Last night I went to an alternate reality where brat summer never ended. That glimpse into Charli XCX’s psyche came through Aidan Zamiri’s The Moment, a sort-of mockumentary of the behind-the-scenes concert doc experiences that have become so popular in recent years. But the longer The Moment went on, the more I found myself questioning its point. It’s a film trapped in a perpetual No Man’s Land — unsure of exactly what it wants to say, who it wants to critique, and why exactly it made any of its choices.

The first question The Moment prompts is whether we should consider it a documentary or a mockumentary. There’s room for overlap, of course, but neither Charli nor Zamiri seems to know which angle they want to lean into. If we take it as a joke, as though she is performing a heightened version of herself, then we should approach this depiction with some degree of remove. After all, this is an “alternate reality” in which Charli, as a brand and person, has succumbed to what a ton of people in suits have decided to do with brat and “brat summer” (including a bank trying to exploit queer people with lines of credit, one of the film’s few amusing concepts which drags on so long it loses all impact).

But where are the actual jokes? Half the gags in the film feel recycled from either former mockumentaries — the business of touring with This is Spinal Tap, jokes about performative allyship that can’t match up to Popstar’s Conner4Real’s “Equal Rights” or even co-star Kate Berlant’s The Other Two delivery of “I’m gagging for you faggot” — or the “looking straight into the camera and shrugging” mock energy that The Office popularized. Vox Lux, of all films, had more of a sense of humor peppered throughout, insightfully taking jabs at both artist and industry (and the American machine) without ever requiring a cheap wink at the audience. And, certainly, any jokes about the way brands choose to try and exploit fans were already better presented in Josie and the Pussycats.

Even one of the film’s few recurring gags, that of a pigeon trapped within the performance venue, is such a shallow concept that it falls flat: she’s in a gilded cage of her own making! Wow! Groundbreaking! There’s no specificity to the observational humor or criticism of the industry, perhaps because most of the positions the film critiques are, frankly, barely a thing.

On a formal level, it’s impossible to tell the target of the mockery. The handheld camera as a means of presenting intimacy is present here, sure, but the goal seems to be just zooming in for maximum disorientation. The more frantic it gets, the more one wonders what exactly the vibe they’re going for is, as it starts leaning into a Safdie-esque race towards the breakdown (or success) of its subject in a way that feels derivative. If the Safdies are already an approximation of Cassavetes, what happens when a first-time filmmaker with nothing but mediocre music videos under his belt tries to follow the beats of a “woman on the edge” picture?

Everything about its presentation feels derivative. The strobe feels like less of a feature of Charli’s club aesthetics and more like a signpost for people to say “oooh she’s into Gaspar Noé’s Enter the Void” a full fifteen years after Kanye West and Hype Williams already borrowed that for “All of the Lights” and were called plagiarists (even though they did a much better job than The Moment). The glitch effects, which seem designed to work in tandem and emphasize the digital era, feel more reminiscent of found-footage horror films than of any actual concert or artist doc. If either of those things is designed as criticism — say, Charli using the onslaught of logos via Void strobing as a means of making fun of brand sponsorships — then what exactly is the criticism?

Charli has her film climax with a goofy commercial (sponsored by Amazon) that misrepresents her image as a means of… I’m not sure exactly what. If it’s a form of rebellion against the powers that be, then is the endgame to have no brands supporting her? Doubtful, considering she has comfortably begun further legitimizing her music and brand: by working with a variety of sponsors and now a variety of popular and up-and-coming filmmakers, in order to expand her image beyond her music.

Sponsorships seem to be the most prevalent critique in The Moment, from the credit card deal limiting what one can post on social media to taking free trips to Ibiza for promoting it on the ‘gram. The other cultural criticism seems to revolve around the “industry” and how it manipulates and reshapes the performer’s image. But it’s done through a relatively outdated lens that feels more like a product of the ‘90s or ‘00s — and that numerous other filmmakers and artists have critiqued already through a harsher and more playful gaze. Even Spice World, largely considered “bad”, spends the bulk of its duration showcasing how men with power try to control the Spice Girls and tarnish their reputation. At least those women manage to have some actual agency over their image, unlike The Moment’s version of Charli, who seems destined to have “brat summer” consume her entirely.

There is, of course, a nugget of an idea here: the threat of a “niche” artist attaining massive popularity and being swallowed up. But do most artists nowadays actually get swallowed up? (And, really, was Charli ever actually niche outside of her early days building up an audience by saying “gay rights” while holding a bottle of poppers?)

When we look at most contemporary music documentaries, they are less portraits defined by the directors who make them, and more clearly cut commercials that tie directly into the image the artist is trying to present. None of these artists — from Lady Gaga (who has already used her albums and performances to smartly comment on the distinction between person and stage persona) to Taylor Swift (who gets the most shade from Charli in The Moment) — are at odds with the way they’re presented in their behind-the-scenes docs. This isn’t a TMZ expose or VH1 Behind the Music catching you slipping: these are specifically curated for the brand and the image. Beyoncé makes for one of the most essential case studies here: she has so much control over her own image and narrative that she has chosen to direct her own documentaries, carefully managing exactly how much vulnerability she’s willing to show at any moment while also selling you the idea of openness. Is Charli trying to sell that same openness or is that why she’s holding herself at some level of remove by inventing an alt timeline where everything is just different enough to be “unreal”?

This current doc landscape, which is all about preserving a perfect image rather than challenging it, has given the artist an unreasonable amount of control, largely because they already have their own venues for presenting themselves however they please through social media. Fans and critics are cast as villains by other fans and less discerning critics; the film feels more willing to criticize those very fans, dismissing them as monstrous critics who change record scores at the drop of a hat when someone falls out of favor. (This feels very in tune with Charli’s famed “they don’t build statues of critics” shirt).

When The Moment tries to manufacture tension under the guise of Charli’s breakdown and loss of sponsorships due to a rogue social media post, the only thing to do is shrug. The film already presents itself as an “alternate reality”, rendering this a completely false and nonsensical version of Charli, so there’s no pathos in watching her overcome obstacles. As we know, she continues to experience massive success in real life. She’s not even willing to present herself as all that mean or willing to sacrifice others, instead styled as a victim of other people’s choices who apologizes for her role. For all the film makes fun of Alexander Skarsgård’s clueless director — who wants to clean up her image in ways that range from stupid to thinly veiled jabs at Taylor Swift or Katy Perry’s stage gimmicks — it’s Zamari who seems to want to soften any real edge to Charli or this lazy parable.

Sincerity and comedy, of course, can go hand-in-hand, but many filmmakers do not understand that blend well enough to pull it off. By keeping the audience at arm’s length and leaning into the “unreal” story, any attempts at sincerity fall flat. You can tell that Charli believes she’s selling a real emotional moment when she’s being held up by a harness, weakly delivering lines written for her (“brat is so much bigger than an album, it’s bigger than me…”) like it’s a real rock bottom moment. But is she actually trying to sell us some level of “authenticity” under the guise of this semi-removed persona of herself? I’m more than willing to believe that Charli has a lot of ambivalent feelings about the insane trajectory of brat as opposed to her past records, but I don’t quite believe she’s all that sad or mad about it, no matter how much The Moment tries to sell it.

In the last minutes of the film, my frustrations with The Moment solidified in a way that reminded me of how many critics took Vox Lux to task for speeding through the climactic concert. As The Moment limits the concert to an Amazon commercial promoting it — complete with fake quotes from outlets showering praise on it — so too did Vox Lux limit how it allowed Celeste to perform her numbers. Celeste and Charli’s performances are both rote, just going through the motions of what they’ve been working on for ages, and both are presented as something of a joke. But the difference lies in how they’re presented: Celeste’s show is exactly what she’s curated, Charli’s is what she’s allowed to happen.

Celeste’s songs are ridiculous; the more of the lyrics we hear, the more we laugh, because we know she sold her soul to the devil for this fame, and she’s going to be trapped in it no matter what she does. Charli doesn’t even have the decency to feature any jokes in her final concert performance. It’s stripped down to a clip show.

Both films strip us of catharsis by emphasizing the sell-out, but The Moment — for all its framing as a mockumentary — doesn’t let us actually mock anyone. If it doesn’t want us to laugh, does it want us to feel bad or sympathize with her? I’m not sure. And I don’t think Zamari or Charli are either. That feeling of nothingness radiates through the whole film, and what a shame it is. If the plan was to set ‘brat summer’ on fire, then Charli has gone out with a whimper instead of a bang.

For an album I enjoyed, and an artist I’ve been following for years, The Moment made me wish for a reprieve from the artist for at least a brief instant. Sadly, with Charli slated to be featured in half a dozen films this coming year — performances in Erupcja, Sacrifice, I Want Your Sex, The Gallerist, Faces of Death still to come alongside composing music for Wuthering Heights and Mother Mary — it appears that her moment is nowhere near ending.

I fake it so real, I am beyond fake
And someday you will ache like I ache
Hole, “Doll Parts”

—

There’s an afterword in Shūzō Oshimi’s manga Inside Mari, tucked into the back of the first volume, in which Oshimi asks, “Have any of you male readers ever wanted to become a girl? I have.” He continues, his own visage drawn like a larvae with glasses and facial features, by stating: “I’m talking about a sex change. Wanting to dress up like a woman is a little different. After all, no matter how much you look like a girl… if you’ve got the mindset of a man, then you’re not a girl. In other words, I’m not talking about lust here. Even if a man becomes a woman, when he sees his new female body he’ll still perceive it through the eyes of male lust, and would then get further and further away from being a woman. That’s not what I’d want. I want to turn into a woman in both body and mind. I want to be born as a girl… be brought up as a girl… live my life as a girl… and just be a genuine girl.”

His musings on gender are tied directly into the series, which begins by presenting a college dropout named Isao Komori waking up in the body of a high-school girl Mari Yoshizaki (and her own consciousness seemingly nowhere to be found instead of swapped into Isao’s body). Throughout, Oshimi slowly shifts the narrative from being anywhere near the traditional body swap tropes and into something deeper and altogether different, morphing into a work about how the actions of those around us can scar us, how we internalize (and externalize) major changes in our lives, and how we navigate relationships with others when we aren’t even comfortable managing our own lives and identities. Even in stepping away from the obvious trans metaphor of the body swap (especially those involving a gender swap), which is somewhat grounded in the “incel to trans” pipeline (that great contemporary trans art like Louise Weard’s Castration Movie has explored), the manga continues to explore what it means to exist in a body that seems completely out of step with one’s mind.

The manga itself is as engrossing as Oshimi’s other works I’ve read, with Blood on the Tracks in particular worth noting as both an incredibly draining piece of psychological horror and a beautifully told portrait of a man navigating crippling trauma and learning to love. Even his Drifting Net Cafe – an update on Kazuo Umezu’s The Drifting Classroom that questionably amps up the sexual violence and uses it as a means of exploring moral conundrums – is fascinating to sit with. But it’s Inside Mari and Oshimi’s specific comments on gender that keep lingering with me.

As I sit here typing this, I’ve just returned from the bathroom and from staring at myself in the mirror in some level of misery. I haven’t shaved in weeks due to depressive laziness, I haven’t injected myself with estrogen in months due to my crippling fear of self-injection that results in me spending a literal hour hesitating on stabbing myself with a needle, and, in spite of my pronouns and “women’s” clothing and relatively gender-neutral presentation, I’ve been feeling like I’m never going to be perceived as anything other than male. I bring this up not to foreground myself, but to offer some context to how I am choosing to interpret Oshimi’s words, which, to me, read like a cry from someone who either hasn’t figured out their transness or is struggling with the idea of ever coming out (or that they could ever really be anything other than what they’ve been told they are).

While doing some light reading online, I noticed many comments that dismissed the manga and Oshimi’s words as transphobic or close-minded, rather than looking at them as something likely written by an egg. But everything about Inside Mari felt familiar to me. The way Isao initially feels uncomfortable even glancing at Mari’s body is the same as when I can’t stomach seeing parts of myself (and, for the record, I don’t even particularly hate my gender, but there’s too much baggage to unpack there for any given piece). Just as Isao finds trouble in navigating all the ways that women like Mari would present in an attempt to be perceived as “normal” (or “cis”), I find myself constantly questioning what exactly people expect from my own transition and presentation. Just as those who surround Mari have placed unreasonable expectations on her, so have those around me done the same as I simply try to figure things out. For Isao/Mari, to try navigating the world in an unfamiliar body is to, more often than not, be hated and treated like a traitor for things that you’re barely in control of. Over the last few years, that experience has felt absurdly familiar, on both a minute (people I thought were my friends) and macro (medical access, government policies, etc) level.

Paired with this train of thought was my simultaneous re-reading of Grace Byron’s Herculine, a novel I accidentally forgot to return to the library and decided to barrel through again in the new year because it had been stuck in my head (in a similar way to, say, how Alison Rumfitt’s Tell Me I’m Worthless lingered with me due to its honest depiction of fucked-up people). Herculine felt like it was written for me, from the familiar experiences of a trans freelance writer down to the novel’s way of exploring the weight of faith and the possibility of inclusion being dangled in front of us. Its narrator is plagued with visions and lured by a beloved ex into leaving New York City for a secluded all-trans commune known as Herculine.

“Faith”, as we see it here, isn’t just about religion (though Byron’s engagement with religious figures, texts, and practices is key, as are the casual references smartly built into the story) but about belief as a whole, be it in oneself or a larger collective that presents themselves as the ideal. There’s an aimlessness to this narrator at first – fixated on her navigating everything from shitty gigs and other people who hate you to demonic visions and sexual rituals – but the wrinkle that most interests me comes later in the novel.

After witnessing the god Dagon granting a trans woman a womb and child of her own, the narrator is informed that partnerships with demons are the standard within this enclave of trans women. These women have all experienced endless traumas in their lives that have tethered them in some capacity to demons who sought them out, so choosing to work in tandem with those very demons and sacrifice pieces of themselves in exchange for a better life has been sold to them by both their compatriots and those who hold the power to change them. By creating this bond, they are promised everything from the aforementioned womb to the allure of a cis woman’s body – basically: you will no longer be trans. And, thus, the narrator is presented with the same grotesque Faustian bargain: would you tether yourself to a demon (in her case, Legion itself) for the sake of eschewing a life of being trans for an approximation of a cis life?

Herculine itself never seems to force the reader to decide which one of these paths – of succumbing to demonic partnership for self-benefit or enduring the pains of reality in spite of the demons that come with that – but it does offer a realistic discourse within itself on the benefits and pitfalls of both of these options. I think of the characters in the novel that have, perhaps foolishly, believed that having “power” (even if it is bestowed on us by those with more “power”) means that sacrificing one’s own identity is worthwhile. I also think of the characters who understand that, to completely “sell-out” (for lack of a better word) is to lose the very fabric of what made you who you are now. The truth is that both of those options are horrifying in their own way; there’s no way to actually win because the system is, ultimately, rigged.

But just as Oshimi and a number of figures in Herculine have fantasized about being a (cis) woman, birthed that way and raised that way and treated that way, so have I. How many times has a joke from my family about how my mother actually wanted another daughter pierced my heart? How many times have I cried or just laid staring blankly in bed after an exhausting hour of trying to inject myself with estrogen wishing this was something I didn’t have to do to feel some minute validation and comfort? How many times have I found myself shocked at someone I considered a friend weaponizing my identity against me? And how many times have I wondered if any of this was even remotely worth it? Would all of these same feelings still exist in me if I was a cis woman? Or would a completely unique set of feelings take over?

After nearly 35 years of living in a world that expects me to sacrifice my integrity to get ahead and frequently punishes any ounce of individuality and optimism, perhaps the idea of selling my soul to one of the demons who has been chasing me all my life doesn’t seem all that bad. It horrifies me, of course, but is it any worse than continuing to work at outlets that short-change me while offering more money to my friends? The mere notion of being taken seriously and being given an ounce of power, even at the risk of losing a piece of me, is tempting. If Asmodeus or Abaddon offered me the perfect body that never needed exercise or estrogen, that could draw in lovers and never once needed a break, then I frankly might consider the deal – and I can wholeheartedly say I’m not sure what limits I’d be willing to break in order to make that happen.

If you told me that, upon waking up, I would be inhabiting the body of a cis woman and I never had to look back at my old self, I might honestly take that deal in a heartbeat (though, I have to say/joke that I’d specifically like to wake up as Jennifer Tilly, as any notion of a transition shift for me has always landed on me just being a carbon copy of my mother or Diane Keaton with facial hair). It sometimes horrifies me that the idea of completely leaving behind whatever life I’ve curated, whatever identity I’ve slowly and painstakingly developed, is so appealing to me. Maybe life would be easier in this new identity, in this body (and maybe mind) that I’d be gifted, but I also find myself heartbroken at the idea of never experiencing all that I’ve experienced.

And so that brings me back to these two texts: even when given the opportunity to change into something we’ve dreamed of, are we ever actually able to escape the weight of our past experiences? And, if we are able to completely forget those experiences, would we even be the same person we are in any way? Is this just some shitty Reverse Ship of Theseus exercise? I don’t really know. The narrator of Herculine chooses existence as trans, still burdened by demons but free of this tether and bargain. The protagonist of Inside Mari chooses to go on experiencing life as an identity borne out of all those that came before. These are individuals who go on living as themselves rather than settling into the comfort that would come with relative normalcy. There’s beauty in that, but it doesn’t take away from the reality that existing this way will continue to come with endless obstacles.

But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s worth it. Maybe all the beauty is only allowed to exist because of all the bloodshed. Maybe I’ll go home tonight and do my first estrogen shot of the year and feel better about myself. And I’ll probably still feel kind of bad about myself, even if I manage to overcome my anxieties in the moment. Both of these things can be true at once, just as the idea of a magical gift of cisness continues to appeal to me as much as being trans. I want to be someone else as much as I want to keep being myself and that journey is something that is probably never going to end, but at least I have my experiences, my friends, and a steady collection of work (however fantastical) that feels reflective of my conundrum, to help me keep moving forward. I just wish it was easier for others to understand the ache that comes with navigating life like this all the time.

And your eyes like a laser
Every time cut me deeper
Amanda Lear, “Enigma (Give a bit of mmh to me)”

—

Zackary Drucker’s documentary Enigma, focusing on the histories of April Ashley and Amanda Lear, is most intriguing to me as a piece about the act of performance. Archival footage of Salvador Dali in the middle feels most essential, particularly the way he and Amanda Lear both reference how everything is about the performance that one puts on for those who are watching. Obviously the notion that life is all about performance is nothing new – it’s basically the foundation of all interesting queer art – but it ties into both April and Amanda so pointedly. One chose to perform as herself without ever sacrificing that integrity, even actively spending the rest of her lifetime fighting for that identity and others experiencing the same prejudice, while the other chose to become what she was performing to the world and refused to acknowledge any notion to the contrary. Neither one of these things is inherently wrong and, while it may feel right to try and challenge them on their choices, we are all ultimately unable to ever fully understand what made these women make their choices.

This is why I’m perhaps turned off by the way Drucker inserts herself into this narrative and the way she (and presumably some of her collaborators) seems to want to, if not beg then, force Lear out of the closet. It borders on unethical to have Drucker consistently try to bait Lear into saying something (down to the emotional plea at the end) in a way that feels as outright exploitative as any type of “gotcha journalism” weaponized against trans people in the spotlight. More than anything, it morphs my perception of Drucker as someone genuinely interested in the nuances and contradictions of trans history (which her documentary The Lady and the Dale so exquisitely does) into someone who is willing to foreground herself in the histories of others in order to mold that history into exactly what she wants to present, rather than what her subjects choose to reveal or perform or confess (which feels more adjacent to something like Framing Agnes).

I’m less motivated to dissect the ethics of documentary filmmaking as a whole, or even to explore the larger dynamics of intersecting the personal with the professional, but more fixated on just what Enigma does that makes me feel so gross. It’d be one thing if Drucker, as she largely (and smartly!) does throughout, chose to let Lear’s contemporaries do the baiting and gossiping. After all, that is what we’re all prone to do! Musings and speculations from your subjects themselves inherently code the way that you read other subjects and that creates such a natural route for the audience to understand the point being made on both a formal and emotional level. We can gather that Lear is (or isn’t) trans simply because of the way she speaks about herself, the objective historical artifacts presented, and the context can we can glean from her lyrics. We don’t need someone to punctuate that by trying to trick her (which, as unfair as that sounds, is precisely what I feel Drucker was trying to do a number of times and which even Lear acknowledges herself on camera).

I find myself thinking of Emily St. James’ novel Woodworking, which brings together three very different kinds of trans women to explore the ways that the world we/they exist in distinctly impacts them (as well as the ways trans people can sometimes play into the oppression of others). One of her characters has successfully shifted her life and managed to present as a cis woman, flawlessly presenting this “woodworked” self to the world. In it, the trans women who once knew this woman do not speak on her history or try to out her in any capacity, but simply share their memories of her when prompted or mentioned (and the woman herself only comes out when she herself chooses this). The reveal certainly recontextualizes the way we understand the character up until that point, but it also doesn’t take away from the feelings and understanding we’ve had of her before. She still is who she is, regardless of whether she’s out as a trans woman or stealthily presenting as a cis woman. Her actions and experiences are what is of interest.

This is where I think Enigma does something of a disservice to the women it chooses to explore, not simply the core duo, but even someone like Marie-Pierre Pruvot, who herself had a beautifully intimate documentary named Bambi made years ago by Sébastien Lifshitz (director of the excellent Casa Susanna). When it embraces some level of conventionality, allowing its talking heads to guide us through their respective histories in both public and private ways, Enigma does precisely what it sought to do in exploring the implied thesis that no individual trans woman’s path to becoming who they are is any less meaningful than another. Even the other trans women interviewed here, many of whom knew Lear, seem more than comfortable with Lear never outing herself, simply because it isn’t something they need to go on with their lives. They can lament the lost connection and simply grow as women in their own right beyond that individual.

There are other pioneers who are open, whether by choice or force, and that’s what all of April Ashley’s magnificent history is there to showcase. They exist as perfect contrasts: performance versus reality. Ashley and Lear are both women, but that word comes with different baggage and meaning to each one of them. Where one faces harsh reality, the other sees the perfect performance. That Ashley passed away before the end of this movie, only to have other women around to speak on how much she meant to them in a minor way, is another brilliant but minor choice: it shows that April’s willingness to be open about herself allowed her to have people get close to her, close enough that she meant something on a scale that wasn’t just international stardom. Perhaps Lear doesn’t have that, perhaps she does (though the expectation/implication that she needs a trans community feels forced), but a savvier filmmaker would allow the audience to extrapolate that themselves rather than being consistently reminded that the filmmaker’s goal is to actually to lure their subject into saying what they want. It feels like someone blindly grasping at any chance to get a woman to expose herself on camera, and, frankly, the fact that Lear never does is a testament to her greatness.

In Enigma, Amanda Lear says, “I can’t explain myself because I am not myself.”

It could be taken as a joke, as an explicit dig at Drucker’s line of questioning, and/or as her reality, but that doesn’t really matter. Put bluntly: It doesn’t matter who she is because she shouldn’t have to explain herself.

She should get to choose the life and the presentation she wants. She should never have to sacrifice whatever narrative she’s presented, especially when that “coming out moment” that Drucker is so desperate to capture would not actually have any weight beyond surface level. Amanda Lear can serve as an icon to so many trans women, an inspiration in whatever way her fans choose to make her, simply because of the persona and identity she has crafted and maintained. She already is an icon, she already has been an inspiration, and nothing, not even saying “I’m trans”, can or should change that. We can celebrate our openly trans icons like April Ashley – an elder who spent her lifetime fighting for us – while also celebrating those who managed to convince (some of) the world that they were cis. That is the beauty of identity; once we realize it’s all performative to some extent and that we can navigate the hand we’re dealt any which way we can/want/must, life becomes a little more bearable. We can be as enigmatic or revealing as we please and fuck anyone who tries to force us to do anything other than that.

Every year I tell myself I’ll maintain a proper list of all the art I experience. I usually bail within a few weeks because I realize keeping track of every single episode of television is a nightmare, but — here we are! It’s been a month! Soderbergh, I’m coming for you! In part, this is just a long list of stuff I watch, read, and listen to, but I’ll also be tossing in some musings and including any articles I write. Perhaps eventually I’ll also include some articles by folks that I enjoyed. I originally wanted to include music videos as well, but that became way too unwieldy, so I might just casually gesture at those somewhere down the road too.

MOVIES
“STAGE PRODUCTION”
VIDEO GAME
Books [Chapters for Manga]
TV Shows [Episodes]
Albums (-Artist)
* denotes re-watch/read/listen

01/01
Alligator Bites Never Heal - Doechii
BARB AND STAR GO TO VISTA DEL MAR*
Ranma ½ [352-363]*

01/02
Cheers [10x02]
Faith - George Michael*
Older - George Michael*
Promise - Sade*
Ranma ½ [364-377]*
Sateen - Sateen*

01/03
Cheers [10x03-04]
RuPaul’s Drag Race [17x01]
SONIC THE HEDGEHOG 3
THE NUTTY PROFESSOR*

01/04
K-On [2x01]*
NUTTY PROFESSOR 2: THE KLUMPS*
STEP BROTHERS*

01/05
FROM GROUND ZERO
PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE*

01/06
A Funk Odyssey - Jamiroquai*
Cheers [10x05]
Flood - They Might Be Giants*
Punch-Drunk Love - Jon Brion*
Rio - Duran Duran*

01/07
Aja - Steely Dan*
HAXX DEADROOM
K-On [2x02]*
RED ROOMS
Severance [1x01-03]*

01/08
Cheers [10x06]
Ranma ½ [378-407]*
Severance [1x04-09]*
SHINBAMGUMI - Ginger Root*

01/09
A Seat at the Table - Solange*
Australian Survivor [3x01]
Cheers [10x07]
Deal or No Deal Island [2x01]
K-On [2x03]*
When I Get Home - Solange*

01/10
143 - Katy Perry
CONFESS FLETCH
RuPaul’s Drag Race [17x02]
SE7EN*
The Traitors [3x01-03]

01/11
BIO ZOMBIE
Cheers [10x08-10]
FUNERAL PARADE OF ROSES
Perverts - Ethel Cain

01/12
Aja - Steely Dan*
Cheers [10x11-26]

01/13
Cheers [11x01-12]
K-On [2x04]*
Usogui [001-016]

01/14
Ally McBeal [1x01]
BENNY’S BATHTUB
Cheers [11x13-28]
Frasier [1x01-03]*
Usogui [017-025]

01/15
Black Coffee With Peggy Lee - Peggy Lee*
Mandy Patinkin - Mandy Patinkin*
RuPaul’s Drag Race [17x03]

01/16
ERASERHEAD*
The Emancipation of Mimi - Mariah Carey*
The Traitors [3x04]
Frasier [1x04]*

01/17
DELTA SPACE MISSION
Frasier [1x05]*
The Traitors [3x04]

01/18
THE MISCHIEF MAKERS
THE DAISY
THE TENDER GAME*
CHICKEN SOUP
THE CREATION
Frasier [1x06]*
Kiss - Carly Rae Jepsen*

01/19
GOOD-BY ELVIS AND USA
CRAYON ANGEL
WILD AT HEART*
HARDWARE*
Frasier [1x07-09]*

01/20
INLAND EMPIRE*
American Dad [21x09-12]
Frasier [1x10-13]*
The Death of the Moth

01/21
Ambient 2: The Plateaux of Mirror - Brian Eno, Harold Budd*
FALLEN ANGEL - Susumu Yokota
Endless Kindness - Macy Rodman*
BREAKAWAY*
THE ELEPHANT MAN*
Frasier [1x14-20]*

01/22
Frasier [1x21-24, 2x01-04]*
Surround - Hiroshi Yoshimura

01/23
PRESENCE
THE COLORS WITHIN*
RHOSLC [5x07-08]
Frasier [2x05-06]*
Music for Nine Post Cards - Hiroshi Yoshimura
Inherent Vice

01/24
RHOSLC [5x09-15]
HOT TUB TIME MACHINE*
RuPaul’s Drag Race [17x04]
Childrens Hospital [Season 1]*

01/25
RHOSLC [5x16-17]
K-On [2x05]
“ASSASSINS”*
DICK*
Childrens Hospital [2x01]*

01/26
THE STRAIGHT STORY
The Traitors [3x05]
Frasier [2x07-12]*
RHOBH [14x01-02]
Childrens Hospital [2x02]*
PAPER MARIO: THE THOUSAND YEAR DOOR

01/27
COMPANION
Childrens Hospital [2x03-06]*
RHOBH [14x03-04]
Frasier [2x13-14]*

01/28
Frasier [2x15-24]*
RHOBH [14x05-08]
Childrens Hospital [2x07-10]*

01/29
Frasier [3x01-12]*
RHOBH [14x09]
OBEX
RuPaul’s Drag Race & Untucked [17x05]
Childrens Hospital [2x11-12]*

01/30
FLOWER SHOW
INKWO FOR WHEN THE STARVING RETURN
LUZ DIABLA
FIELD RECORDING
AS IF SWALLOWED BY EARTH
PARADISE MAN (II)
HURIKAN
RAINS OVER BABEL
MOVE YA BODY: THE BIRTH OF HOUSE
EUSEXUA - FKA Twigs
RHOSLC [5x18]
Frasier [3x13-16]*

01/31

Frasier [3x17-24]*
The Traitors [3x06]
The Body Is A Message Of The Universe - Shiho Yabuki
Childrens Hospital [3x01-02]*

—

It’s been nothing short of an insane month, with politics pretty much mentally draining me every day, so my tv habits have required little to no brain power (save for a rewatch of Severance in prep for season two). My first run through ever of Cheers finally came to an end, and I was left a little heartbroken over it — I genuinely missed these weird characters I’d come to know and love over so many seasons, even if I marathoned through the series in just a few months rather than over a decade. So I obviously followed a character to Seattle and picked up a rewatch of Frasier, which only gets better with age (and with context). I’ve also started a Childrens Hospital rewatch, because good comedy with a hundred jokes per minute is all I can handle these days. Also, did you guys know Ally McBeal is a fucking insane show? I saw the pilot (prompted by pal April Wolfe telling me I had to) and was floored. I will continue this journey soon enough.

Catching up with my Housewives has been both a curse and a treat, some of my favorite shows faltering while others stay strong. I found myself relating to Erika Jayne of all people recently, talking through that at length in therapy (her curt manner and defensiveness are familiar to me), which was the first time I’ve had to have that conversation with my therapist since I broke down crying about how much I felt like Sonja Morgan. But this isn’t therapy (or, I guess, maybe it is) (it’s all free writing that you’re reading for some reason). Also, shout out to The Traitors: here’s hoping Carolyn wins it all.

My re-read of Ranma 1/2 came to an end, reminding me that Rumiko Takahashi is the gold standard for comedy in Japanese literature. I find myself wishing more people bothered reading her work beyond all the trans people who probably did in Borders or Barnes & Noble stores in their teens (myself obviously included), but it does make me think fondly about the artists who have taken inspiration from her in varying ways (Maia Kobabe’s Gender Queer and Bryan Lee O’Malley’s Scott Pilgrim, to name a few). And finally getting the chance to dive into Thomas Pynchon’s work (after many years of buying his books for cheap, considering starting them, and then setting them down) was immensely rewarding with the meandering insanity that was Inherent Vice. It made me all the more excited to revisit Paul Thomas Anderson’s adaptation, though I think so many minor beats and odd lines I loved likely didn’t make the cut.

Musically I’ve enjoyed my journey through revisiting favorite classic albums while also having some fun with newer artists (Doechii!) (her “DENIAL IS A RIVER” video and its teasers easily top tier music videos of the year too!), but I’ve found myself already in love with two albums that released in January: Ethel Cain’s Perverts (I am ashamed to say I’d never listened to her prior) and FKA Twigs’ EUSEXUA (an artist I’ve passively enjoyed but never gotten into as deep as I should have). Who knows what other discoveries exist out there, although I have been having a nice time just vibing to various ambient albums.

I won’t bother getting into all the films I watched this past month, save for noting that rewatching Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar for the seventh? eighth? time, and finally seeing Confess Fletch (a treat!), solidified that Annie Mumolo is perhaps our greatest comic talent out there. Margot Robbie was right! I’d also like to highlight the 16mm prints I was lucky enough to catch this month: at the library there was The Mischief Makers, The Daisy, The Tender Game, Chicken Soup, and The Creation (all of which were presented from Miami-Dade Public Library’s archive by Katharine Labuda and AV Club) and at the ICA in Miami, they had two 16mm shorts by Keiichi Tanaami — GOOD-BY ELVIS AND USA and Crayon Angel — playing on a loop for their exhibition on his work (running until March 30th and I encourage everyone to go if able, especially as the museum is free).

Perhaps the biggest thing that’s been weighing on everyone in the arts is the passing of David Lynch, which completely overshadowed the fact that I interviewed Mandy Patinkin the very morning that Lynch’s passing was announced. (As much as I joked that my suicidal tendencies had been postponed because I was able to confess to Patinkin that I’d had a crush on him since watching Yentl, I did still love getting the chance to chat with him, so feel free to read that.)

But Lynch’s loss was one of the first times in a long time that it felt genuinely good to be online. I was mourning with others, but I was also celebrating a life with others. For my part, I could barely process most of it beyond a few tweets, specifically one of Lynch’s Log Lady intros in which Catherine Coulson says, “One day, the sadness will end.” The sadness and joy continues to ebb and flow, but experiencing his work with friends has been nothing short of wonderful. Watching them weep at his tenderness, watching them laugh at his humor, watching them struggle with how confused they are; it’s nothing short of a dream.

Though many in South Florida have made their own tributes featuring his feature films, my lack of resources and funds took me down a different route. I spent much of January working on an immense project of screenings (some of which are still looking for homes) titled IN DREAMS, I TALK WITH YOU. A ton of 16mm prints will be screening throughout the coming months, alongside a lot of digital shorts and videos, at Gramps and Miami-Dade’s Main Library; the series directly engage with Lynch’s work and also his influences, contemporaries, and favorites. Perhaps it’s a bit weird and ambitious, but why settle for anything less when our favorite artist didn’t? I hope the love for his work continues on and on throughout the year.

While this technically published in February, I’m still featuring it here in this January wrap-up because I want to close off by sharing some final words about Lynch. Little White Lies’ In Heaven Everything Is Fine series of essays and art has been marvelous, giving glimpses into everyone’s connection to David Lynch and his work in unique ways. I was blessed to be paired with such a talented group of writers and artists, and am so grateful to have been able to write about Twin Peaks, and love, of all things. To end, I quote myself:

“Albert’s path is a strange and difficult one,” is both beautiful and a reminder of just how hard it can be to exist in a world as cruel as this one. David Lynch made it easier to understand how to navigate that weird world full of wonder and we may feel lost without him, but, in looking back at moments like these, we find a road map for guidance. In an age when violence surrounds us at every turn, let us all remember Albert’s fight against that very violence by instead focusing on love.

May we all live to love another day.

In its opening moments, Luca Guadagnino’s Io sono l’amore (I Am Love) presents a world without spark. The architecture it presents in a desaturated fashion is stifling, with John Adams’ music instilling an added anxiety of these images of snow covered terrain. Whatever movement, whatever beauty, exists within the frame is obscured by this frozen wasteland. And, without a word to be said, it perfectly establishes what life is like for Tilda Swinton’s Emma. She is a woman accustomed to the life she’s settled for: comfortable but passionless, simply another moving cog in the machine that is the Recchi family and its traditions.

Tradition is key to I Am Love, as we are told succinctly through scenes in which the men of the Recchi family each emphasize their patriarchal roles. This desire to restrict what it means to be a Recchi seeps into every aspect of their lives, from a daughter chastised for experimenting with her art to a mother being criticized for serving her son his favorite meal, “ukha” — a meal that remains the only thing Emma has left of her own history. Her husband Tancredi (Pippo Delbono) sits on the opposite side of the table from her, just as his parents (Gabriele Ferzetti & Marisa Berenson) exist at such a distance from each other themselves. She is expected to be an image of perfection, just as Edoardo Sr’s wife Allegra is; dressed to the nines and always able to soothe the men that lead this family. Whether or not there was once love there is a question no one can answer but Emma herself, and, though she willingly stepped into this family, Emma has lost everything that makes her her.

No one around her quite notices this disconnect, as they are all preoccupied with their own feelings and legacies. Her youngest son, Gianluca (Mattia Zaccaro), is something of a non-entity, a child content to disappear into the background. Her eldest, Edoardo Jr. (Flavio Parenti), instead seems destined to follow in the footsteps of his namesake, longing to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps in maintaining their textile manufacturing company long into the future. Though he’s far from the closed-minded man his grandfather seems to be — best exemplified in his relationships with the women he was raised with and by — he has put his faith into long-established traditions, down to marrying the right woman and continuing the lineage of the Recchi name.

But it is in her daughter, Elisabetta (Alba Rohrwacher), that Emma sees the possibility of a future that doesn’t exist within the tradition of the Recchi name. She first discovers this through something as innocuous as a note within a CD, one in which Elisabetta confesses her queerness to her brother Edoardo by telling of an encounter she had with a woman. Amidst the world Emma is accustomed to — navigating with ease the kind of Italian buildings and cityscapes that read more like an M.C. Escher painting than anything remotely natural — this revelation comes as a shock. But Guadagnino and Swinton eschew the expected here, never succumbing to the kind of cloying “coming out” drama, complete with parental turmoil or saccharine monologue that many a queer narrative are saddled with (including Guadagnino’s own Call Me By Your Name).

Instead, I Am Love takes Elisabetta’s queerness and uses it as an ideal moment for Emma’s own reflection. She sees in Elisabetta a chance for change, for self-discovery, and for a life that exists outside the bounds of what the Recchi family dictates. Her daughter has rejected the man that looks like a carbon-copy of the men in her family, in favor of a woman who seems to not only love her, but love the very person that she dreams of becoming, down to her interest in photography (as simply shown through the mountains of photos she takes of her). Without a hint of judgment or commentary, Emma listens to her daughter and the life that she’s built for herself in London while in school. Her otherness is not limited to her queerness, but that very interest in the arts — while her grandfather rejected her photography, her mother looks in awe at the beauty that exists within the photographs Elisabetta shares with her. “It’s not a passing thing, I’m sure,” Elisabetta says, as her mother holds her face lovingly, and her mother knows this to be true.

It is only after this exchange with her daughter that Emma herself can even begin to acknowledge the delights that exist outside of the seemingly Edenic palazzo she’s arguably trapped within. Just as Elisabetta had to escape these walls to discover herself, so does Emma — and the passion she discovers lies in a man that her son inadvertently introduces her to.

Antonio (Edoardo Gabbriellini), from his very introduction as the man who beat Edoardo Jr. in a race, is the very man who threatens everything that is the Recchi clan. His natural essence — not just that of a working class man with the skill to triumph over the ruling class, but of a man who openly follows his passion and treats those who surround him with the same grace and tenderness as the ingredients he uses — is one that everyone is drawn to. And though Edoardo is platonically pulled in by Antonio, though never quite committed to him beyond the possibility of expanding his business, Emma finds herself seduced by the way he, and his food, makes her feel. He lights a fire within her and everything, down to the film’s own aesthetics and Adams’ music folding into what he offers, with “Lollapalooza” providing an apt aural metaphor for Emma’s destabilization as she finds herself engrossed by following Antonio through town.

His presence isn’t all that far off from the way that Terence Stamp’s nameless figure invades the Italian bourgeois in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Teorema, but Guadagnino has no interest in using Antonio as a means of destruction. The eroticism is still there, as Emma begins her affair with this man she barely knows but who seems to understand exactly what she needs, but Antonio exists as more of a symbol of what pleasures can exist beyond the restrictions that societal norms have placed upon us. Though they are, by all traditional standards, a heterosexual coupling, their relationship is no less queer than that of Elisabetta and her girlfriend.

Antonio represents another world, far from the stuffy wealth and relative comfort that comes with the Recchi name. So much of this is in the way Yorich Le Saux shoots San Remo as opposed to Milan; just as Emma experiences her epiphany of possibility through Antonio’s food (which Le Saux emphasizes through lighting cues meant to mimic an erotic awakening), she is able to discover true joy through the warmth of freedom, of messiness, and of existing within a space that is natural as opposed to manufactured. He connects her to her roots, down to asking her the very name that she no longer remembers from her life in Russia before being swept away to Italy. This life, this identity, is one that she thought had been buried alive and would never discover again. With him, in their natural restaurant retreat, she can embrace the life that she knows is hers, just as her daughter can do so outside the walls of their household. She recognizes the same joy in Elisabetta’s photos of her girlfriend that she does in herself after her affair with Antonio begins. Emma knows what Elisabetta feels when she’s with her girlfriend, simply because of the same fulfillment she gets when she kisses Antonio. These are the people that they can share every single piece of themselves with, without an ounce of shame to be felt.

As the film comes to a close, Emma is no longer a bird trapped in a gilded cage, or, perhaps more pointedly, a weeping statue. She no longer has to wait for something, anything, to shake her out of this fixed position, frozen in time in a building that has nothing left to offer her. Her son’s death has done just that. And, while it’s easy to think of her son as the last standing obstacle between her and Antonio, he’s more of a representation of what the Recchi family can do to someone. For all the belief Edoardo had that he could be different than those who came before him, he had become set in the ways that tradition had dictated. Tradition took her son, tradition has replaced him with his unborn child, and tradition would have kept her and her daughter trapped in a world that would keep them from experiencing love.

Tancredi has nothing to offer her other than the very stifling world she’s desperate to escape. And when she pushes back against that, she is dismissed as many a queer person are, with the cutting words: “you don’t exist.” To diverge from the path that has been set for you, to actively reject the expectations you are burdened with, is to be queer. In these final moments, the tight repetition of Adams’ earlier pieces are traded in in favor of a bold climactic harmony that offers a sense of freedom and potential beyond what once existed. Queerness is allowed to flourish in this time, with the shackles of designer clothes (designed to keep one in a certain pristine condition) broken and cast aside in favor of a life that requires no expectation. Even something as simple as a haircut, one that is recognizably dyke-y for her daughter and that she herself mimics, is representative of her willingness to let go of perception and expectation.

The only two people who understand this otherness are Elisabetta and Emma. And when look at each other, tears welling in their eyes as silently say their goodbyes (for now), it’s hard not to find oneself drawn into that very swelling emotion. There’s a recognition in those eyes, in the gestures that they make even though they are being separated and will, more than likely, be kept apart by a patriarch who will undoubtedly become desperate to control them and stop them from experiencing joy. Words aren’t necessary to explain what this kind of revelation, what this kind of escape from the expected, means for them. In spite of the disapproving gazes from those that claim to be their family (but who ultimately are content to cast them aside), these women are only just now beginning to experience what life can and should be.

Just as Elisabetta kept her love in photographs and in quiet conversations, Emma now keeps her love to herself, with the audience’s eyes being the only ones allowed to witness her and Antonio embracing in a cavern. In spite of a world that doesn’t want them to exist, or will not recognize the love that they have discovered within themselves through others, they will exist. Perhaps some day Elisabetta and Emma will both be free to experience all the rich beauty that life has to offer outside of the shadows that many seek to keep us in. But, for now, they don’t just both have love: they are love.

—

All images featured are screenshots from Luca Guadagnino’s Io sono l’amore.