The first thing that came to mind was a former friend who had her son via IVF. She said of the experience that up to that point in her life, it was as if she’d been behind a pane of glass, watching the world pass by, separated from her. And then her little boy came along, “and he walked me through the glass.” I’m sorry, but I really don’t like the idea of a human child being the cause of someone’s redemption or their spiritual awakening or whatever. The self-involved narcissism that the person (Peter Green in the instance of Club Kid) had to overcome is simply replaced with another even worse form of narcissism: your son becomes merely the vehicle for your newfound self-understanding, and that drives the entire concept of the movie. This is why narcissists should always just have pets, not kids.
Yes, some elements of queer community enter into the film, yet they seemed more like colorful sprinkles or ice-cream toppings to me: intradiegetically unrealistic, and lingering not just on the fringes of the narrative (as do those mini-performances, sweet though they may be), but pretty much entirely outside of it. I’d read in a couple of early reviews about the film’s final half-hour or so, so I didn’t need to stay for that part. No need for drama about Arlo’s immigration status, certainly no need for any courtroom scene nor its requisite heartfelt speech. I walked away caring only about the chemistry between Jordan Firstman and Reggie Absolom on screen, which is essentially the magic of casting, with some scattered bits of acting (mostly embodied in gazes and attitudes).
Any movie that tosses in a few quick references to Björk and Cocteau Twins has to be cool, right? Especially if an adorable little 10-year-old British kid is making them? Not necessarily. They have to come from somewhere that’s grounded in the scenes themselves and not tiny flashes of detail that are mostly just accessories. And the flimsiness of being just an accessory, cinematically, is what sank my hopes for this movie. I wanted to see it succeed, not just as a commercial product, but as an artful and worthwhile one. In the back row near my seat were some of the creative team, excited to see the gay audience at Newfest watch and embrace the film, a gay New York movie screened on a Friday night in Chelsea, the gay heart of New York City. I get it. Though I think there’s an insularity to all of that which kind of precludes the sense of objectivity required to make an authentically good movie. Please don’t let this one be nominated for any screenplay awards. Or acting awards. Whatever its successes might be, they’re more external than internal. Give it awards for casting or marketing. (Sorry not sorry, Jordan.)
The one arresting moment in the narrative for me was when Arlo tells Peter point-blank that his mother (who’d become the hazy memory butt-of-a-joke to Peter and his friends over the preceding decade) died by suicide. It’s invoked so fleetingly, however, that it’s almost as if the movie knows that it’s unable to look seriousness more directly in the eye because it’s trying to evoke a world where real tragedies don’t actually exist. They’re mentioned and hinted at, but they might as well be fantasy, just like the rest of the movie is. So I think that’s the tragic quality that taints the film for me, knowing that it could have aspired to be more than what it is, if only it had taken the time and hard-nosed attention required to figure that out in more intricate and rewarding ways.
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