We lose nothing from a fuller representation of what it means to be human; we gain everything from a more empathetic understanding of our friends.
But I'm a Cheerleader takes a remarkably bleak and real concept—conversion therapy—and exaggerates it until it glows with a gentle absurdity.
This is the project of The Hours: to spin the same fragile fabric from which Woolf weaves her grand design, here patterned, there random, slipping from image to image, thought to thought.
When it comes to queer tragedy, there is nothing more affecting and unusual than Gus Van Sant’s beautiful, dreamlike slice of strange Americana, My Own Private Idaho.
Weekend tells a familiar story, but it has an important twist. I stare at the screen, alone in my bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Bad Education lunges for a seedy and fabulous underworld that refuses to be easily co-opted into the identity politics project that still looms over North American discussions of gay male popular culture.
I’m thinking of getting this line as a tattoo: As long as I’m used, I remain alive.
