friedkin’s camera that never stops moving until it does, until the thunder claps and the lasagna floods on the balcony, meat and cheese left festering in a gelatinous pool, half-eaten. the striking domesticity of its layers turned to mush and inside the phone rings. circuits tethering the city in a network, but always mediating who calls and who is called through beds of concrete. how do you love another person when you’ve got the wrong number? at the end of…
panoptic love liberated by paradox, in bars, underneath the stick and poke that covers up atrocity, in his arms and in his arms, their arms, in cages, in display windows. what’s imprisoned then, them or what’s kept behind glass? in franz rogowski’s eyes, boyish and wondrous but always wisened. the texture of the film itself stretches beyond the confines of the frame, not something to watch but to witness, to be witness to. to be held captive by. to love.
hittman’s camera floats across autumn’s face as she turns away from the sonogram, a gesture of radical empathy that takes my breath away. it’s a moment that speaks to the simmering rage of living through this moment in time, where those whose investment in dehumanizing cruelty pummels and bruises, proselytizing an institutional hypocrisy that’s exhaustingly cynical. never rarely sometimes always stands defiant against this, a beacon of care and admiration for those who must bear the weight.
ashton’s big gay time travel mixtape (and what time in my life i am travelling to)
1. hurricane - bridgit mendler (plunging the clogged toilet at the video store i used to work at)
2. d.r.e.a.m. - jojo siwa (being asked on a first date if this was leading to anything serious and panicking and saying no)
3. fuck it (i don't want you back) - eamon (shakily opening my honesty box on facebook in the late 2000s)…