As Tammy Wynette once sang, sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.

That iconic understatement might easily serve as the thesis statement for “Nightbitch,” the new horror-tinged offering from writer/director Marielle Heller. Yet while Wynette was lamenting the hardships of staying loyal to a partner, Heller is more interested in the hardships of staying loyal to one’s self – and takes on a rarely aired perspective on an even more quintessential feminine experience.

We’re speaking, naturally, of Motherhood, considered a definitive part of female identity ever since there have been women. Cloaked in sacrosanct reverence due to its association with the traditional imperative to “preserve the species,” it’s often seen as a rite of passage that illuminates and reinforces the traditional role of women as “givers of life,” and usually characterized as demanding deep personal sacrifice — the sublimation of oneself for the sake of another (who, in the words of Heller’s protagonist, would “pee in your face without blinking”) in obedient servitude to the greater good.

Before you start clutching your pearls (“How DARE you suggest that being a mother is anything less than a blessing?!”), we’re not knocking motherhood; nor are we suggesting that children are life-sucking demons who exist only to torment us and disrupt every facet of our lives until we feel enslaved by them. Neither, in fact, is Heller’s movie, despite the clucking of anti-“woke” commentators who have tried to dismiss it as feminist propaganda.

Indeed, “Nightbitch” is very much cognizant of “walking the line” when it comes to its inarguably challenging meditation on the demands of being a mother, though it dares to transgress societal dogma around the subject nonetheless. Based on the 2021 novel of the same name by Rachel Yoder, it’s the story of a woman (Amy Adams) who has “paused” her promising career as an artist to be a stay-at-home mom so that her husband (Scoot McNairy) can focus his energies on the job that keeps him away in the city for five days – and nights – out of every week. Rigidly defined by banal routine, her daily life is dominated by serving the needs of their child (Arleigh and Emmett Snowden, dual-cast twins in a single role), and weekend reunions with his dad seem only to reinforce the disconnectedness in their relationship, not to mention their parallel-but-discordant understanding of what it means to be a parent, a partner, and a person, all at the same time.

The situation is bad enough as it is when we meet her, an endless loop of sleepless nights, repetitive feeding rituals, and putting on her bravest face around the implausibly perfect other moms who congregate around her with their toddlers for storytime sing-alongs at the library. Things start to take an even more depressing turn for her, however, when she begins to notice strange physical anomalies – new and oddly located patches of hair, a heightened sense of smell, an increased appetite – taking place in her body. Though she at first shrugs them off, these changes soon escalate to include uncontrollable outbursts of aggression, resurfacing memories of her childhood and her own mother, and recurring dreams of nocturnal runs with the neighborhood dogs, who in waking life have become inexplicably drawn to her. Recognizing that these new developments might threaten the already delicate balance of her domestic status quo, she decides to seek answers – and discovers an arcane and disturbing secret history that stretches back across generations of mothers before her.

Hinged on a premise that naturally points in that direction, “Nightbitch” is handled by Heller as if it were a horror film – which, to a certain extent, it is – and unfolds through a carefully stacked progression of generic tropes as blatantly as any “Friday the 13th” sequel. Yet while certain moments do provide us with unexpected jolts and the gross-out “body horror” elements definitely strike notes of revulsion, it operates in a manner that more closely resembles a dark satirical comedy flavored with magical realism. Adams’s character (billed simply as “Mother”) accepts these alarming changes with as much detached resignation as she does the rigors of rearing her child, but her narrative moves definitively into action when she decides to embrace what is happening to her, drawing inspiration from the wilder self that is pressing from within to make bolder, more instinctual choices.

Ultimately, of course, the film’s lycanthrop-ish trappings serve as a metaphor for an inner beast kept caged inside that clamors to be unleashed. Its central character – who, as we see in flashback memories, was raised in what many would call an “extreme” conservative environment – has built an entire self-actualized life and abandoned it, over a traditionalist sense of duty, for something that feels like an existence of endless servitude. Why wouldn’t she feel the need to assert her natural autonomy?

And yes, there’s an obvious feminist message that emerges as “Nightbitch” lopes toward its denouement, yet while it mercilessly explores the grueling side of child-rearing and throws subtextual shade at the patriarchal attitudes that make the experience even harder, it works to reconcile all those seemingly dissonant viewpoints and reinforce the notion that being a mother is a path to self-actualization.

Heller keeps the root of the Mother’s strange transformation enigmatic, but her film could not be clearer about its purpose: spurring her protagonist to reclaim her autonomy, and to forge a balance between her roles as an empowered woman, a selfless mother, and an artist with the potential to reconcile them all into one. If, that is, she can keep herself from going feral.

Adams, whose talent as an actress has often been underappreciated despite critical acclaim and multiple industry accolades, shines here in a way she’s previously never been allowed, taking on a glamourless yet compelling role and embodying it without reservation or ego. Her character walks a razor’s edge of likability, but she brings the kind of truth to her performance that keeps us on her side. In a similar fashion, Scoot McNairy (billed as “Husband”) manages to represent “The Patriarchy” yet also surprise us with his adaptability and empathy; together, they embody a couple we are somehow happy to root for, whose relationship – like all relationships – is a work-in-progress. The ‘70s cult cinema icon Jessica Harper also makes a significant impression as a vaguely “witchy” librarian who facilitates Adams’s quest for knowledge.

The quality of these performances – and Heller’s meticulous crafting of the film, which mostly keeps its supernatural elements in the nebulous realm between real life and imagination, though there are some legitimately disturbing moments – help to push “Nightbitch” beyond its genre pretensions and use it to express feelings that will doubtless be familiar to millions of woman, yet rarely explored onscreen. Viewers looking for horror might see this as a “bait-and-switch,” but it’s this frankness that distinguishes it, especially in a time when women might well be facing the real horror of a future without bodily autonomy.

If that’s not enough to make it one of the season’s essential films to see, then it should be.

In an awards season largely devoid of LGBTQ content, one movie asserts itself as the exception by its very title.

Much-anticipated after its Venice Film Festival premiere, and buoyed by the buzz around star Daniel Craig’s performance and its well-publicized sex scenes, Luca Guadagnino’s “Queer” has begun rolling into theaters. Naturally, queer cinema buffs are eager to see a move from the same filmmaker who delivered “Call Me By Your Name” and its leading man is arguably the sexiest of all the James Bonds – but if you’re expecting a feel-good story about LGBTQ Pride, this adaptation of a novella by famously countercultural “Beat era” writer William S. Burroughs is definitely not it. 

Its setting in 1950s Mexico City is enough to let you know that any queerness it presents for us is likely to be furtive, conducted in secrecy and shrouded in a sense of forbidden desire. Against this backdrop, brilliant-but-dissolute American William Lee (Craig) trolls the streets and clubs looking for sex, love, and connection among the other expatriates who gather nightly in the bars that cater to them. When a much-younger ex-Navy man named Eugene (Drew Starkey) catches his eye and seems responsive to his bold-but-clumsy flirtations, he becomes enamored – despite his own insecurities and his uncertainty over whether his new crush is even queer to begin with – and persists in his effort to get close to this much-younger fellow American.

There’s definitely a spark; the two move quickly from being mere drinking companions when an after-bar nightcap at his place turns into a naked overnight stay, and they become de facto lovers, though Eugene continues to maintain an emotional distance. Eventually, Lee proposes a trip together to find a rogue botanist (Leslie Manville) in South America and experiment with ayahuasca; the young man agrees, and the two set off to share an experience that may push the boundaries of their relationship – and their consciousness – further than either of them are prepared to go.

It’s not a particularly “story-oriented” film; the plot flows, almost like a stream of consciousness, through the repetitive patterns of daily existence, moving between concrete reality, jarring memory, and hallucinatory exaltation to approximate an inner narrative rather than propel an outer one. This reflects the similar fluctuation in Burroughs’s writing, but also takes the audience into the subjective experience of Lee – a fictionalized version of the author himself – and allows us to see the threads of consistent meaning that turn the hedonistic blur into a visceral reminder of the intensity with which life often takes place, especially when longing, desire, and loneliness are involved. Ultimately, the adaptation by screenwriter Justin Kuritzkes treats the material almost as a “meta-biopic” of Burroughs himself, a bittersweet and characteristically raw collection of impressionistic memories given narrative structure by the conceit of fiction.

In keeping with that choice, Craig delivers a masterful performance that succeeds in channeling the late author’s uniquely unfiltered personality while never feeling like an attempt at mimicry. The former 007 reminds us of the insightful talent that made him a star even before his run as the iconic super agent, discarding the familiar suave charisma for a nervous awkwardness that underscores Lee’s eternal sense of being an outsider, but conveying with equal clarity the euphoric heights and humiliating lows of his emotional and intellectual landscape. Already the winner of the National Board of Review’s Best Actor prize, it’s a star turn that anchors the film and helps it achieve the homage to Burroughs – an under appreciated pioneer and alternative icon for the queer community, though he reportedly once disowned what was then called the “Gay Rights Movement” by saying “I have never been gay a day in my life and I’m sure as hell not a part of any movement” – that it rightly intends to pay.

As the object of his affections, costar Starkey brings more than just his compelling yet somehow unconventional good looks to the mix. He makes Eugene at once an enigma and a familiar archetype of sensitive-yet-callow youth, a pleasure-seeker able to embrace and delight in the joys of the moment with full authenticity. He has a palpable chemistry with Craig, only enhanced by those much-touted sex scenes (which manage to leave little to the imagination without showing anything explicit) and makes us feel both the deep bond that forms between them and the pang of inevitable loss that comes along with it.

Other strong performances come from Jason Schwartzman (almost unrecognizable in body padding and makeup) as a queer compatriot and confidant of Lee’s, and Manville (also almost unrecognizable under her character’s visual design) as the doctor-turned-shaman who serves as gatekeeper on his quest for psychedelic enlightenment; the always-winning Drew Droege also scores in a memorable supporting turn. 

As for the direction, Guadagnino is at his best, guiding the actors through the story with insight and specificity while making sure his film gives them the best visual showcase to deliver it. Beautifully shot in a lush color palette on sumptuously designed sets, and composed with the visual eloquence of a painterly sensibility from start to finish, “Queer” very much evokes the big screen Technicolor aesthetic of the 1950s era in which it takes place, an effect that’s both reinforced by its romanticized international settings and jarringly contrasted by an anachronistic soundtrack that includes not only a distinctly contemporary-sounding score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross but numerous songs by artists like Nirvana, Prince, and New Order.

Yet excellent as it is, it’s a film that might disappoint some viewers. Though its name and its primary characters are queer, the “queerness” of the story has ultimately nothing to do with sexuality; for Burroughs, it was perhaps the way he saw through the madness of the world that set him apart from others, that kept him feeling alone in a crowd unless it was made up of the fellow “freaks” who were among his close circle. While “Queer” certainly offers plenty of celebratory, sex-positive scenes of intimacy, conveying a truth that the author knew first-hand, it also goes to the dark side, portraying Burroughs’s Gonzo lifestyle – including explicit scenes of drug use and seemingly endless appetite for alcohol – in all its matter-of-fact squalor. Some commentators have already pointed out the story’s echo of an old narrative trope, a “Death in Venice” style story of an aging gay man lured to despair by an obsession with a beautiful youth. If you’re after positive queer representation – or at least the generally expected kind – you’re not going to find that here, either.

Still, while such things may disturb our assumptions about what queer life – or any type of life, for that matter – is “supposed” to look like, they nevertheless represent a true lived experience, and truth is sometimes just as important as presentation. And “Queer” gives us plenty of beautiful moments, too, offsetting the ugly ones and often even turning them into something beautiful, too. That’s why, while it may not be the kind of inspirational call to arms many of us feel we need right now, it still earns our recommendation as one of the standout films of the year.

In today’s world, it’s difficult to imagine that an opera singer could achieve the kind of international fame and popularity enjoyed by modern musical artists like Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift, yet that is exactly what Maria Callas did.

Possessed of a singular, inimitable, and often controversial vocal talent, she rose to the height of her profession and became a world-class artist, performing on international stages and moving within a circle that included the wealthiest, most influential and powerful people of her era. Her private life, which included a long-running affair with mega-rich Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis and a reputation for temperament that matched or exceeded expectation for a diva of her stature, was the stuff of gossip columns, and her stature as an artist was such that any scandals that might have arisen there had little impact on her reputation for the millions of fans who adored her.

Even now, nearly 50 years after her untimely death (she was only 53) in 1977, her name is still spoken with reverence among those who belong to the still-potent “cult of personality” that made her an object of near-worship, and even if you’re not an opera fan, a listen to any of the magnificent recordings she left as her legacy is enough to help you understand why. Not only did the woman have a gift for singing, she had a way of inhabiting the music she sang so completely that it seemed to belong solely to her, as if it came fully formed into the world through her own being, no matter how many other great vocalists had sung it before.

Yet the Callas we meet in Pablo Larrain’s “Maria,” a speculative biographical fantasia about the final week in the diva’s tumultuous life that premiered in competition for the prestigious “Golden Lion” award at the 2024 Venice film festival and drops on Netflix Dec. 13 following a limited theatrical release, is but a comparative shadow of that once-renowned formidable persona. Her health failing, her voice diminished, and her mind drifting between morose contemplation of her decline and drug-addled delusions of returning to her former glory, she holds a reclusive and tenuous dominion over her Paris apartment, engaged in a power struggle with her overprotective house servants and stubbornly ignoring doctor’s orders by pushing herself to regain the transcendent voice that had brought her success, fame, and a personal power that had helped her endure the traumas of a childhood in the Axis-occupied Greece of World War II.

That’s just on the surface, however. As rendered by Angelina Jolie in a career-topping performance, the Callas of “Maria” feels fully worthy of the still-imperious demeanor she wields against the world. Far from surrendering to the tragic downward spiral into which she has become entangled, she shines from within with a courageous – which is not the same thing as “fearless” – sense of self that infuses her seemingly desperate efforts to reclaim her former glory (for herself, at least, if not for public approval) and makes her story a tale of self-actualization rather than the tragic “dance with death” it might appear to be through a surface perspective.

After all, in Larrain’s vision (and the exquisitely nuanced screenplay by Steven Knight), Callas is seeking not to recapture her fame and fortune – those are hers for life, already – but to reclaim her voice. As plainly shown by the life told in bold strokes via the flashbacks interwoven throughout the film, music has been the means for Callas to overcome the oppression of men and assert personal power over her own life. From the fascist soldiers to whom she was “pimped out” in her youth by her mother to the coarse-but-doting plutocrats that have attempted to “possess” her in adulthood, she has maintained agency over them all through the gift of her vocal talent. Now, with full knowledge and acceptance that the final chapter of her life is being written, she has chosen to hold the pen firmly in her hand, asserting ownership over her own life by composing the end of its narrative for herself. It’s an unconventional path that she chooses, but how many truly great spirits ever settle for being conventional?

Whether or not she was ultimately victorious in this goal – either in her real life or in Larrain’s imagined rendering of it – might be something viewers have to decide for themselves. It’s hardly the point, however; what “Maria” conveys, more than any definitive truth about its legendary subject, is a suggestion that what matters is the fight, not the winning of it, and that perhaps the “win” is in the fight itself. Beyond that, it finds a metaphor in the diva’s willing descent into hallucinatory fantasy for engaging in a direct relationship with that part of our own nature that feels divine – one which manifests itself in our lives through many forms, be it a character in a centuries-old opera, an imagined collaboration with the long-dead composer who created it, or a fresh-faced TV interviewer (who may or not be real) with a knack for asking the questions you don’t want to answer.

The element that has sparked the most buzz about Larrain’s film, of course, is the work of its star. Jolie, who trained to sing opera for seven months in preparation for the role (though she lip-syncs to recordings of the real Callas in flashbacks of the diva’s career highlights, it is her own voice we hear when she sings in the “present-day” scenes), doubtless brings some of her own experience to the table as a successful woman whose artistic triumphs always seem less important in the public eye than her personal relationships with men.

If so, it works beyond expectation, resulting in an old-school Hollywood star turn that dazzles us with its commitment to finding a human truth behind the veneer of glamour and moves us with the raw, unfiltered emotion she masterfully underplays throughout. Oscar talk is cheap, this early in “Awards Season,” but look for this performance to be a hot contender for a nod, and perhaps even a win.

Yet even if she’s the main attraction, “Maria” boasts plenty of excellence all around, from a superb supporting cast to the luminous cinematography of Edward Lachman, which bathes the movie’s sumptuous interiors in a palette of stained-glass colors to conjure the bittersweet nostalgia for a beautiful world as it slips away into oblivion. Knight’s intelligent script, crafted with the literary eloquence of a play, explores multiple facets of the diva’s life, while using it as a springboard into a meditation on loss, letting go, and embracing our own mortality even as we strive to touch the immortal. Finally, though, it’s Larrain’s direction that ties it all together, crafting a visually gorgeous, palpably intimate film that nevertheless delves deeply into some of the grandest aspects of our existence.

For opera lovers, of course, it’s a must-see. For the rest of us, it’s still a fascinating and deeply affecting film, addressing matters of life and death as vast as the ones that drove the timeless musical masterworks in which Callas made her name.

As soon as Thanksgiving is behind us, it’s time to look forward to another crop of holiday movies, and this year offers some excellent ones – though most of them seem to have very little to do with the season itself. Unfortunately, after the last year or so, when the number of queer-themed and queer-inclusive holiday films seemed to be increasing, this year’s selection is notably short on queer representation. Of course, with a couple of exceptions, they’re also notably short on seasonal cheer, too. Nevertheless, there are several promising gems headed to theaters over the next month, all of which should be of interest to any movie fan, queer or not, and the Blade is ready to break them down for you.

WICKED (Now in theaters) Our first preview also serves as a mini-review, since it jumped the holiday queue for an early release, but that’s OK, because it turns out we needed it more than we knew. The first installment of director John M. Chu’s much-anticipated two-part adaptation of the Broadway phenomenon, in turn based on the eponymous book by queer author Gregory Maguire’s book of the same name, stars Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande as the two iconic witches of Frank Baum’s classic “Wizard of Oz” (Elphaba, the formerly anonymous “Wicked Witch of the West” as named by Maguire in his novel, and Glinda, the “Good Witch of the North,” respectively), and, without hyperbole, truly surpasses all expectation. Expanding the stage version’s Disney-ish whimsy (reinforced by its catchy song score from “Pocahontas” composer Stephen Schwartz) by incorporating elements from Maguire’s novel to bring additional gravitas (and timely relevance) to the family-friendly fun while showcasing the amazing, no-expense-spared artistry of the film’s visual design. Played out on elaborate real-life sets by a uniformly superb cast – which also features out gay “Bridgerton” heartthrob Jonathan Bailey, Oscar-winner Michelle Yeoh, veteran screen eccentric Jeff Goldblum, “Game of Thrones” star Peter Dinklage, and queer “SNL” stalwart Bowen Yang, among many other talented performers – it is that rare stage-to-screen transition that not only captures the appeal of the show that inspired it, but enhances its magic by embracing a purely cinematic expression in doing so. Add the sweet irony that can be found in the post-election success of a musical fantasy about a marginalized woman being persecuted for daring to speak truth to an authoritarian power (who also happens to be an incompetent charlatan), and you have a film that is easily the movie of the year and then some. Something tells us that Baum would be proud of what his clever little satire of American “exceptionalism” has come to inspire more than a century later. If you haven’t seen it already, what are you waiting for? Get on your broom and head straight to the next available showing at your local multiplex.

GLADIATOR II (Now in theaters) Also crashing into the arena ahead of the holidays is Ridley Scott’s sequel to his Oscar-winning original “Gladiator” from 2000, which won Oscars for Best Picture and Best Actor (Russell Crowe) among multiple other honors. The queer appeal here lies mostly in the hunkiness of its stars – allies and queer-fan-favorite heartthrobs Paul Mescal and Pedro Pascal, who join Denzel Washington as the big-name-triumvirate that drives the film – but that doesn’t mean there’s not plenty of big-budget sword-and-sandal excitement to entertain anybody with an appetite for such things; and let’s face it, as cheesy as they are, who doesn’t love a movie about barely dressed muscle men swinging swords at each other in the midst of Roman depravity? Revered queer British thespian Derek Jacobi reprises his role from the original film, among a cast that also includes Joseph Quinn, Fred Hechinger, Lior Raz, and Connie Nielsen.

QUEER (now in theaters) From Italian filmmaker Luca Guadagnino – the man responsible for “Call Me By Your Name” and this year’s earlier bi-triangle tennis romance “Challengers” – comes this eagerly anticipated adaptation of a semi-autobiographical novella by queer “beat generation” icon William S. Burroughs, set in 1950, in which an American expatriate (Daniel Craig in a reportedly career-topping performance) trolls the local bars looking for connection and becomes enamored with a former soldier (Drew Starkey) who is new in town. Already controversial (in some circles, at least) for its explicitness and its unapologetically raw perspective – an unsurprising element, considering that Burroughs’s legendary status as an author and personality has more to do with his countercultural radicalism than his queerness – this one is probably the standout must-see title of the season for LGBTQ audiences, or at least those not completely transfixed by “Wicked.” And although Craig (who is no stranger to “playing gay”) has said in a recent interview that his character’s sexuality is the “least interesting thing” about him, we’ll wager that millions of queer fans will disagree. Also featuring the incomparable Lesley Manville (most recently an MVP in Ryan Murphy’s “Grotesquerie”), Jason Schwartzman, Henrique Zaga, and Omar Apollo.

MARIA (in theaters 11/27, Netflix 12/11) For the opera-loving crowd comes this widely touted biopic starring Angelina Jolie as legendary soprano Maria Callas, which covers the diva’s final days when she was living in Paris. The third and final film in Chilean filmmaker Pablo Larraín’s cinematic trilogy about the lives of important 20th century women (after 2016’s “Jackie” and 2021’s “Spencer”), this one competed for the Golden Lion prize at this year’s Venice Film Festival, where it sparked Oscar buzz for Jolie’s tour-de-force turn as the operatic icon.

NIGHTBITCH (in theaters 12/6) Queer viewers can dive into their feminist allyship with this horror-ific drama about an artist (Amy Adams) whose role as wife and mother (to a towheaded toddler) triggers a canine-esque transformation, complete with an enhanced sense of smell, unexpected body hair, and extra nipples on her belly. A metaphoric exploration of discovering personal power and transcending cultural expectations defining womanhood around traditional roles of homemaker and mother, it will undoubtedly spark complaints from the anti-”woke” crowd, which obviously scores points with us, every time.

THE ORDER (in theaters 12/6) There’s nothing specifically queer about this one, which stars Jude Law as a veteran FBI agent who confronts a zealous white supremacist rebel leader (Nicholas Hoult) in a “war for America’s soul,” but there are obvious points of connection in its fictionalized “what-if” fantasia based on 1980s headlines about the Aryan Nation spinoff group “The Order” and its campaign of robberies, bombings and murder. If you’re not a fan of Nazis (because no matter what they happen to call themselves, a Nazi is still a Nazi), this one is probably for you.

Nickel Boys (in theaters 12/13) Allyship is also the draw from this lengthy adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s Pulitzer-winning bestseller, starring Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor as a hotel housekeeper whose grandson (Ethan Herisse) is unjustly incarcerated in a reformatory during the “Jim Crow” era. Directed by Peabody Award winner (and Emmy and Oscar nominee) RaMell Ross, this anti-racist drama is based on a true story.

The Room Next Door (in theaters 12/20) If any upcoming movie deserves a spotlight it’s this one, the first English-language feature by iconic queer Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar, in which a pair of former New York magazine colleagues (Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore) reunite after many years when one of them is faced with a terminal cancer diagnosis and asks the other to help her “die with dignity.” With three such transcendent artists uniting to collaborate, our confidence level is elevated enough for us to suggest that this might be the highlight of the season for lovers of pure cinema.

Better Man (in theaters 12/25) If you’ve never heard of Robbie Williams (and you’re an American), you can be forgiven, since the phenomenally successful pop singer-songwriter from the UK is a relatively unknown sensation on this side of the Atlantic, but this unorthodox musical biopic from “Greatest Showman” director Michael Gracey looks to be an introduction you’ll never forget. Depicting the well-publicized ups and downs of Williams’ personal life as it traces his rise to fame and beyond, it also depicts him as a chimpanzee – voiced by Williams himself and portrayed through CG motion capture by Jonno Davies – because, as the pop star puts it, “I’ve always felt less evolved” than other people. It sounds odd, sure, but its September debut at the Telluride Film Festival was met with enthusiastic critical acclaim, and whether it works for you or not, it surely boasts the most unusual premise of any film this year that we’re aware of.

Babygirl (in theaters 12/25) Another unusual choice for Christmastime is this provocative erotic thriller from writer/director Halina Reijn, starring Nicole Kidman as a CEO who has become sexually bored with her husband (Antonio Banderas) and pursues an affair with a much-younger male intern (the incandescently beautiful Harris Dickinson), which weaves a steamy cautionary tale about the treacherous dynamics of power and sexuality within a professional setting. Another Golden Lion contender at Venice, it’s garnered heavy praise both for Reijn’s direction and Kidman’s performance; so while it may not be the kind of family-friendly holiday film you’ll want to see with mom and dad, it’s definitely one worth sneaking out for on a solo excursion while the rest of the family is sleeping off that holiday meal.

Nosferatu (in theaters 12/25) Even less appropriate for the holiday season (well, at least this one) but eagerly awaited nonetheless, this remake of F.W. Murnau’s venerable silent classic – a 1922 German Expressionist masterpiece based on Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” that is widely seen as the “granddaddy” of all vampire films – from always-buzzy filmmaker Robert Eggers (“The Witch,” “The Lighthouse”) is probably the perfect refresher after a month of cheer, festivities, sweetness, and light. Starring Bill Saarsgård as the sinister Count Orlok, with Nicholas Hoult and Lily-Rose Depp as the couple whose lives he infiltrates and Willem Dafoe as the professor who becomes his nemesis, it brings the gothic tale “into the 21st century” (says Eggers) and emphasizes the twisted obsessions and infatuations that tie its characters together. Long-delayed and much-anticipated, this one is already a guaranteed must-see for anyone who loves the genre – so if you need a seasonal connection, you can always think of it as a holiday gift for horror fans.

In times of trouble, movies can offer us a chance – temporarily, at least – to escape our worries. Sometimes, though, escape is not the answer. When the political climate turns stormy, they can also be a lifeline, connecting us with our history and helping us to clarify where we’ve been, where we need to go, and how we might manage to get there. With that in mind, here’s a list of great movies about LGBTQ activism, each with particular relevance to the cultural challenges we face as America braces itself for another round of Trumpism – because besides educating us about our past, they have the power to inspire us as we prepare to fight for our future.

Pride (2014) 

Perhaps ironically, the first title (and only non-documentary) on our list is not an American tale, but a true story from the UK, a fictionalized chronicle of Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) – a group of LGBTQ activists who allied with striking coal miners in Thatcher-era Britain. Directed by Matthew Warchus and written by Stephen Beresford, it balances humor and gravitas as it follows a young, still-closeted student (George MacKay) and his involvement with a group of queer activists who decide to raise money to support Welsh miners impacted by the British Mining Strike of 1984. Despite initial hostility from the miners, a coalition is forged that lends strength to both causes, ultimately leading to the incorporation of gay and lesbian rights into the official Labour Party platform. An infectiously thrilling portrayal of the transformative power of solidarity, it’s a film that exemplifies the importance of intersectionality and the need for diverse marginalized communities to unite and take collective action against oppression. The message? We are stronger together than we are apart. Also starring Bill Nighy, Imelda Staunton, Dominic West, and Andrew Scott, it’s as entertaining as it is inspiring, a “feel-good” movie that also fires us up to stand firm against the forces of bigotry and repression.

The Times of Harvey Milk (1984)

No, we’re not dissing Gus Van Sant’s excellent 2008 biopic “Milk,” featuring Sean Penn’s star turn in the title role and Dustin Lance Black’s eloquent screenplay (both of which snagged Oscars), but for our purposes here, this documentary from director Rob Epstein – which won an Oscar itself – provides a less romanticized account of Milk’s life and work. The first openly gay elected official in California, he successfully fought against the discriminatory “Briggs Initiative” (famously championed by beauty-queen- turned-OJ-spokesmodel Anita Bryant), which sought to ban gay teachers in public schools, something that feels particularly relevant during a time when conservative American politicians are aggressively working to remove LGBTQ content from schools and erode queer representation in politics. Though his 1978 assassination alongside San Francisco Mayor George Moscone (by fellow City Supervisor and political rival Dan White) is probably a more familiar piece of history in the public imagination today, it’s the groundbreaking LGBTQ advocacy he spearheaded that forms the centerpiece of his enduring legacy, something that the tragedy of his martyrdom should not be allowed to overshadow. This moving, intimate documentary – which weaves archival footage and interviews into a compelling narrative about the intersections of politics and identity, reminds us of the stakes when marginalized voices go unrepresented by our legislators, and features narration from queer icon Harvey Fierstein – provides a more detailed and authentic look at the great work he accomplished during his short tenure than Van Sant’s fictionalized historical drama.

How to Survive a Plague (2012)

If any film on our list should be considered a “must-see,” it’s this widely acclaimed documentary from filmmaker David France, which chronicles the activism of ACT UP and TAG during the height of the AIDS epidemic. Through archival footage and testimonials, it follows the real-life activists who fought for medical treatments and government accountability in a time when their community was suffering a devastating loss, highlighting key figures like Peter Staley and Larry Kramer and providing a powerful portrait of a relentless advocacy effort that turned despair into action. With its themes of grassroots activism and equitable public health care, France’s auspicious directorial debut resonates deeply in today’s world, as queer communities face challenges in access to gender-affirming care and reproductive rights; seeing the tactics used by organizations like ACT UP to hold institutions accountable, modern activists can gain valuable insights about how to conduct strategic resistance against legislative attacks and discriminatory policies in public health care.

Call Me Kuchu (2012)

Not as well-known but equally resonant as the other films on our list, this doc from directors Katherine Fairfax Wright and Malika Zouhali-Worrall follows LGBTQ activists in Uganda, a country where homosexuality is criminalized, centering around the story of David Kato – the self-proclaimed “first gay man in Uganda.”After returning home from South Africa, where he “discovered gay life” for the first time, he started a non-profit LGBTQ organization  (Sexual Minorities Uganda) to “spread the word about homosexuality” and track instances of homophobia in his country; he went on to became a fearless advocate for queer rights, facing immense personal and legal persecution before ultimately losing his life to anti-gay violence. The film also tracks efforts by the Ugandan government to pass the Anti-Homosexuality Act, which was partially orchestrated through the influence of U.S.-based Christian conservatives at a workshop funded by the American fast-food chain Chick-fil-A, and was condemned internationally as the “Kill the Gays Bill,” due to its inclusion of a death penalty clause. Though its focus is on an African nation, the film has clear relevance to the global struggle for queer acceptance, warning against the advancement of anti-LGBTQ ideologies by hate groups “protecting traditional values” under the guise of religion, and reminding us of how the fight for queer rights is interconnected worldwide.

Paris Is Burning (1990)

Jennie Livingston’s documentary delving into New York City’s drag ball culture of the 1980s is now iconic, a celebrated queer classic that immortalizes a deeply influential social scene and illuminates the lives of Black and Latino queer individuals as they try to navigate systemic racism, homophobia, and poverty, with an emphasis on their artistry, their resilience, and the “chosen families” they gather around themselves. Featuring a host of ballroom legends (Pepper LaBeija, Dorian Corey, Venus Xtravaganza, and more), it reveals stories of both triumph and tragedy while amplifying the experience of queer joy; it would later provide inspiration for Ryan Murphy’s groundbreaking series “Pose” – but more importantly, this essential LGBTQ classic highlights the inequities that persist in society today, when drag culture faces legislative attacks and trans women of color continue to be disproportionately targeted by violence,

Each of these films offers essential insights on queer resistance, illuminating the ongoing struggles and triumphs of LGBTQ communities. As we face a reinvigorated attack on queer rights under a hostile administration, they offer us lessons on solidarity, activism, and resilience that suddenly seem more crucial than ever.

Watch and learn, children, because you might now be our only hope.

As we approach Thanksgiving 2024, it seems safe to say that holiday dinners with the family back home are going to be even more stressful than usual.

Those conversations with cousins and in-laws around the table have always been a minefield to navigate for queer people from traditional families. This year, knowing that the uncle seated across from you voted for somebody who might take away your hard-won rights is sure to make that turkey pretty hard to swallow. With scenarios like that looming large in our minds, there’s a particular twinge of poignance to be felt in watching “Close to You,” a Canadian film from writer/director Dominic Savage in which Elliot Page plays a trans man returning to his small-town family home for his father’s birthday after being away for nearly five years.

Sam (Page) has been living in Toronto, renting a room from a friend-and-surrogate-mother (Sook-Yin Lee) while exploring and adjusting to big-city life as a trans man; now, he’s ready to return home for the holiday, but nervous about the reception he might receive. On the train ride home, he runs into Katherine (Hillary Baack), his “bestie” from school, and the warm – if somewhat awkward – acceptance he feels from her buoys him as he goes on to face his father (Peter Outerbridge), mother (Wendy Crewson), and the siblings and significant others who make up his immediate family circle. 

Things go reasonably well, at first, with a warm welcome from Mum, a newfound acceptance from Dad, and a tentative rekindling of connection with his sisters (Janet Porter, Alex Paxton-Beesley), but increasingly aggressive provocations from a transphobic extended family member (David Reale) become difficult to ignore. He finds an escape and some solace with Katherine, who overcomes an initial reticence to reconnect further after their chance reunion reawakens the emotional bond they once shared; but the old feelings and resentments stirred within his family dynamic threaten to derail any chance of true reconciliation at home, reminding him of why he left in the first place.

Moody, raw, and tinged with a melancholy that asserts itself even in its happier moments, Savage’s movie conveys a tone as chilly as the slushy Canadian November of its setting. It takes the audience in close – literally, in the sense that much of it is shot in close-up, tight on its players’ faces as if we were part of the conversation – to provide a tangible feeling of intimacy and connect us to the emotional perspective of everyone involved. Much of it has an improvisatory feel, with dialogue that sometimes feels tentative or choked with uncertainty, yet allows for the eruption of frequent outbursts and the resonance of eloquently expressed thoughts. And its authenticity is reinforced by a collection of superb performances, with Page (who co-authored the film’s story with Savage) giving a deeply felt star turn as Sam and a gifted ensemble of actors in support. All together, it creates an atmosphere that effectively evokes the feelings of helpless vulnerability that are familiar to so many of us, queer or straight alike, when we return to the scenes of a youth that we longed to escape.

For some viewers, in fact, the film’s constant feeling of low-frequency anxiety will likely be too much. For many, of course, it will hit close to home, and trigger traumatic memories; for those who can’t relate, it may all seem a bit too “doom and gloom,” and others might see its respectful treatment of a trans narrative as being agenda-driven or even dismiss it as “woke” – though truthfully, those who might do that are not likely to be watching it in the first place. 

Which is not to say that “Close to You” is a complete downer; there are plenty of uplifting moments, too, when connections shine through and we are reminded that, underneath all the confusion and misunderstandings that have strained Sam’s relations with his family, there is love – even if the characters themselves may not feel it in that moment. Nor does it put all the focus of his emotional wariness on his transness; on the contrary, much of the conflict is focused on feelings of isolation, of being judged for having a different focus to his life than the rest of his very traditional family, and other things which make him “different” that have nothing to do with his gender. It celebrates the value of “found” family in the glimpses it gives us of Sam’s other relationships, and even gives us a spark of unexpected romance. In many ways, it might even be seen as a “feel-good” movie, were it not for the sense of unanswered sadness that underpins it all.

That, perhaps, is what makes it resonate not just as a trans story (though it is certainly first and foremost that) but one about queer experience overall: the knowledge that, no matter what positive changes are made or how fully one embraces one’s truth and identity, there will always be people who will judge you for who you are. The problem isn’t within you – it’s within them, so it’s something you can’t fix, and there’s a sense of powerlessness that comes from that.

In the cultural climate that has been suddenly thrust upon us in America, that’s undoubtedly a realization that has been haunting many of our thoughts about who we can trust in a society that has repeatedly shown its willingness to cast us out. It’s for this reason that “Close to You” carries an additional impact for queer audiences that might have been intended at the time of its making; after all, that uncle across the Thanksgiving table may have treated you perfectly well your whole life, but when you know that his love for you was less than his concern over the price of groceries, it’s hard to trust him again – and we’ve just been given a sobering reminder that there is a chillingly large percentage of our friends and neighbors for whom the same can now be said.

“Close to You” premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2023, and was released in Canada and the UK earlier this year, along with limited screenings in the U.S. It’s now available for home viewing via multiple VOD platforms.

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.