Reviewed by The Times

Spoilers Ahead

Locatable in the desolate landscapes that rove between cognate pixels, Jane Schoenbrun's surrealist horror film I Saw the TV Glow delivers a bone-chilling meditation on Black Queer temporality and coming-of-age. The culmination of vibrant neons, skillful crossfades, and eerie soundscapes evokes a haunting nostalgia, subjecting us to the soporific horror looming within the film's emotional logic. Schoenbrun adeptly balances emotional resonance with non-linearity, effectively avoiding a convoluted temporal structure. Lucidity and cohesion, though challenged, are simultaneously achieved through what Schoenbrun describes as the film's "[allegorical and literal queerness]," which manifests visually, sonically, and collectively within the audience.  

In its aesthetic non-conformity, I Saw the TV Glow fostersa necessary, albeit unconventional, narrative that renders White Queer nobility a surrogate of White supremacist Cis-Heteronormativity at large. Responding as a White Queer critic, I feel compelled to recommend this film – especially to White Queer readers alike. As we shift our perspectives away from a Queer universality, Schoenbrun propels us towards an understanding of interconnected transphobia, anti-blackness, colorism, trans misogynoir, and Othering within Queerness altogether. 

The story centers on Owen (Justice Smith), who grapples with identity, alienation – and asthma throughout. In the film's dawning moments, younger Owen (Ian Foreman) befriends Maddy (Brigette Lundy-Paine), bonded by their shared fixation on a late-night teen-cult television series entitled The Pink Opaque. Comparable to 90's hit Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Pink Opaque follows psychically connected "imaginary friends" Isabell and Tara, as they venture to dismantle the series' celestial Big-Bad, Mr. Melancholy. The film devises a clear parallel between its characters and those within the fictional series, which Schoenbrun cleverly communicates through seamless crossfades and highly nuanced sound design. 

Described by Owen's domineering father as a "show for girls," Owen is quickly awaken to the series' forbidden attraction. Nevertheless, The Pink Opaque incessantly infiltrates Owen’s glum reality until its presence is entirely unavoidable by both Owen and the audience. The film frequently maneuvers between Owen's adolescence, teenhood, and adulthood in a manner akin to channel surfing; Owen's narrative bridge lulls us into a trance. Achieved by a deliberately sleepy pace, these almost hypnotic early scenes ebb in and out of momentary anxiety before exploding into a terror that beckons to be acknowledged and confronted by the film's end.

Alongside this progression, Schoenbrun's allegorical message grows increasingly visible, as the film burns into an emblem of Owen's inner turmoil. Vibrant hues grow hazy, Owen finds themself "stuck" in adolescent spaces, grief festers with the death of their mother and Maddie's sudden disappearance, The Pink Opaque is canceled, and suddenly, we find ourselves assimilating to the sluggish movement of time. 

From the film's opening, there are signs of The Pink Opaque lodged into Owen's reality, even following its cancellation. Pensive vignettes of self-identification blur into an aesthetic cognizance, turning fiction indifferentiable from memory. This framing is most notable in the establishing scene of Owen both figuratively and literally inside a parachute resembling the transgender flag, and later when Maddie delivers her painstaking monologue inside the inflatable planetarium. The theme of "inwardness" or "interiority" is sewn into the film's temporal structure, echoing Owen's deep-seated fear of the sinister that might be lingering within them, which they repeatedly evade. That is until Maddie's return when the urgency to confront that sinister becomes more identifiable, pressurized, and alive, an admittedly familiar feeling for Queer and gender non-conforming folks. 

Ultimately, the film probes deeper into Owen and Maddie's divergent Queer experiences, culminating in a sobering reflection of when, where, and how Queerness should be expressed. Nearing the film's concluding moments, an aerial shot reads, "There is still time," etched in bright pink chalk, representing a temporary beacon of hope. However, the film arrives at an unexpectedly bleak conclusion, underscoring its exploration of deserting historically marginalized people, even within the communities they built and carried. Maddie expects Owen to dispose of the status quo and the body born into it with equal ease, safety, and access. Again, Maddie deserts Owen in the pursuit of self-acceptance, whilst Owen is left to suffocate in a nuclear reproductive hellscape far scarier than the monsters within The Pink Opaque. 

I contend that Schoenbrun's film does not serve the interpretation of "cautionary tale" but one of unflattened and undeniable Queerness– one that even embraces apologetic Queerness and the enduring glow within and without. Unequivocally, I Saw the TV Glow has an inherent Queerness, evinced both structurally and temporally, charting divergent methods of understanding time and hetero-linearity [sic]. 

In essence, my intention with this review is not merely to investigate the film's skillful symbolism and thematic potency, or to feign a novel perspective on Queer experiences that I cannot claim as my own. I could go on about Shoenbrun's commendable creative intuition and the cast's unfaltering performance. Instead, I will only encourage you to engage with I Saw the TV Glow, again, and more critically – with the willfulness to interrogate your position to Owen, to Maddie, and to the film itself.

To that end, I request that we aim to expand the nuances of Queer issues to encompass issues of Whiteness, so that we may properly serve our Queer, Queer adjacent, and gender variant communities as we venture to dismantle our own celestial ‘Big Bads’. As Shoenbrun envelopes us in the purgatory of misidentification, I will undoubtedly carry Owen's final abreactive howl beyond the theater's front row, where I found myself both a viewer and an unforeseen participant in Shoenbrun's narrative, more aware of the relentlessly sinuous systems that leave some apologizing for their own suffocation.

“All this detail he’s never noticed. Detail he’s never noticed. He’s alive, he’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive. Never noticed. He’s alive.”

Don Hertzfeldt’s deliberate simplicity is, oddly enough, a stylistically satisfying decision amongst the emotional and philosophical rigor of the experimental trilogy It’s Such a Beautiful Day (2011). The indie producer and film experimentalist has raised the stakes for contemporary animation with recent pieces like World of Tomorrow (2015) that employ a similar rudimentary style with a devastating narrative undercurrent. Beneath the childlike carapace of this avant-garde masterpiece is an authentic portrayal of mental deterioration and an apparent universality illuminated by Hertzfeldt's calculated simplicity. However, this particular read demands a certain devotion to Hertzfeldt's bizarre artistry. 

The film's protagonist, Bill, is dealing with an unnamed mental illness causing him to lose his memory throughout the film's progression. The animation style bears semblance to that of an elementary stick-figure, but Hertzfeldt's fantastic storytelling and incorporation of collage realism culminate in a wonderfully poetic meditation of mankind’s relationship to life and mortality. The overtly minimalistic quality of Hertzfeldt's film feels harmonious with segments of multiple exposure photography and experimental special effects interjected throughout the scenes. All of which recall the work of American filmmaker, Stan Brakhage, known for his appreciation of the metaphorical dimensions of cinema, unconventional filming techniques, and jagged editing style.  

The elements of collage are stark, yet their abruptness feels in line with Bill's journey, as he appears consistently jarred by the vast exterior world and his brief moments of recollection. The use of an antique camera and basic pen and paper—composing the film's landscape— communicate the confused reality of Bill's fragmented psyche well. A majority of the film lacks a setting with Bill centered in a small vignette of light, the rest of the screen space completely nullified. However, this is not a demonstration of lazy writing. The non-locatability and use of visual fragmentation distance the viewer from the setting while simultaneously drawing them closer to Bill. Hertzfeldt creates an interesting dynamic here. Bill's stickfigure identity makes him pretty relatable in terms of characters typically born out of the film world: he has no color, no voice, no distinct features besides a poorly drawn hat. For a main character, viewers actually know very little about Bill aside from the fact that he is just as existentially burdened as the rest of us. Therefore, as the film separates the audience from the story world, they are inadvertently directed to face the self that they project onto Bill as a virtually universal character. 

While the film follows a non-linear and relatively patchy format, Hertzfeldt's ability to ground the audience by way of classical music and an indelible narrative voice makes a lasting impression. The film is narrated by Hertzfeldt himself, his voice serving as a familiar, yet mystifying presence throughout the film's runtime. Alongside the godlike quality of Hertzfeldt's narration; however, is an air of comfort and stability. This kept me grounded in the story when the visuals became spontaneously more complex and shocking. The narration persists past the early classical numbers (also written and composed by Hertzfeldt) into shrill audio segments and distorted sounds, marking Bill's descent into incoherency. Thus, viewers are able to maintain a level of connectivity with Bill even as he slips further into mental regression.

Though devastating, the feature is one I will continue to revisit just to experience its haunting simplisticity. The film does a fantastic job of exploring mundanity and providing an authentic portrayal of mental illness in a way that feels refreshing and novel. Hertzfeldt's style is certainly an acquired taste, but it attests to the emotional capacity of barebones animation. In summation, Hertzfeldt’s film doesn't try to be something it isn’t. It is through his commitment to personal style that Hertzfeldt successfully evades cliches of existentialist content I’ve seen before while also asking all the right questions: Does approaching death draw us closer to reality? Who is deserving of our forgiveness? Is it possible to relate to a stick figure? It’s Such a Beautiful Day won’t answer these questions, but it’s certainly worth the watch.

“I don’t feel people should feel like they should have the right to accept us. What makes a person think they have to accept somebody? I don’t care if you accept me or not, but you need to respect me.”

-Mya Taylor, The Guardian

Tangerine, 2016 Spirit Award Best Feature nominee, is a well-crafted story notable for its stunning color palette, raunchy dialogue, and breakneck narrative. Shot along the dirtied city streets of L.A, Tangerine is cast in the silhouette of the Hollywood sign but is distant from any traditional project to come out of the industry. Tangerine is largely set at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland Avenue, the virtual epicenter of L.A.’s transgender sex exchange. From the very onset of the film, writer-director Sean Baker brazenly thrusts viewers into the disordered realities of trans sex workers, Sin-Dee (Kitana Kiki Rodriguez) and Alexandra (Mya Taylor). Set only over the course of a single day, Tangerine follows the two women on their many misadventures in a pursuit to locate Sin-Dee’s pimp boyfriend, Chester. Through bawdy humor and a high-stakes editing style, trans plight is crafted into a makeshift screwball comedy with a gut-wrenching undertone.

Tangerine’s revolutionary quality spawns from its playful and effective exploration of identity, as something that punctuates the film and not as the main substance. Baker serves us the nuances of trans identity as a side dish, not as the main course. It’s digestible, and I think thats why Tangerine is victorious in subverting stigmas about trans women of color, sex work, and their relationship to one another. Baker, working alongside trans actresses Rodriguez and Taylor, is successful in sharing a never before seen vibrant story of sisterhood and female-companionship—all captured on an iPhone 5s. It’s all fairly unorthodox to say the least, but that's what makes it such an influential project.

We open to Alexandra and previously incarcerated Sin-Dee sitting parallel to one another in a doughnut shop; a pink-sprinkled confection placed sumptuously before them. The first act fizzles out quickly, as the driving conflict is introduced mere minutes into the film. Sin-Dee has just discovered that Chester is cheating on her with a “fish,” a derogatory term coined by trans women referring to a cis-gender woman. The chase begins. Sin-Dee’s fury is tangible, her explosive mannerisms marked by Baker's amalgamation of jerky handheld shots, quick cuts, and erratic soundscapes— all calling back to films like Run Lola Run and BlairWitch Project. Using only an 8$ iPhone filming software, a few editing apps, and an anamorphic lens to document the journey, Baker is triumphant in creating a high-stakes film landscape despite a barebones budget. How such a feat is accomplished is incomprehensible to me, but Baker's resourceful cinematography certainly overshadows the feature’s more economic qualities.

Since the film's release, Baker has become widely celebrated in film cohorts nationwide, and rightfully so. His inventive flair pressurizes Rodriguez and Taylor's performances, which I contend is one of Tangerine's most praiseworthy elements. With no prior acting experience, both Rodriguez and Taylor deliver eccentric performances fitting for the content. It was at the Los Angeles LGBTQ center that Baker and co-collaborator, Chris Bergoch, were first introduced to the starlet, Taylor. Months before the official filming, interviews between Baker and Taylor took place in hole-in-the-wall Donut Time where a majority of the film transpires. Though, all attempts to construct a narrative proved futile. That was until Taylor invited Rodriguez to their provisional eatery/writers' room. “Their chemistry was palpable,” Baker stated in an interview with W magazine, and that much is obvious on screen. The actresses share a certain connection that is different from anything I’ve seen before. The overt and unconventional acting style intermixed with Taylor and Rodriguez’s chemistry gives the gritty buddy pciture a strong emotional grip.

Shedding light on the uncharted territories of L.A., Baker’s film is fearlessly atypical. Opting out of traditional filming methods, the iPhone is a befitting choice of media for a narrative about transgender prostitution, low-income communities, and the performance of sexuality altogether. It’s far too rare a coup that content coincides with form as successfully as seen in Tangerine. There is a dichotomy of fitting and not fitting; existing as a trans person, loyalty and betrayal, a world without phones filmed inside of a phone, set during Christmas in the sweltering L.A. heat, and this more unconventional method of filming assists these themes well. Altogether these elements shape a heart wrenchingly funny story of sisterhood and femininity that has a lasting impact like a bruise.

Scene Analysis

Spoilers Ahead

Nearing the film's end, the assigned shot from Jane Campion’s The Power of the Dog involves Peter as his glare shifts between Phil and the half-braided rope made ostensibly from diseased cowhide. Here, the camera pans between Peter who sits mere feet from the middle of the rope, and Phil’s hands, relentlessly maneuvering wisps of hide between his worked fingers. The particular emphasis on Phil’s bare hands suggests a certain reliance on a hyper-masculine guise to overshadow his own perceived weakness as an element of his sexuality. However, interwoven in Phil’s desperate attempts to mask his identity is what would become the deadly manifestation of his self-denial. While Phil desperately aims to hide his true desires, he also succumbs to a reality where the vulnerability of avoidance harms him more deeply than the vulnerability of self-acceptance. In conjunction, the use of lens adjustments, unique framing, distinct camera movement, and sound, reveal these subtle details about Phil’s character. Ultimately, the stylistic elements of the shot expose the dichotomy of Phil’s sexual repression: the fear of perceived weakness and subsequent vulnerability, as facets of his character that destroy him.

The choice of lens and framing support Phil’s deep unawareness as it pertains to the harm he is inflicting upon himself. The use of a long lens at the beginning of the shot centers Peter’s expression, framing him in a medium close-up. As the camera pans toward Phil, the lens adjusts to become more long, focusing on the rope and then eventually Phil's hands. Campion chooses to leave Phil's face outside of the frame, highlighting his gloveless hands. The laced rope remains the focus as the camera pans back toward Peter, where another lens adjustment reframes Peter’s expression until his face, too, is erased as he stands to exit the frame. The use of multiple lens adjustments to reframe different subjects in the shot serves a strong role narratively and in a deeper examination of Phil's character. Narratively, Peter is aware that the rawhide is dangerous. When Peter is the focal point of the shot, the camera movement mimics the movement of his eyes. Given, the camera suggests Peter’s knowledge as his gaze conducts the movement of the shot itself. The use of a long lens to anchor Phil’s hands later in the shot asserts his obliviousness to the ways that denying himself through masculinity exposes him in harmful ways. At this moment, Phil’s face is not captured in the frame, thus in trying to deceive others, Phil becomes blind to how he is sealing his own fate.

The camera movement furthers our understanding of Phil. The shot begins with an incredibly subtle zoom toward Peter, who seems to be caught between staring at the rope and the camera. Briefly, the rope drops out of the frame but Peter’s gaze appears unwavering as he stares into the lens. Perhaps Peter’s seeming acknowledgment of the camera is another insight into the fact that he is aware of Phil’s destiny before Phil himself. Directed by Peter’s gaze the camera pans left, running alongside the slacked rope to meet Phil’s hands. Lingering for a moment, the camera remains static on Phil’s braiding; the moment is almost tender. In time the camera pans right to meet Peter again. However, now Peter’s gaze no longer serves as a guiding force in the shot. As the camera resumes control, Peter stands, and the moment concludes. The initial zoom onto Peter, who appears to be looking directly at the camera, suggests that he—and the viewers— know something about Phil that not even Phil is aware of. Peter’s momentary connection with the camera establishes a connection with the viewers, where both he and the audience are aware of Phil’s identity, his vulnerabilities, and his fate. This information gives Peter agency in the shot, as he controls the first pan of the camera and Phil’s death. The sudden stillness on Phil’s gloveless hands affirms Peter’s control and Phil’s vulnerabilities at this moment.

Diegetic and non-diegetic sound work in tandem to stimulate an intimate, yet tense environment that plays on the dichotomy that exists within Phil himself. Suspenseful non-diegetic music streams throughout the entire shot. Even so, Campion chooses to embed the diegetic sound of the braiding of the rope into the same shot. Together, the combination simultaneously intimates the space and creates distance. Diegetic noise shows Phil's tenderness and care for the rope, instituting a degree of closeness between the audience and his character. The use of non-diegetic music, on the other hand, pulls viewers out of Phil’s element and almost detracts from the otherwise erotic nature of the scene. The relationship between the distinct uses of sound is particularly significant to understanding Phil’s character. The act of braiding is deeply personal and the choice of lens and sound communicate this well. The discrete erotica of the moment; however, is completely opposed by the aggressive music. Though Phil wants to express his most shameful desires, he is caught in a constant cycle of torturing himself with masculinity.

In conclusion, Campion’s employment of distinct lens techniques and framing establishes Phil’s heedlessness in arguably his most vulnerable moment in the entire film. Through movement, and Peter’s seeming acknowledgment of and authority over the camera, Phil’s unguarded nature is again accentuated as both Peter and the audience now share awareness about Phil that he is effectually blind to. The tender, or possibly sexual, moment of braiding the rope encompasses his desire—for Bronco Henry, for Peter, for a release from the bounds of masculinity, we can never exactly be sure. Nevertheless, the riff of diegetic and nondiegetic sound in the shot reflects these elements of Phil and his destruction. To counteract his fear of fragility—of himself—Phil resorts to unnecessary measures. In avoiding the vulnerability he deems weak, Phil unknowingly becomes vulnerable in a much different way. Here, we see Phil; how amongst unspoken desires, self-denial, and overt distractions, there was a trust for Peter (that almost seems careless) that allowed him finally to be vulnerable for the first and last time.