A small thing that interested me: the VHS quality of Hudson’s scenes, specifically the interlacing and halation. His ghostly afterimage is a bleeding edge around his form or exists slightly detached from his person, hovering over his stillness and tracking maybe a quarter of a second slower than his movements—a bit like Peter Pan and his resistant shadow. It feels like a thin sliver of space wherein one can contemplate the life that exists, or could exist, there.
* the sandy, plummy voice of judi dench delivering these zingers—which sound like the screenwriter was imagining himself tearing it up during a rupaul reading challenge—is a resource yet untapped by SSRI makers.
* the overdetermined score by philip glass really enhances the deranged comedy of it all, but it’s also funny because of how much it feels like he’s trying to make up for the workmanlike direction.
* bill nighy gesturing like he’s trying to throw out his…