Writers, dancers, couriers and diarists
January went out with a whimper, and by that I mean Steven Soderbergh’s not-quite ghost story Presence. I admit I am no match for Neon’s marketing prowess and I allowed myself to get swept up in the Julia Fox real estate ads and the voicemail enquiries on the film’s social media. But, had the minds behind the film’s promotion been asked to contribute to the script, it might’ve been a better film. I emerged from the 9:30pm Monsterfest screening at Event Innaloo (or should I say 10pm, because dear God the ads) with a hunger for something more cinematically substantial in February.
Not 12 hours later, I saw
Queer
Folks, he’s done it again. And depending on your palate for the films of Luca Guadagnino, your mileage with ‘it’ may vary. His latest is Queer, a half faithful adaptation and half radical reimagining of William S. Burroughs 1985 novella of the same name. Daniel Craig plays William Lee (Burroughs’ pen name for a time), an American ex-pat and self-proclaimed junkie living in 1950s Mexico City who spends his time bar hopping and trying to pick up younger men, occasionally succeeding but never finding the connection he seeks.
There, he meets and swiftly becomes infatuated with Eugene Allerton (Drew Starkey), a fellow American and GI whose sexuality appears somewhat mysterious. Lee’s attempts to woo/figure out Allerton occupy the majority of the film’s three chapters and epilogue. But Queer is a story told almost entirely through subtext, leaving the audience with more questions than answers.
Some of these answers can be found by reading up on some real life occurrences from Burroughs’ life but I don’t think the film assumes (nor requires) any prior knowledge of its subject. It’s Daniel Craig’s remarkable performance that adds the most depth and emotion to Lee and I found myself immediately onside from his adorably awkward little jig in courting Allerton to his last lonely moments in the red motel that meant so much.
Queer’s third act is where the major split seems to occur between those who strap in and those who jump ship. I fall into the former cohort, enamoured by its overt symbolism and the imagery it throws at the audience as the subconscious filth of Lee’s self reflection starts to ooze out. The film’s anachronistic soundtrack featuring Nirvana and Prince and Sinead O’Connor is often starkly out of place for the 1950s yet somehow fits perfectly with this overall theme of self-reflection, as if the scenes in which they feature are entries in a diary that spans a lifetime of mistakes, and a few formative memories to be replayed.
Queer is a far cry from Challengers, the last collaboration between director Guadagnino and Justin Kuritzkes (playwright, screenwriter, husband of Celine Song and renowned YouTube potion master). But I found it just as impactful a piece of work, this time swapping the heart-thumping throes of tennis and love triangles for an immersive character study with all the trimmings of a David Lynch dreamscape.
Like my favourite of Guadagnino’s offerings (his 2018 Suspiria ‘remake’) Queer has received somewhat mixed reviews, and I can understand the perspective of those who don’t connect with it. I won’t pretend to have comprehended all of Queer’s offerings on first viewing; it’s a film I plan to revisit and dissect more thoroughly. But it did that rare thing (like Aftersun did, and like Twin Peaks often did) of making me feel something I can’t quite put into words. That Lee is a writer chasing a plant with supposed telepathic properties so he can communicate without them is all you really need to take away. Oh, and don’t do ayahuasca unless you’re prepared to take a good, hard look at yourself.
Verdict
☆☆☆☆½
Watched: Saturday February 1st, Cinema 1, Luna Leederville
Runtime: 136 minutes (agony for some, indulgence for others)
In cinemas: Now
The Last Showgirl
The following Saturday, I had the complete opposite experience while watching The Last Showgirl, the latest from Gia Coppola (granddaughter of Francis Ford, niece of Sofia and cousin of Nicolas Cage and Jason Schwartzman). The director of Palo Alto and Mainstream ventures into the city of sin (and rhinestone outfits), this time exploring the late career pains of a *mature* showgirl whose show is being canned in two weeks after a three decade run due to dwindling ticket sales.
The show in question is Le Razzle Dazzle, a French-style revue featuring dancing nudes and lotsa feathers. The showgirl is 57-year-old Shelly (Pamela Anderson in her first ‘real’ role in years), who speaks like Marilyn Monroe and is surprisingly prudish about any kind of performance other than the one she’s been putting on for the better part of her adult life. She commiserates with her chosen family of friends Annette (Jamie Lee Curtis), Mary-Anne (Brenda Song) and Jodie (Kiernan Shipka), and searches for connection in Eddie (Dave Bautista), a man with whom she has a history.
If that synopsis sounds a bit hollow, that’s because it is! At only 88 minutes, The Last Showgirl spends precious time on meandering shots of Pam looking off into the Las Vegas distance, as if asking the audience to impart meaning onto it rather than giving us something to chew on. Coppola instructs Jamie Lee Curtis, for no apparent reason (other than perhaps a somber reference to True Lies), to jump up onto a table and dance to the entirety of Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. Then she hops back down and we’re left wondering why.
There are light themes of parental failing, arrested development and the ageism of show business, all captured on 16mm film to lend a raw, almost documentary feel to the film. I couldn’t help but wish it had been a documentary; Las Vegas residents are nothing if not eclectic and they’d all have stories to tell. Instead, the film is adapted from its writer Kate Gersten’s own unproduced play Body of Work, which Coppola says “allowed [them] to keep the story contained and create an intimate movie.” The problem with The Last Showgirl is that it’s too contained; there’s just not enough there to connect with, and not enough for its cast to sink their teeth into.
One quote in the promotion of the film states "Gia Coppola gives Anderson the best role she's ever had,” and unfortunately, that’s true. I wanted this to be a proper start to the Pamaissance but instead, Anderson is given a half-formed version of Shelly from which to mould a three dimensional character. She tries her best and there are facets of her performance that hint at a genuinely fascinating kind of person; she’s just not given the time or the material to fully realise that goal.
That’s not to say there are no highlights to the film. Dave Bautista, as always, manages to bring something more tangible and resonant to his character. And despite the film’s final act (which is supposed to offer us a long awaited glimpse into this long running show) landing with a bit of a thud, it is scored by the Miley Cyrus original song ‘Beautiful That Way’, written as something of an ode to Pam as an icon.
Verdict
☆☆½
Watched: Saturday February 8th, Cinema 1, Luna Leederville
Runtime: 88 minutes and “is that it?”
In cinemas: Thursday Feb 20th
Souleymane’s Story (L'Histoire de Souleymane)
For the kick-off of the Alliance Francaise French Film Festival 2025, we were treated to Champagne, cheese and a spirited introduction from General Manager Thomas Feldstein prior to the preview screening of Souleymane’s Story, Boris Lojkine’s high anxiety, humanist thriller.
The film won the Jury Prize and the Performance Prize in the prestigious Un Certain Regard category of Cannes in 2024, a remarkable feat considering its star is a non-professional who had never acted before in his life. Instead, lead Abou Sangaré brings the lived experience of having not once, not twice but three times been denied citizenship by the French authorities. Here he plays Souleymane, a young man from Guinea who couriers UberEats across Paris while preparing for the all important asylum application interview, a make or break event for an immigrant seeking residency.
Since he can’t legally work, Souleymane operates under the name and account of a settled acquaintance who takes most of his earnings. This sparks problems if a food delivery recipient complains, or if Souleymane has to cancel the order, or any number of other problems the app’s customer service team won’t disclose to him when the account is disabled. He’s indebted to several people, beholden to public transport timetables and his bike (his livelihood) just got all bent up in a collision with a hatchback. Comparisons have been made to the Safdies’ Uncut Gems and they’re warranted; but unlike the reckless Howard Ratner, Souleymane hasn’t done anything wrong.
This is a sobering tale of what it’s like when your future lies in the hands of strangers. The story in the film’s title refers to the carefully constructed and memorised story that Souleymane is preparing to recount in his interview. But he keeps getting the dates wrong and despite the insistence of the man providing the fiction, there are murmurings that officers are cracking down on duplicates.
This is indeed a palpitation-inducing film but it reminded me most of Ken Loach’s I, Daniel Blake. It’s another realistic portrait of the state sanctioned bureaucracy that forces vulnerable and unlucky people to validate their existence as humans, this time upping the stakes from not getting welfare to being sent back to where you came from. Sangaré brings a deep sense of urgency to his role, the hopelessness of the situation contrasted with his resilience and determination. It’s times like these we need such stories, and Souleymane’s is just the ticket.
Verdict
☆☆☆☆
Watched: Tuesday February 11th, Cinema 4, Palace Raine Square for the AF FFF 25 program kick-off
Runtime: A respectful 94 minutes
In cinemas: March 18th - April 15th at Luna locations and Palace Raine Square
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
Is there anything further from a social-realist thriller than silly old Bridget? Decidedly not, I’d say (in Mark Darcy’s wanky yet somehow endearing posh accent), and that’s the attitude I took with me when attending Luna Leederville’s Galentine’s Day session of Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy.
It’s been nine years since we last saw Bridge (Renée Zellweger) and she was trying to figure out the paternity of her eponymous baby. Prior to that she was fannying about on the slopes of Austria and getting Madonna trivia wrong at a Law Council quiz (I don’t remember much from the second film). And if we go back a whole 24 years, she was an icon for an entire generation of women who smoked like chimneys, drank like fish, dressed like their mothers and were at last assured that you can be lovable “just as you are”.
Now, she’s a widow. This isn’t a spoiler because it’s in the trailer, but our beloved Mark Darcy (Colin Firth) has permanently gone to bedfordshire, leaving Bridget with two kids and Daniel Cleaver as a bestie/babysitter. Her core mates are thankfully still in the picture, too; Shaz (Sally Phillips), Jude (Shirley Henderson) and Tom (James Callis) are again urging her to get out there and get her freak on, lest her lady parts seal up (a line that I’m sure was lifted from Anthony Marentino in Sex and the City). Bridget’s awkward attempts to do so result in a May/December situationship with a man named Roxster (Leo Woodall), an enemies to lovers arc and a triumphant (if a little too seamless) return to work.
On paper, this sounds fine. But Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy is a strange tonal departure from what we know and love about the world’s most questionable interpretation of Elizabeth Bennet. Where the first three films were directed by women (Sharon Maguire did one and three while Baroness Beeban Kidron did the second), this comes from Michael Morris, a television director who made the addiction drama To Leslie. It might explain why Mad About the Boy is a weird amalgamation of nostalgia plays, predictable plotlines and forced weepiness. Then again, it was a man who helped make Bridget Jones’s Diary into a UK classic.
I consider myself a huge fan of the original (film, I’ve not read the book/s); it’s among my most watched movies and that’s in part due to Richard Curtis’s influence on the script. It’s why it bears similarities to other favourites like Notting Hill and even The Vicar of Dibley. And while Curtis wasn’t present for the other two sequels, they at least felt like they somewhat belong in the world of Bridget. The disconnect I feel with this new film could very well be because Bridget is now far beyond my sightline as a 30-something (the sea of 50-something women at my screening seem to corroborate this theory) but I found myself numb to the film’s emotional ploys and resistant to some of its narrative turns. It’s also FAR too long for a Bridget Jones film. Were she introducing it at the launch, I’m sure she’d bring that up.
Verdict
☆☆
Watched: Wednesday February 13th, Cinema 1, Luna Leederville Galentine’s Day session alongside hundreds of 50-something women
Runtime: 124 minutes (genuinely massive length for a Bridget Jones movie)
In cinemas: Now
As averages would suggest, the first two weeks of February were a rather uneven display of the cinematic arts. But it’s not over yet! On Tuesday we’re seeing Oz Perkins’ The Monkey and I’ve tried to avoid Neon’s cheeky marketing this time in the hopes that I won’t come out disappointed. And on Friday, we’re rectifying the lull of The Last Showgirl with the Trash Classics screening of Paul Verhoeven’s so-bad-it’s-a-masterpiece Showgirls. You can still get tickets here if watching Kyle MacLachlan get the world’s most aggressive lap dance is something that interests you.
