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.
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.
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.
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.
I’m thinking of getting this line as a tattoo: As long as I’m used, I remain alive.
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.
