the most unequivocally acclaimed American filmmakers of our era.

As seamless a group effort as it is, Madison’s Ani – fierce, determined, and unwilling to give up any agency over her life – is the lynch-pin, so much a force to be reckoned with that we somehow never doubt she will come out on top of this harrowing crisis, yet at the same time navigates around a layer of vulnerability that reminds us just how much like the rest of us she is. While neither she nor any of the film’s characters is queer, there is something about her – her refusal to be defined or stigmatized for who she is, perhaps, or her outsider status in a culture where conformity to traditional rules and class hierarchy is the prime directive – which makes her feel like “one of us,” an outcast thumbing her nose at those who would dismiss or decry her over how she lives her life. It’s a tour-de-force performance, and “Anora” hinges on its power.

She’s supported by a universally superb ensemble. Special mention goes to Eydelshteyn, whose Ivan has an irresistible charm that helps us believe Ani’s decision to trust him and keeps us from judging him too harshly for his inevitable callowness; Karagulian and Tovmasyan, as the chief and second banana (respectively) of the hapless henchmen who attempt to intimidate the young newlyweds into submission, both embody decidedly ordinary men trying to stay in control despite being hopelessly out of their depth, a source for both much-needed humor and unexpected empathy; but it’s Borisov”s Igor who becomes the film’ most compelling figure – the “muscle” of the home invasion crew whose outward thuggishness hides a much more thoughtful approach to life than anyone around him might be capable of seeing, and who establishes himself in the third act as the film’s grounding emotional force.

Of course, Baker’s knack for creating a “wild ride” of a film (populated by people we probably wouldn’t want to hang out with in real life) plays a big part in making this one a sexy (often explicitly) and entertaining movie as well as a deeply engaging, challenging piece of cinema, and the gritty, ‘70s-evocative cinematography from Drew Daniels only heightens the experience. It’s one of those rare films that, even though it is crafted with excellence from every contributor, somehow manages still to be greater than the sum of its parts. 

It’s our pick for the best film of the year so far, and while it might be too soon for us to proclaim “Anora” as Sean Baker’s masterpiece, it’s certainly tempting to do so.

It’s funny – and by funny, we mean ironic – how things that were once on the fringes of our culture, experienced by few and appreciated by even fewer, become respectable after they’ve been around for half a century or more. The Blade herself can probably attest to that.

Cheap, self-deprecating one-liners aside, there’s something to celebrate about the ability to survive and thrive for decades despite being mostly ignored by the mainstream “tastemakers” of our society – which is why, in honor of the 50th anniversary of its release, we can’t help but take an appreciative look back at John Waters’s arguable masterpiece, “Female Trouble,” which debuted in movie theaters on Oct. 11, 1974 and was promptly dismissed and forgotten by most of American society. 

Waters had already made his breakthrough with 1972’s “Pink Flamingos,” which more or less helped the “Midnight Movie” become a counterculture touchstone of the seventies and eighties beyond while making his star (and muse) Glenn Milstead – aka Divine – into an underground sensation. Naturally, expectations for this follow-up were high among his already growing cult following, who were hungry for more of his gleefully transgressive anarchy. But while it certainly delivered what they craved, it would have been hard for any movie to surpass the sensation caused by the latter, which had already broken perhaps the ultimate onscreen taboo by ending with a scene of Divine’s character eating a freshly deposited dollop of dog feces. Though “Female Trouble” offered plenty of its own hilariously shocking (and occasionally revolting) thrills, it had no standout “WTF” moment of its own to “top” that one. Subsequently, the curious mainstream, who were never going to be Waters fans anyway, lost interest.

For his true audience, however, it was anything but a let-down. After all, it featured most of the same outrageous cast members and doubled down on the ferociously radical camp that had made “Flamingos” notorious even among the “straight” (as in “square”) crowd; and while it maintained the bargain basement “guerilla” style the director had perfected throughout his early years of DIY filmmaking in Boston, it nevertheless displayed a savvy for cinematic craft that allowed Waters to both subvert and pay homage to the old-school Hollywood movies his (mostly) queer fans had grown up loving – and making fun of – just like him. It was quickly embraced, joining “Flamingos” on art house double bills across the U.S. and helping the Waters cult to grow until he finally won the favor of the masses with his more socially palatable “Hairspray” in 1988.

Fifty years later, there is little doubt that “Female Trouble” has displaced “Flamingos” as Waters’s quintessential work. Riding high on the heels of the latter, the director had both a bolstered self-confidence and an assured audience awaiting his next film, and he outdid himself by creating an ambitious and breathtakingly grotesque black comedy that frequently feels like we’re watching a crime being committed on film. Ostensibly framed as a “cautionary tale” of “juvenile delinquency,” it follows the life story of Dawn Davenport (Divine), who abandons social conformity once and for all when her parents fail to give her the black cha-cha heeled shoes she wanted for Christmas. Running away from home, she quickly becomes an unwed mother, leading her to a life of crime as she tries to support her unruly and ungrateful daughter Taffy (Hilary Taylor, later Waters stalwart Mink Stole). Things seem to turn around when she is accepted as a client at the exclusive “Le Lipstique” beauty salon, where owners Donald and Donna Dasher (David Lochery and Mary Vivian Pearce) take a particular interest in her, and marries star hairdresser Gater (Michael Potter) despite the objections of his doting Aunt Ida (Edith Massey), who wants him to “turn Nelly” and avoid the “sick and boring life” of a heterosexual.  

From there, Waters’s absurdly melodramatic saga enters the realm of pure lunacy. Dawn’s marriage inevitably fails, and she falls under the influence of the Dashers, who use her as an experiment to prove their theory that “Crime equals Beauty” and get her hooked on shooting up liquid eyeliner; Gater leaves for Detroit to pursue a career in the “auto in-DUS-try”, and his doting Aunt Ida (Edith Massey) disfigures Dawn’s face by dousing it with acid; Taffy goes on a quest to find her deadbeat dad and ends up murdering him before joining the Hare Krishna movement; and things culminate in a murderous nightclub performance by the now-thoroughly deranged Dawn, which earns her a date with the electric chair for the film’s literally “shocking” finale.

It would be easy to rhapsodize over the many now-iconic highlights of “Female Trouble” – some of our favorites are its hilarious early scenes of Dawn’s life as a high school delinquent, the Christmas morning rampage in which she destroys her parents’ living room like Godzilla on a bender in Tokyo, “Bad Seed”-ish Taffy’s torment of her mother via jump rope rhymes and car crash re-enactments on the living room furniture, Aunt Ida’s persistent attempts to set up Gater on a “boy date,” and the master stroke of double-casting Divine as the low-life mechanic who fathers Taffy and thereby allows him to literally fuck himself onscreen – but every Waters fan has a list of their own.

Likewise, we could take a scholarly approach, and point out the “method” in the madness by highlighting themes or cultural commentaries that might be observed, such as the film’s way of ridiculing the straight world’s view of queer existence by presenting it to them in an over-the-top caricature of their own narrative tropes, or its seeming prescience in spoofing pop culture’s obsession with glamour, beauty, and toxic behavior as entertainment decades before the advent and domination of “reality” TV – but those things have been said many times already, and none of them really have anything to do with why we love it so much.

What we love is the freakishness of it; Waters revealed years after the fact that Divine’s “look” as Dawn Davenport was inspired by a photo from Diane Arbus, whose work served as a testament to the anonymous fringe figures of American culture, but it could be said that all of his characters, in this and in all his early films, might also be drawn from one of her images. It’s that, perhaps, that is the key to its appeal: it’s a movie about “freaks,” made for freaks by someone who is a freak themself. It makes us laugh at all of its excesses simply because they are funny – and the fact that the NON-freaks don’t “get it” just makes them all the funnier.

As Aunt Ida says, “Queers are just better” – and in this case, we mean “queer” as in “different than the boring norm.”

In any case, queer or otherwise, celebrate your freakishness by watching “Female Trouble” in honor of its anniversary this weekend. Whether it’s your umpteenth time or your first, it will be 97 minutes you won’t regret.

It’s no surprise that the fall movie landscape finds an unusually large number of films – most of them documentaries – about trans people and the challenges they face in trying to achieve an identity that matches their own sense of self. 

Transgender rights or even acceptance have never been in such a precarious place within the American political landscape since queer rights were acknowledged at all in the mainstream conversation. After eight years of ramped-up efforts by anti-trans activists to essentially legislate them out of legal existence, trans people find themselves facing a divisive and uncomfortably close election that will likely have an existential impact on their future, accompanied by persistent and vocal efforts by the conservative right-wing crowd to ostracize and stigmatize them within public perception. They’re not the only target, but they are the most vulnerable one – especially within the evangelical strongholds that might swing the election one way or the other – and that means a lot of conservative crosshairs are trained directly on them.

It’s a position they’re used to, unfortunately, which is precisely why there are so many erudite and artistic voices within the trans community emerging, prepared by years of experience and education gained from dealing with persistent transphobic dogma in American culture, to illuminate the trans experience and push back against the efforts of political opportunists by letting their stories speak for themselves. Surely there is no weapon against hatred more potent than empathy – once we recognize our own reflection in those we demonize, it’s hard to keep ourselves from recognizing our shared humanity, too – and perhaps no more potent way of conveying it than through the most visceral artistic medium of all: filmmaking

Particularly timely, in the wake of an Olympics marked by controversy over the participation of Algeria’s Imane Khelif and Taiwan’s Lin Yu-ting in the women’s competition, is “Unfightable,” from producer/director Marc J. Perez. Offering up a harrowing, heartbreaking, and ultimately inspiring portrait of Alana McLaughlin – a U.S. Army Special Forces sergeant who, following gender transition, turned female MMA fighter only to face resistance and transphobic prejudice within the rarified cultural microcosm of professional sports – while also taking a deep dive into the world of Mixed Martial Arts and the starkly divided attitudes of those who work within it, it aims to turn one person’s trans experience into a metaphor for the struggle of an entire community to be recognized and accepted on its own terms. For the most part, it succeeds.

Unlike many such biography-heavy documentaries, “Unfightable” allows its subject – the charismatic and outspoken McLaughlin, whose presence rightly dominates the film and leaves the most lingering impression – to narrate her own story, without interpretation or commentary from “talking head” experts. From the grim-but-all-too-familiar story of her upbringing in a deeply religious family (and yes, conversion “therapy” was involved) through her struggle to define her identity via a grueling military career, her eventual transition, and her emergence as only the second transfeminine competitor in the professional MMA arena and beyond, Perez treats most of the movie’s narrative thrust like an extended one-on-one interview, in which McLaughlin delivers the story as she experienced it. This one-on-one honest expression is effectively counterpointed by the rhetoric of other MMA personalities who participated in the film, some of which is shockingly transphobic despite protestations of having “nothing against” trans people.

At the same time, the film acknowledges and amplifies supportive voices within the MMA, whose efforts to bring McLaughlin into the fold were not only successful, but ultimately led to her victorious 2021 match against French fighter Celine Provost. It’s a tale that hits all the touchstone marks of queer/trans experience for those whose lives can’t really begin until they break free of their oppressive origins, and whose fight to claim an authentic life for themself is frequently waged against both the families who ostensibly love them and the prejudices of a society eager to condemn anything that deviates from the perceived “norm”. Naturally, as a story of individual determination, self-acceptance, and success against the odds, its main agenda is to draw you in and lift you up; but it does so while still driving home the point about how far the road still stretches ahead before trans athletes – and by extension, trans people in general – are afforded the same legitimacy as everyone else.

To ensure that reality is never forgotten or taken lightly, we are offered some pretty egregious examples; from prominent fighters who insist they “have no problem” with trans people as a preface for their transphobic beliefs about trans athletes, to McLaughlin’s long wait before finding another MMA pro who was willing to fight her we are confronted with a pattern of prejudice blocking her path forward. And though it documents her triumph, it reminds us that three years later, despite her accomplishments, she has yet to find another MMA pro willing to give her another bout.

If nothing else, though, “Unfightable” underscores a shift in attitudes that reflects the progress – however slow or maddeningly hard-won it may be – of trans people carving out space for themselves in a social environment still largely hostile to their success or even their participation. As McLaughlin’s journey illustrates, it takes dogged persistence and a not-insignificant level of righteous anger to even pierce the skin of the systemic transphobia that still opposes the involvement of people like her in sports; her experience also bears witness to the emboldened bigotry that has doubled-down on its opposition to trans acceptance since the 2016 election of a certain former president who is now seeking a second chance of his own – highlighting the dire consequences at stake for the trans community (and, let’s face it, the entire queer community alongside every other group deplored and marginalized by his followers) should his efforts toward a comeback prove successful.

Yet as grim an outlook as it may acknowledge, “Unfightable” doesn’t leave viewers with a belief in sure defeat; in the toughness of its subject – who is, as it proudly makes clear, a veteran of combat much more directly dangerous than anything she will ever encounter in the ring – and her refusal to simply give up and go away, it kindles in us the same kind of dogged resistance that fueled her own transcendence of a toxic personal history and allowed her to assert her identity –  triumphantly so, despite the transphobia that would have kept her forever from the prize.

That’s a spirit of determination that we all could use to help drive us to victory at the polls come November. Like Alana McLaughlin, we have neither the desire nor the ability to go back to the way our lives were before, and Perez’s documentary helps us believe we have the strength to keep it from happening.

“Unfightable” opened for a limited release in New York on Sept. 13 and begins another in Los Angeles on Sept. 20. It will air on ViX, the leading Spanish-language streaming service in the world, and in English on Fuse TV, following its theatrical run.

It’s reasonable to assume, if you’re someone with an interest in “hidden” queer history, that you are already aware of the speculation that Abraham Lincoln might have been gay, or at least bisexual.

Those labels didn’t exist in his time, but the 16th POTUS left a trail of eyebrow-raising same-sex relationships, nonetheless, which many scholars consider as evidence that he was likely a member of what we now call the LGBTQ community.

The discussion around Lincoln’s sexuality has always been broadly drawn and ambiguously cloaked by 19th-century social norms (which [spoiler alert] were not quite as Puritanical as we might believe). Conclusions must be drawn by inference, so it’s no surprise that many historians tend to be wary of projecting modern-day interpretations on a past era. Such experts warn against drawing conclusions from a between-the-lines reading of “official” history; by that standard, whatever the implications might suggest, there’s simply no way to prove anything, one way or another, and that’s the end of the story.

Others, however, are not so eager to close the discussion – and that’s where the creators of “Lover of Men: The Untold History of Abraham Lincoln,” a new documentary conveniently timed for release mere months ahead of what might be our most crucial election so far when it comes to the subject of LGBTQ acceptance and equality, decided to step in and set the record (if you’ll pardon the expression) straight.

Directed by Shaun Peterson – who co-wrote alongside Joshua Koffman, Grace Leeson, and Robert Rosenheck – and unapologetically committed to piercing the opacity of a biography that contains too many “red flags” to ignore, it’s a documentary that eschews neutrality to make a case for claiming “Honest Abe” as the most prominent LGBTQ hero in the Great American Story. Unfolded by expert historians – both queer and otherwise – as an intimate portrait of a profoundly public figure, it charts Lincoln’s life through a lens trained on private experience, and goes beyond that to frame the much-beloved president’s growth and transformation into one of the world’s most significant leaders as a probable consequence of the “friendships” he experienced with the men who were his closest companions during different periods of his life.

Most of the attention is directed, unsurprisingly, at Joshua Speed, the handsome shopkeeper with whom, for four years of his young manhood, Lincoln shared a bed as a matter of “convenience” – despite offers of free and private lodgings elsewhere and a successful law practice that would have allowed him to buy a bed of his own and a house in which to put it. Casting Speed as “the love of Lincoln’s life,” it positions him (through plentiful historical documentation) as the man who helped the future president find his mojo; even so, it goes on to present evidence supporting less well-known male companions as catalysts to Lincoln’s maturation both as a commander-in-chief and a human being.

We won’t go into much detail here; the movie does a better job of illuminating the record than we ever could – and it does so not by relying solely on the speculation of possibly biased commentators, but by presenting “the receipts” as they appear in the indisputable (yet under-discussed) historical record. Gleaned from private correspondences and interviews with Lincoln’s primary contemporary biographer, these details reveal (among other things) the future president’s ambivalence toward women, the questionable context in which Lincoln bedded down with his various male companions, and the emotional bond he had with each of them that seemed to overshadow the one he shared with his eventual first lady, Mary Todd Lincoln – who, at least through the lens cast upon her here, was probably more in love with the idea of being married to a president than she was to the president she married.

No, there’s no “smoking gun” (again, pardon the expression) to be found by the erudite scholars who expound upon the persuasively numerous clues contained in Lincoln’s biography during the course of the film. There are, however, plenty of tell-tale powder burns. By exploring the nuance behind the many documented-but-veiled suggestions about the martyred president’s relationships, both male and female, this varied assortment of historians highlights the points that strike a familiar chord for queer people even if they’re likely to go unconsidered by anyone else. By the end, “Lover of Men” has expertly pleaded its case and rested it, relying on the weight and volume of its circumstantial evidence to satisfy any reasonable doubt.

The final verdict, of course, remains up to the individual viewer, and it unfortunately goes without saying that a good many will be watching with intent to discredit any hint of queerness within Lincoln’s biography, if they even watch it at all. Yet while it’s easy to reject an idea when you’ve already made up your mind that it’s false, it’s just as easy to accept one that you want to be true; and though the historians of Peterson’s smart and sassy movie carry an undeniable weight of credibility in their arguments, what remains indisputably accurate is that there is no way to know with certainty if our most-revered president was shaded with the “lavender” referenced by his poetic biographer Carl Sandburg to describe his nature in a later-prudently deleted passage of prose.

That’s perfectly all right, though. “Lover of Men” never tries to claim, unequivocally, that Lincoln belonged in the LGBTQ rainbow, only that the likely probability that he was is worthy of consideration. Further, it goes on to highlight the open-minded empathy that allowed him to pivot his viewpoint in ways that are typically unthinkable in politics; the evolution it charts for Lincoln from gifted country bumpkin to fully aware (dare we say “woke”?) humanitarian leader makes him an ideological model that feels crucial today. That having to suppress his true nature may have shaped the values and ideals that would ultimately help him to change the world makes the film’s arguments even more persuasive; and if its re-enactments of encounters between Lincoln and his alleged male lovers read as a little too modern to be true, they certainly convey a more plausible interpretation than can be found in any surface reading of the scrupulously polite language describing such events in the historic record.

Reinforced by filmed footage of the now-historically preserved sites (the smallness of an old shared cot speaks volumes) where Lincoln’s intimate life took place, these fancifully anachronistic translations of 19th-century queer courtship into something instantly recognizable to modern queer viewers succeed in making it difficulty to cling to a denial that this particular American icon might plausibly have been queer – unless you are very deeply invested, for whatever reason, in doing so.

Sadly, that last point means a great many people will probably reject this passionately earnest piece of info-tainment sight unseen; but for those who don’t, it offers an intelligent and reasonable perspective on one of our most important national icons that can only increase his relevance in an age almost as divisive as the one over which he was destined to preside.

In other words, don’t miss it.

When Colman Domingo became a frontrunner for last year’s Best Actor Oscar – nominated for his star turn as the titular civil rights hero in “Rustin” – it was big news for the LGBTQ community. He was the first openly gay Afro-Latino to be nominated for the award. Had he won, he would have been the first openly gay actor to take the category, and only the second out queer performer to win in any of the acting categories. It would have been a milestone.

Yet his loss, somehow, didn’t seem much of a disappointment: Colman’s prodigious talent (also on display in last year’s “The Color Purple”) seemed to assure fans that it would get another chance – and “Sing Sing,” now in theaters nationwide after an auspicious debut at the 2023 Toronto International Film Festival, might very well be the movie that gets it for him.

In it, Domingo portrays John “Divine G” Whitfield, an inmate at New York’s Sing Sing Correctional Facility who has become a pillar of the prison’s “Rehabilitation Through the Arts” (RTA) program, through which he and fellow participants collaborate on the creation and performance of theater presentations for the larger prison population. As the group plans its next play – a fantastical time-travel comedy combining an eclectic mix of classic storylines and characters – he is equally focused on a clemency hearing that might overturn his sentence for a murder he didn’t commit. That doesn’t stop him from reaching out to help a hard-case new recruit (Clarence Macklin) into the fold, despite the newcomer’s chip-on-the-shoulder attitude and a rivalry that threatens his own status as a “top dog” in the company. As both the performance and his hearing draw nearer, the inevitable hardships and humiliations of prison existence take their toll, culminating in a crisis of faith that threatens to undermine not only the upcoming performance, but the unwavering resilience that has allowed him to resist the dehumanizing effects of his incarceration.

As co-written by Clint Bentley and director Greg Kwedar, the screenplay gives us little in the way of expository information, even skipping the formality of opening credits in favor of dropping us directly into the action, and instead allows us to glean the necessary background details as we go. It’s never an obstacle; Kwedar’s simple-yet-eloquent approach to presenting the narrative allows the actors to reveal information through nuance as much as through words, and frames the visuals (with help from cinematographer Pat Scola) in a radiant natural light that lends warmth to the institutional bleakness of the setting, making it easy to be patient as we pick up what we need to know about the characters’ back stories. It also facilitates our engagement with the creative energy of the troupe’s rehearsals – guided by a weathered director (Paul Raci) with a gift for teaching his charges to “trust the process” – and connects us with the theme of personal transformation through art, a thread that runs throughout the film and feels at least equally as significant as the details of any individual character’s personal story.

It’s this, of course, that gives “Sing Sing” its most profound and universal impact. Though any viewer might reasonably expect a movie about prisoners – most of them people of color from marginalized and disadvantaged backgrounds – to be geared toward a focus on issues of equity and social justice, Kwedar’s film allows those ideas to remain self-evident while placing its dominant weight behind the premise that art, and particularly those that involve language and performance, can function as both an escape from the suffering of a bleak everyday existence and a means of transcending it. Reinforced repeatedly in the narrative, most obviously in the inclusion of Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy from “Hamlet” but underscored through most of the material we see the inmates perform, it makes the story of Whitfield and his fellow prisoners into an unmistakable metaphor for anyone who has ever struggled to find meaning and peace in a cold and unpredictable world – and let’s face it, that means almost everybody.

Perhaps inevitably for such a film, “Sing Sing” occasionally seems to come off as one of those idealized Hollywood “feel-good” social dramas in which the heartaches and tragedies are overcome by hope and an undeterred spirit; the more cynical among its audience might well see it as “too good to be true,” with conflicts that dissipate a little too easily and plot resolutions we might see coming even before they’re finished being set up. Such judgments, however, become harder to render with the knowledge that – and it almost feels like a spoiler to reveal it, since the movie chooses to do so only when the credits finally roll at the end – not only is it a true story, but most of its cast (including Maclin, who plays himself) are actual alumni of the real-life RTA program, which operates in six New York State prisons. Not only that, the real-life Whitfield (who himself appears in a small role) and Maclin collaborated with Kwedar and Bentley on the story – so that, regardless of any dramatic license that may have been taken, there is an undeniable authenticity that is borne out by the inclusion of so many actual “success stories” from the program in the film’s ensemble cast.

As for that cast, each of them gives an equally compelling performance, even when they only have a few minutes of screen time; Kwedar gives everyone moments to shine, and while some have more of those than others, all contribute equally to the film’s overall power to move us.

Still, it’s the film’s major figures that have the most standout moments; Raci brings intelligence, compassion, and an air of nurturing authority to his role as the group’s seasoned director, and Maclin burns with the charismatic intensity of an experienced movie star – which he should, on the strength of this remarkable debut alone. Also worth mentioning is Sean San José, a longtime off-screen friend to Colman, mirroring their real-life relationship as a fellow inmate and confidante to add an extra touch of genuine camaraderie to their scenes.

“Sing Sing” ultimately belongs, however, to its lead player. Domingo is a fearless and powerful actor, something he has proven throughout his career and that has aided his rise to acclaim and stardom, and he brings those qualities to this role for an unforgettable star turn. Intelligent, erudite, passionate, vulnerable, and capable of delivering Shakespearean verse or prison slang with equal conviction and command, he gives a performance that elevates the movie while simultaneously blending seamlessly into its larger purpose. There’s nothing about him that screams “awards bait,” which makes him even more deserving of honors.

Whether he gets them or not, “Sing Sing” is a movie to be remembered — a testament to the power of art and the “invincible summer” that keeps us going when all of life seems intent on extinguishing our hope, it leaves us feeling inspired, renewed, and ready to face the world with a refreshed sense of perspective.

It’s the rare movie that can manage that, so don’t miss this one.

Anybody who loves movies knows the thrill of returning to an old favorite for a repeat viewing; it allows us to appreciate things we missed before. Alternatively, re-watching a bad movie (or at least, one you disliked) can help you find a new perspective on it  – but that comes with the risk of discovering that it’s still bad, and then you’ve wasted a couple of hours that you’ll never get back.

But what if it’s a “bad” movie that is technically not the same movie anymore? Does it deserve another chance?

No, that’s not a riddle. It’s something to ponder before deciding to experience the newly re-edited and re-constructed 4K re-release of 1979’s “Caligula,” the notorious historical epic about the famously unhinged titular Roman emperor, which featured a boldly stylized reconstruction of its ancient Roman setting, a youthful Malcolm McDowell in the title role, and a roster of distinguished British actors adding their prestige in support. Controversial even before the cameras started rolling, it was an ambitious multi-national production that spared no expense in bringing the despot’s personal rise and fall to the screen in all its lavish and debauched glory – conceived by none other than porn magnate Bob Guccione, the founder and editor of Penthouse magazine.

As in its original form, helmed by Italian filmmaker Tinto Brass, the movie opens as Caligula – heir to the throne of his increasingly deranged great uncle, the Roman Emperor Tiberius, who rules from a private island sanctuary and spends most of his time satisfying his perverse sexual appetites – fears that the old man views him as a threat to his power and decides to get ahead of the problem by disposing of him first. This, of course, makes Caligula the new emperor, and from there the tale depicts a chronology of his reign, in which his own lust for power – and other things – transforms him into a depraved tyrant. That’s not great for Rome, of course, but it ends up even worse for Caligula. We won’t spoil what happens, but you can look it up in any history book about the Roman Empire if you want to know.

The production was, to put it mildly, a mess. Guccione hired Brass to direct, and contracted renowned author Gore Vidal to write the screenplay, only to wrangle with both over creative differences. Vidal was eventually fired, and Brass assigned to adapt his script – but in the end, conflicts over the approach to sexual content led Guccione to remove Brass from the process and hire a team of editors to assemble a final cut according to his own specifications. He also snuck into the studio after-hours to film additional scenes of un-simulated sex featuring several hand-picked “Penthouse Pets,” which were then inserted into the movie to provide the flavor of softcore eroticism he assumed audiences would expect from his “brand.”

He may have been right about the audiences – “Caligula” was a box-office hit, a status no doubt fueled by international outrage from conservatives who decried it as “pornographic.” The most expensive independent film in history, it made back its cost and then some – but critics largely tore Guccione’s long-in-the-works pet project apart (legendary film reviewer Roger Ebert famously walked out on it), and though it had its defenders, it quickly achieved status as a notably embarrassing “flop.”

Cinema lovers, however, have a habit of favorably reassessing the film failures of previous generations, and inevitably, “Caligula” gained a reputation over the years as just such a movie. Enter Thomas Negovan, a film historian who discovered nearly 100 hours of unused footage – rejected takes, deleted scenes, and other material abandoned in Guccione’s final vision for the film – and undertook a full re-creation of the originally conceived “Caligula” as far as was possible, replacing every frame of footage from the 1979 release with alternate takes and reincorporating abandoned elements to create a stunningly restored new version in an effort to realize screenwriter Vidal’s original conception as closely as possible.

The resulting film, dubbed the “Ultimate Cut,” premiered at 2023’s Cannes Film Festival, where it earned praise from critics who cited its success in restoring both the movie’s artistic integrity and thematic cohesion, as well as its expanded showcase of the strong performances from McDowell (fresh from his breakthrough “Clockwork Orange” role when cast here) and future Oscar-winner Helen Mirren, as Caligula’s wife Caesonia. It restores at least some of Vidal’s intended theme highlighting the corruption that comes with absolute power – though not the openly gay author’s stronger emphasis on queer sexuality, a major point of contention with Guccione despite his willing inclusion of explicit same-sex and bisexual intimacy. Those moments largely take place as part of the background, a scenic element establishing the moral decadence of its title character’s reign and presenting a fetishized representation of queer coupling that – like all of the movie’s sex – seems more performative than passionate.

Even so, it’s a better film than it was, particularly in a restored print that emphasizes the rich color of Silvano Ippoliti’s cinematography and the “seventies chic” re-imagination of Ancient Rome by production designer Danilo Donati. McDowell’s performance, seen in its fleshed-out entirety for the first time, reclaims a coherent arc that was lost in the original cut, while Mirren’s work is similarly expanded to reveal a layered nuance that somehow anchors the movie’s extremities to a recognizable humanity. Additionally, Negovian’s work in de- and re-constructing the original film is praiseworthy for its meticulous devotion to delivering a unified whole.

At the same time, there are missteps that alternative footage can’t correct. “Caligula” still plays like a confused art house costume drama duped into becoming an exploitation film. Gratuitous sex and over-the-top violence are still the predominant tactics for eliciting audience response, and while the “star” performances – even legendary ham Peter O’Toole’s Tiberius, a case study in untethered-yet-irresistible overacting – and an elegantly trashy visual aesthetic lend it a semblance of artistic dignity, it can’t quite overcome the disingenuousness inherent in its blend of “serious” themes with blatantly exploitative underpinnings.

All of which begs the same question presented by the classic thought experiment called “The Ship of Theseus,” which asks us to contemplate whether a vessel that has had all of its parts replaced over time can still be considered the same vessel. It’s a moot point, however, because “Caligula” – disavowed even in its new incarnation by director Brass – is still plagued by the creative conflicts that marred its production. Its various elements seem to work at confused cross purposes, undermining any effort to impose a genuine sense of depth or artistic unity and leaving us with something that, despite the earnest contributions of many of its participants, still feels like a cynical effort to pass off porn by dressing it up as art.

Not that we’re judging that; in fact, we’re encouraging you to catch “Caligula: the Ultimate Cut” during its road show rollout in theaters, which commenced earlier this month, before it releases on VOD and streaming platforms later on. It might still be trash, but it’s sumptuous trash, and that’s always worth seeing on the big screen.

Sometimes, casting the right person in a role can make or break a movie.

Consider “Cuckoo,” the buzzy horror film now in theaters nationwide, which turns a formulaic premise into an edgy and provocative thriller thanks to the presence of lead player Hunter Schafer, the breakout trans co-star of HBO’s acclaimed “Euphoria.” Her role might have been played by any young actress of appropriate age and sufficient talent, but carries a much more palpable weight both because of what she brings to it and because of how her director –  sophomore German feature-filmmaker Tilman Singer (“Luz”) – chooses to present her.

That role is Gretchen (Schafer), an American teen raised by her recently deceased mother and now forced to move in with her father (Marton Csokas) and his new family just as they relocate to a remote town in the Bavarian Alps, where the owner of a resort he designed wants him to work on an expansion. Already feeling like a stranger within the household – which, besides dad’s second wife (Jessica Henwick), includes a perplexingly mute young stepsister, Alma (Mila Lieu), who has begun to experience unexplained seizure-like episodes since Gretchen’s arrival – and still grieving the loss of her mom, she’s not thrilled about the added isolation of living in a remote and sleepy mountain town. Making matters worse are her misgivings about the resort and the community that surrounds it, not to mention the vaguely threatening vibe she seems to sense behind the benevolent manner of Herr König (Dan Stevens), her dad’s overly polite and aggressively gracious boss. 

Suspecting that things here are not entirely what they seem, she resolves to run away, but a successful escape requires money – so when König offers her a job at the reception desk, she takes it despite her better instincts. Naturally, this puts her right in the cross-hairs of whatever ominous conspiracy may be surrounding her, something she realizes when she disregards warnings never to stay at the resort after dark and narrowly escapes an attack from a terrifying figure in the woods. Though local authorities dismiss the incident as a prank, she is soon approached by the police chief himself (Jan Bluthardt), who is conducting a secret investigation of his own and seeks her help.

We won’t reveal what they find out, exactly; it’s enough to say that things revolve around a secret project to preserve a local species with an unusual means of reproduction. Besides this and the fact that Singer’s film draws heavily on both body horror and sci-fi elements to spin its harrowing narrative, the only thing you need to know is that, like so many relationships on social media, it’s complicated.

That’s a double-edged observation; as Singer’s film begins to unwind the twisted tale at the core of its premise, the revelations come at us fast and furious, resulting in a feeling that there are too many “moving parts” of which we must keep track, and a subsequent decision that it is too much work to do so. This has less to do with the details surrounding the menacing (and possibly misunderstood) “presence” that provides much of the movie’s more visceral thrills than it does with the convoluted escalations of its plot; more plainly said, in crafting a suitably gripping climax the story devolves into an implausible B-movie showdown built on unlikely reversals and hard-to-bridge gaps of logic, with Stevens’s character essentially filling in for the mad scientist defending his lab against torch-wielding villagers bent on destroying his well-meaning but misguided experiment. As a result, it loses a good deal of steam – as well as some of the good will it earns with its intriguing premise and effectively orchestrated slow build toward the final act – before getting us to the big finale.

Fortunately, despite the messiness of its denouement, “Cuckoo” ends on a strong note. In the wake of what we’ll describe as its suitably apocalyptic endgame, it leaves us with the unexpected suggestion that the solution in overcoming a perceived threat to our existence lies not in extreme, all-or-nothing viewpoints, however passionately or understandingly they may be held, but in finding a middle path between them. The key, in Gretchen’s case, is attached to compassion and a feeling of shared humanity, and not in self-validating personal ideologies that are ultimately more about ourselves than the things we think we need to defend or protect.

If anything can be credited with rescuing Singer’s movie from its reliance on genre formalism and overcomplicated storytelling, it’s Schafer’s performance. She embodies Gretchen’s achingly recognizable teenage nihilism to a tee, tapping into a universal feeling of being on the “outside” and allowing it to fuel our engagement in her story even when the plot goes over the top and off the rails; but what makes her performance indispensable to Singer’s purpose is also what gives his film significance far beyond its measured success as a thriller. While Schafer is unequivocally a trans woman, Gretchen’s gender identity is never explicitly disclosed; though the “trans-ness” of the performer invites a valid interpretation of “Cuckoo” as an allegory about transphobia, or about the necessity for queer people to find “chosen families” to replace the ones into which they are born, these possible readings of the film exist among many others, and the character’s gender is ultimately irrelevant. Though admittedly, thanks to the involvement of another outsider, a female-presenting traveler named Ed (Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey) who shows up to provide Gretchen with a glimmer of hope and a potential escape route, there’s an unflinching queerness that underlies the film’s entire perspective.

Through that lens, Schafer’s work here represents a landmark in the sense that she has become a lead performer in a relatively prominent film as a trans actress in a role that neither addresses nor needs to address her gender. That’s nothing to be scoffed at, whether or not one can fully surrender to the grotesque pleasures of Singer’s unapologetically shock-centric script and direction, but what is perhaps more important – at least in terms of the work itself – is that she takes a familiar stock character (the “final girl”) and infuses it with the kind of depth worthy of an Oscar-bait performance in an A-list “prestige” film. She shines neither because of nor in spite of her trans identity; rather, she shines because of her talent.

It’s worth mentioning that Stevens works hard to overcome the melodramatic writing behind Herr König and, as much as possible, mostly succeeds; and while most of the film’s other performances are decidedly less “showy,” the entire cast manages to keep us engaged enough to accept the movie’s potentially campy (not the good kind) conceits. Likewise, even if his screenplay gets muddy for a while in the third quarter, Singer’s shrewdly balanced blend of genre tropes and artistic vision as a director never wavers, keeping us not only invested but thrilled by his style even during his movie’s silliest moments.

All that makes “Cuckoo” a great choice for a date night that can also be a not-so-guilty pleasure – and when it comes to the movies, you can’t ask for much more than that.

In Greek mythology, a young mortal named Ganymede possessed such beauty that Zeus himself chose to abduct the boy to Mount Olympus – which wasn’t such a bad deal, considering Ganymede was granted not just immortality to go along with his new job as cup-bearer to the gods, but eternal youth and beauty as well.

That’s not, however, how the story gets told – or rather, twisted – in the new movie “Ganymede,” the latest queer indie gem to debut on VOD platforms this summer, which uses the myth as the launchpad for a horror story that manages to be both campy and creepy at once. Directed by partners Colby Holt and Sam Probst (from Holt’s original screenplay) and set in a small town in the modern-day Bible Belt, it centers on high school wrestling star Lee (Jordan Doww), the only son of a deeply religious local politician (Joe Chrest) who runs his household with an iron fist. When gay classmate Kyle (Pablo Castelblanco) makes an effort to befriend him, he quickly develops feelings that put him at odds with his conservative upbringing; small-town gossip, as well as a dark family secret surrounding his mother (Robyn Lively, in a deliciously hysterical performance), soon have him under the controlling eye of his church’s fanatical pastor (David Koechner). Even more terrifying, his mind is being invaded by a ghostly, sinister presence that seems determined to drive him toward madness and self-destruction – unless Kyle can get to him first.

Like many of these queer-centric genre pictures, “Ganymede” emerged from the festival circuit, securing acclaim and awards throughout its run. With its unconcealed LGBTQ focus and religious homophobia at the core of its horror, it’s plain to see why it would strike a chord with queer audiences, especially in a time when conservative pushback against queer acceptance dominates the public conversation.

For “mainstream” horror fans, however, whose appreciation of the genre is generally focused on fright and gore rather than on the subtextual nuances of its tropes, Holt’s movie might not be the terrifying experience it aims to be — largely because he and Probst do not hide their LGBTQ perspective between the lines. It’s clear from early on that the gay love story upon which the plot hinges is exactly what it appears to be, and further, that it’s where our sympathies belong.

More than that, “Ganymede” inverts the supposed moral order of traditional, old-school horror narratives by framing the forces of religion – or at least, a weaponized form of it – as the source of the story’s true evil. Despite the “haunting” that plagues the film’s young protagonist from almost the very beginning, the supernatural elements of the story (spoiler alert) remain localized within his own mind, only manifesting in the real world – with one important but ambiguous exception – through his reactions to them, and it doesn’t take a film scholar to figure out that they are not the real threat to his well-being. For Holt and Probst, the evil doesn’t come from outside the real world, but from within the darkest corners of a stunted human imagination that projects its own pre-programmed ideas onto that world and treats anything that conflicts with them as an existential threat. In truth, it’s the same message one can find in horror classics from “Bride of Frankenstein” to “The Wicker Man” to the notoriously gay “Nightmare on Elm Street 2” – but in this case, it is delivered not by implication but by direct and obvious assertion.

It’s this point that might keep Holt’s film from satisfying the conventions of traditional horror filmmaking, but it’s worth observing that it’s also this point that makes it stand out. By refusing to conform to generic expectations, it represents a powerful cultural shift, in which the queerness of its premise no is no longer a transgressive statement of countercultural themes, but in fact becomes the “normal order” that is being threatened by perverse powers that seek to tear it down – and those perverse powers are the very “norms” that have so long cast all “otherness” in a monstrous light.

The bottom line for most film audiences, of course, be they queer or not, is whether the movie succeeds in scaring them – and if we’re being honest, it does so only in the sense that it confronts us with the horrific bigotry and abuse that is heaped upon LGBTQ existence from right-wing religious hate. That means, even for queer audiences, it’s not so much a horror movie as it is a disturbing allegory about the torment of being forced to suppress one’s true self in order to feign the safe conformity required for self-preservation. Frankly, that should be scary enough for everyone, regardless of whether the movie adheres to accepted genre form, to keep them trembling in their shoes over the prospect of a world dominated by such a deranged mentality; after all, it’s not just queer people who stand to be subjugated, suppressed, and worse in a world controlled by a strict and deeply biased interpretation of outdated beliefs – it’s anybody who would dare to suggest that those beliefs might deserve an extinction as final as the one experienced by the dinosaurs.

Going a long way toward making the whole thing work – besides the sureness of Holt’s direction, that is, which fully embraces the traditions of the genre (hence the aforementioned campiness) while treating the story as a realistic thriller with genuinely high stakes – is a cast that delivers performances several cuts above what we are use to seeing in such movies. Doww is a compelling and convincing lead, who never devolves into over-the-top histrionics, while Castelblanco triumphs in embodying the determined heroism required of his position in the plot while still maintaining an unashamedly femme-ish queer persona; we never doubt his ability to turn the tide, nor the natural and unforced chemistry the two actors find together. They find stellar support from the aforementioned Lively, as well as from Chrest – a domineering patriarch who would be the most terrifying figure in the film if it weren’t for Koechner’s chillingly authentic pastor, whose buried self-loathing is nevertheless painfully clear as he bullies and tortures the young Lee in the name of “conversion.”

Which brings us back to the significance of the title, and its roots in Greek mythology, where it was born as a tale of transcendence; in the warped minds of the film’s religious leaders, it becomes the opposite, a story of deliberate corruption perpetrated against so-called “decent” men by monsters who tempt them with “unnatural” desires. More than anything, perhaps, it’s that flourish of the screenplay that makes “Ganymede” an astute piece of social commentary, whether or not it succeeds as a horror film; in warping the understanding of that ancient tale into a justification for cruelty and repression, it underscores the toxic effects of clinging to a dogma that pretends to be truth while casting other viewpoints as the products of malevolent influence. That’s a delusion that has reached crisis levels in American society – and it’s why “Ganymede” is a must-see whether it’s a true horror film or not.