It's outrageous that in the same year that Italian filmmaker Luca Guadagnino gave audiences the high-tension love triangle of Challengers, he's also served up a Daniel Craig-fronted adaptation of William S. Burroughs' novella Queer. Both films were written by Justin Kuritzkes, and both offer bold explorations of love, lust, and longing, with steamy sex scenes that serve as punctuation. And yet, they are wildly unalike.
Challengers is a propulsive love story that zings back and forth its timeline, keeping the audience on their toes, just like its tennis-playing trio. Queer is a languid journey that meanders through flirtations, fucking, dream sequences, and willfully anachronistic music to chart a passionate but also baffling tale of unrequited love.
It's a marvel of a movie that feels as if it is precisely what it intends to be, and yet it's ultimately unsatisfying. Perhaps that's intended too?
Daniel Craig is a dynamic thrill-seeker in Queer.
Echoing elements of Burroughs' own life, Queer ushers audiences into 1950s Mexico City, where a band of American expats — many of whom are gay men — lounge about cafes, bars, and cheap motels looking for illicit thrills, be it booze, hard drugs, or casual sex. Wearing a white linen suit, a crisp fedora, and a crooked smile, William Lee (Craig) has a breezy American swagger with a hint of comic buffoonery that beckons to the English actor's acclaimed portrayals of Southern gentleman detective Benoit Blanc in Knives Out and roguish bomb-maker Joe Bang in Logan Lucky. Yet his Lee is distinctive, with an unapologetic sleaziness that's edged with gawping insecurity, which urges him toward playing the fool more often than not.
Craig is mesmerizing as Lee, swanning from catty gossip sessions to carnal encounters to body-rattling withdrawals and psychedelic splendors. It's easy to be beguiled by his charms, including a suave sex appeal made less intimidating by his tendency toward silliness. He smoothly seduces local trade and amuses scene queens like the chic John Dumé (Drew Droege, who became internet famous with his cheeky impersonations of Chloë Sevigny), and lovable loser/rousing raconteur Joe (Jason Schwartzman). And yet, Lee cannot firmly claim the love of his crush, a young discharged American Navy serviceman named Eugene Allerton (Drew Starkey).
The romantic interest of Queer proves its central mystery.
Lee throws himself at his could-be paramour ardently, plying him with affection, booze, and even a flashy getaway when all else fails. Maybe a journey into the jungle to try the mind-altering psychedelic ayahuasca will unlock the gate that seems to stand between them.
The first act is an intoxicating portrait of Lee's Mexico City, rich in color, music, and romantic possibilities — or at least enthralling ones. In tender moments, Lee's dream of being intricately partnered with Eugene is expressed beautifully through simple dissolves. Footage of what is — the two sitting side by side in a movie theater — is overlaid faintly with what Lee wishes: to stroke Eugene's face, softly and publicly. More vivid dream sequences use jarringly bright red sets and stark female nudity to express Lee's doubts about Eugene's interest in the older man. But as his desperation to keep Eugene close intensifies, the audience might wonder what it is Lee is even fighting for.
Defined chiefly by his wandering eye and an interest in playing chess with a red-headed female acquaintance, Eugene is not a fleshed-out character but a sketch, unknowable between the slight lines that are his only details. Is he into Lee? Is he even queer? These are questions that might seem answered by the torrid love scenes between the two. But for every moment approaching intimacy, Eugene offers a follow-up that is at best casual, and at worst cruel.
Tall, white, preppy, and neatly pressed even when wearing a T-shirt, Eugene is presented visually as a tidier, younger version of Lee. Perhaps this is meant to echo that what Lee is chasing is not this man but his past, or a version of himself that was less ravaged by drugs, trauma, and heartache. Or perhaps the supremely unrumpled persona is all Lee can understand of this mysterious man.
Queer's third act is its biggest risk.
In any case, as Lee drags a reluctant (and infuriatingly stoic) Eugene into the jungle to find a mythic medicine woman (Lesley Manville), Guadagnino's movie asks more patience of its audience than his most heralded offerings. In I Am Love, it's easy to see why Tilda Swinton could be seduced by such photogenic food. Call Me by Your Name captured the heat and sweetness of young love through a well-placed peach. Bones and All masterfully turned a tale of teenage cannibals into a sizzling subtextual queer romance, not despite of its gore but because of it. Then, Challengers sold the electrifying love triangle between its players through the breath-taking onscreen chemistry of Zendaya, Mike Faist, and Josh O'Connor. Queer, on the other hand, asks us to follow Lee to fight for a love that feels like an illusion.
Since the film's world premiere at the Venice Film Festival, critics have jeered Queer's turn from its vivacious first act to its lumbering third. Yet there's something in the film's aesthetic that gently warns of this change.
In the beginning, production design by Stefano Baisi paints Lee's Mexico City as a quaint yet deliciously seedy paradise, where towering windows in cafes and warm street lights allow for layers of lives to unfurl all at once, without feeling cluttered or claustrophobic. The palette of yellows, reds, and sickly greens favored by cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom as tracking shots follow Lee in slow motion down lively streets evoke the faded colors of pulp novels, promising decadent delights around every corner. Queer's soundtrack boasts smooth, smokey songs like Nirvana's "Come as You Are," Sinead O'Connor's cover of Nirvana's "All Apologies," and Radiohead's haunting "Talk Show Host." Through the jarring anachronism of this collection of songs, Guadagnino knowingly blends the nostalgic sentimentality of the film's visuals with the sharper-edged sounds of '90s pop disillusionment. Essentially, the visual and audio are thematically at war, reflecting Lee's inner doubts about his life and his lover.
At two hours and 15 minutes, Queer is a movie that indulges its protagonist more than its audience, following him through meandering mental exercises to an unfulfilling epiphany. Viewers may grow restless as Craig's charms are swallowed by Lee's raw need and his ruthless vices. Undeniably, the experience of living vicariously through Lee shifts from pleasurable to uneasy as the glamor is stripped away from this expat holiday, revealing crude realities like the decidedly unromantic subterfuge required to cop drugs in a new locale, or the subsequent toll of withdrawals on Lee's body — and Eugene's patience. That certainly seems to be Guadagnino's goal: not to tell a story of formative first love or world-altering romance, but the ugly truth of unrequited love. It's not easy to experience, but it is undeniably masterfully made. So, in the end, Queer is both visually lush, sexually explosive, and emotionally infuriating. It is not a journey that leaves our hearts full, but open and aching.
