The Past, The Uncertain Present, And Familiar Country Tunes: A Date Night Odyssey

A fusion of the past and present from Aftersun 

As usual, I was early. I'm always showing up to places before I'm supposed to. I always get so nervous about missing out on anything exciting that I want to make sure I'm early rather than late. In this case, I'd arrived at 6:54 PM at a Mexican restaurant, six minutes before my first date with a cool queer lady. It was time for some waiting, especially since my date was stuck in traffic. Some complimentary chips entered my mouth. I scrolled on my phone for a minute or two before whipping out a library book. Then, as I was absorbing literature, a familiar sound entered my ears. It was the song playing on the eatery's speaker system, a tune I remember from my earliest years.

"The South moves north, the North moves south
A star is born, a star burns out
The only thing that stays the same is
Everything changes, everything changes"

It's Tracy Lawrence's 1996 song "Time Marches On." This restaurant, which normally only played toe-tapping Spanish-language songs, was, for some reason, in a 90s/2000s country music mood tonight. That just happened to be the era of country music I listened to endlessly from 2004 to 2014. Brooks & Dunn, Tim McGraw, Garth Brooks, Martina McBride, I knew all their works by heart. Back in middle school, I'd scramble to the library computers every Monday to check Wikipedia and see what country tunes had dominated that week's Hot Country Songs chart. These songs, though I hadn't listened to many of them in eons, were once crucial to my existence. 

How ironic. I was about to meet someone new. Carve out fresh memories. Yet before all that, I was taking an unexpected trip down memory lane. The past, present, and future had collided.

It would take my date until 7:30-ish to arrive, leaving me plenty of time to absorb the ghosts of Lisa's radio dial past. "She's Everything" by Brad Paisley quickly came on after "Time Marches On" and reminded me of how Paisley used to be my entire life. The first album I ever bought was his 2011 creation This Is Country Music, for goodness' sake. In that restaurant, I could practically feel the chipped, well-worn texture of the green iPod nano I used to listen to Paisley songs like "She's Everything" on. 

When uncertainty left me uncontrollably stressed at school (which was nearly every day), I could pop in these tracks and get cozy familiarity. For three minutes, someone like Brad Paisley practically saved my life, as ridiculous as that sentence sounds now. Who knows where that iPod nano is now, but its texture and the songs it contained stuck with me. After "She's Everything," sillier country tunes like "Bubba Shot The Jukebox" filled the restaurant, a reminder that not everything from your childhood is weighty. Nostalgia and personal significance cannot lend all artistic creations immense depth. Sometimes, songs you remember are just silly artistic creations that almost certainly solely existed because someone wanted to croon a tune with "Bubba" in the title.

Listening to these country songs that used to be daily staples of my existence, I was struck by the tremendous gulf between my past and present selves. Lisa Laman circa. 2009 hated her autism and would've given anything to not be disabled. She was so endlessly frustrated and didn't have terms like depression, ADHD, and transness to help her navigate the turmoil. All I could conceive of at the time was that I was constantly sad and lonely. Within the often aching vocals of country songs like "Alyssa Lies" and "When I Get Where I'm Going" were pieces of art that reflected that pain. Like Charles M. Schulz's Peanuts comics, these country tunes made me feel like I wasn't alone in my anguish.

Among the tunes was Montgomery Gentry's "Something To Be Proud Of," a song that, in hindsight, introduced me to the idea that life could still be fulfilling if it didn't live up to either your dreams or other people's accomplishments. As toxic as 2000s country could be (oh hai Toby Keith song that endorsed lynchings, fuck off), I remain grateful for tunes like these that sparked weighty ideas in my head. 

I distinctly remember, at the age of 11, begging my parents to switch the car's radio dial if I heard the opening chords of songs like Brooks & Dunn's "Believe." These tunes about death or other grim matters were just too much to handle on an ordinary day, I didn't want to be put into a funk without any advanced warning. Those songs solidified to me that art could be imposing...and that's a good thing. Life is full of torment, especially when you're navigating the public education system. Even if tracks like "Believe" or "Live Like You Were Dying" scared me because they made me feel sad, they also solidified to me how art could tackle more than just upbeat happy endings or party vibes. 

Today, anxiety still grips me. Imposter syndrome is a daily friend. Just an hour ago, I had to wipe away tears over my insecurity regarding my romantic life, fears that I haven't accomplished enough in life, dysphoria over whether or not I can ever "belong" as a lesbian woman. Art remains a useful tool to navigate and translate that labyrinth of mental health issues. The difference now, though, is I don't just have to crouch in my room listening to the local country music stations to feel less alone. 

I now have glorious friends who remind me why life is worth living. All kinds of art (every strain of cinema imaginable, books, paintings, other genres of music) can now stir my soul. Best of all, I've actually accomplished and survived things (moving out, traveling on my own repeatedly, speaking publicly, etc.) that give me hope I can do the next big thing life throws at me. Heck, here I was, going on a first date on a Tuesday night. 13-year-old Lisa Laman, who could only find fleeting solace in Cross Canadian Ragweed's 2008 ditty "17," could never have imagined that.

I don't know how helpful it would be to tell my younger self all this. "In the future, you'll still be stressed and anxious, but you'll have more tools to navigate it" may not sound like a rallying pep talk on par with "today, we celebrate...OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY!" Then again, having more tools to lean on and knowing that some "impossible" things (like living on my own) were coming...maybe that'd be enough. Maybe that could bring comfort to the younger version of me who often felt like only Taylor Swift's "Tim McGraw" or "Fifteen" truly understood her.

Those were the thoughts swirling in my head as I sat in that restaurant. The past suddenly filled around me like a body of water I submerged in. All the while, I was wearing a pink dress, green eyeshadow, and fuzzy pink fingerless gloves that I could've never imagined wearing out in public even eight years ago, let alone in 2009. It was interesting to suddenly contend with yesteryear once more. But it also made me grateful to be here. To still be alive. To exist in the now.

A little after 7:30, she sat down across from. She was gorgeous, there was absolutely no other word for it. Radiant necklaces jangled on her neck and dots of glitter shimmered on her shoulders. We proceeded to spend the next 90 minutes chatting away, which included me asking her about her favorite kinds of music. She then responded that she liked all genres...except for country. I had to emit a cackle. Boy, had we come to the wrong restaurant, at least on this night! Hey, at least I know now...for the future.

The Irishman, No Other Choice, and masterful, quietly devastating endings

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR NO OTHER CHOICE AND THE IRISHMAN AHEAD

In No Other Choice's finale, protagonist Yoo Man-su (Lee Byung-hun) sits in the lavish front yard of Choi Seon-chul (Park Hee-soon), a top candidate for a paper company job that Man-su plans to kill. As they sit outside by a firepit, Seon-chul begins sobbing. "When I moved here," he recalls, "I thought I'd barbecue every night!" In reality, this unexpected rendezvous with Man-su is the first time he's utilized the firepit. "That's what happens when you finally get what you want," Man-su pontificates as he prepares for his latest act of violence. It's a very wise observation from this man slaughtering other working-class souls to secure financial stability for his family. 

Man-su is eventually reminded of this brutal reality in No Other's Choice's gut-punch of an ending, which reminded me of nothing so much as The Irishman's haunting finale. Both films keep their bloodthirsty leads alive and well for the closing shots, but also suggest they've become encased in their own personal Hells. A Faustian bargain has transpired. Blood has been shed for survival...and it's a nightmare.

Let's start with Martin Scorsese's The Irishman, a 2019 adaptation of Charles Brandt's 2004 book I Heard You Paint Houses. This gangster feature follows Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) as he gradually becomes a more and more prolific figure in the Italian-American mafia. Throughout The Irishman, on-screen text illustrates to the viewer the grubby, unflattering endings these various opulent gangsters will eventually suffer. No amount of money or power can prevent them from experiencing death's cruel hand. Sheeran knows death's inevitability all too well, given the countless lives he's taken as a hitman. 

During his job, he develops a close friendship with union advocate Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino). Their bond makes it overwhelming when Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) informs Sheeran that not only has a hit been put out on Hoffa, but Sheeran must pull the trigger. Upon hearing this news, Sheeran reacts with dismay and confusion over how this could even be possible. It's a tragic response illustrating his naivety about this world he's inhabiting. In a realm built on corpses, nobody's safe. Not even the people closest to you.

Sheeran does kill Hoffa and (thanks to unrelated transgressions) eventually goes to prison. Once released in his feeble old age, Sheeran finds a quiet nightmare waiting for him. He survived. He followed the orders of his bosses. He shed so much blood. Outliving so many of his superiors means Sheeran now gets to live a life of estrangement from his daughter. To boot, he can't sleep without keeping his door open a crack. That's a maneuver Hoffa used to employ in hotel rooms to make it easier to see any potential assassins. Now, in his final years, Sheeran still keeps that door slightly ajar once darkness falls. The fear of death persists, as does looking over his shoulder. This is the devastatingly silent Hell Frank Sheeran now inhabits. He has no company beyond the fear he will end up like Hoffa and the other souls he murdered.

The Irishman's final aching image devastatingly reflects this reality. That's the kind of haunting status quo No Other Choice's final season echoes. Long before that ending arrives, Yoo Man-su is reciting a speech he plans to give to his Solar Paper bosses about how he can't fire his cohorts at the company. Man-su darkly jokes to his co-workers (who are listening to him rehearsing this spiel) that he's only doing this because he doesn't want to toil away with unfamiliar co-workers. However, this and earlier glimpses of Man-su interacting with his coworkers illustrate how this job's human element is essential for this man.

Cut to No Other Choice's ending two hours later. The company Moon Paper opts to hire Man-su for a secure job. However, this gig solely entails overseeing a "lights off" factory where machines make the paper (the "lights off" term refers to how the robots inside don't need light to work). Man-su is now just some observer of cold, lifeless machines working on paper. This is his existence now. Nobody to talk to. No human beings to connect with. No lights to provide brightness. Just darkness and sterile mechanical creations. He killed so many to get here and secured monetary stability. All of the madness got Man-su what he wanted, and it's a lifeless nightmare. Like Sheeran peering at the slightly open door in that assisted living facility, Man-su is now destined to spend his days alone. 

Immense confidence just drips off these conclusions. That chutzpah doesn't just come from the lack of tidiness or "comeuppances" in these respective endings. It's also apparent through the heavy emphasis on dialogue-free imagery. No Other Choice especially leans into this approach while following Man-su navigate his new workplace. Relying exclusively on visual storytelling reinforces the sterile, quiet nightmare Man-su will now live day in and day out. After several previous hysterical sequences (like Man-su attempting to kill Goo Beom-mo) hinging on overlapping loud dialogue, No Other Choice concludes with a hauntingly sparse sequence other, less assured filmmakers would drown out in didactic dialogue.

The Irishman's ending shows similarly masterful gumption in its imagery-based choices. Framing a doctor tending to Sheeran from a low-angle shot, for instance, emphasizes how far this man has fallen in power. He slaughtered so many to maintain his societal stature. It's all led to him being so vulnerable and at the mercy of this stranger. Shortly after that, the final 30 seconds of The Irishman transpire as a dialogue-free, aching portrayal of pervasive loneliness. Only the hum of lights occupies the soundtrack while dark shadows fill the frame's corners. Save for one quick close-up shot, these final 30 seconds occur as a wide shot. Here, Sheeran is as distant from the camera as he is from everyone else in the world.

Painful loneliness is palpable in these exquisite endings. Such a powerful atmosphere derived from evocative sparseness could only be possible under top-caliber filmmakers like Park Chan-wook and Martin Scorsese. These artists have each created sublime endings that creatively and unforgettably depict the most hollow of victories. Man-su secured the job, his childhood home, and financial stability. Sheeran outlived everyone else in the gangster underworld. 

In the process, they've secured lives that aren't prosperous. Man-su's wife, Lee Mi-ri (Son Ye-jin), now (unbeknownst to him) knowledgeable about her husband's barbarism, will never look at him the same way. Corpses, meanwhile, litter Sheeran's mind, whether it's the people he killed in World War II, the hits he executed for the mob, or the friends he's lost (or slaughtered). These two fictional characters are technically existing in the aftermath of "victories," yet they've lost so much. To boot, neither man is about to die or change their status quo as their respective stories end. These tormented existences will go on and on long after the credits finish rolling.

Such endings fascinate me. They're extensions of conclusions in ancient yarns like Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, where ironically gut-wrenching endings await morally complicated protaganists. "Finally [getting] what you want," as Man-su knows too well, doesn't solve all your problems. At once so classical and contemporarily relevant (particularly Choice's searing look at the modern job market), more than just immense artistry binds No Other Choice and The Irishman's unforgettable endings. They also reflect the inevitable outcome of blood-soaked, morally-compromised existences. As Guillermo del Toro so poetically described The Irishman's ending for Variety: 

"Dead are his enemies, and the places in which they dwelled. Gone are the reasons for their demise and the laurels of his victory. There he stands in the lateness of the hour, with his ghosts, consumed by regret — lacking any comprehension or insight — overwhelmed by the final silence.  Bypassed by history, forgotten, abandoned by all."

No Other Choice and The Irishman are haunting ballads of men trapped in prisons they carved with betrayal and bloodshed. They toiled and killed to get to the top. All that awaited them was an army of mechanical co-workers and a slightly ajar door. 

Kangaroos, Robert Downey Jr., and deceptively chatty canines...MLK weekend family movies are a trip

January isn't quite the toxic cinematic wasteland it's cracked up to be. For sure, studios tend to drop weaker titles and schlockier features in this month that's in between big holidays. However, if you don't live in New York and Los Angeles, many of the biggest arthouse titles are just now coming to your local multiplex in January. Movies like Silence, Selma, and Inside Llewyn Davis (just to name a few contemporary titles) all went into 600+ theaters in a month more known for The Devil Inside and Uwe Boll directorial efforts.

Still, if there is one fixture of this month that's undeniably (largely) crummy, it's the family movies that tend to open on one specific January weekend. Over the three-day Martin Luther King Jr. weekend frame, Hollywood typically unleashes dire family movies that wouldn't have a prayer of success anywhere else. As if America hasn't desecrated MLK's memory enough!

The domination of this type of movie over MLK weekend can be traced largely to one Disney movie: Snow Dogs. That infamous Cuba Gooding Jr. star vehicle featured the titular pooches talking up a storm in its ad campaign...only for the dogs to remain voiceless in the final film. Deceptive marketing didn't steer audiences away from the title, though. Given that December 2001 hadn't produced a massive $100+ million family movie domestic grosser, family audiences were hankering for something to get them out of the house. Thus, Snow Dogs became the de facto motion picture of choice for a key, lucrative market. 

Suddenly, a new window for family movies opened up. Producer Jerry Bruckheimer especially took notice of Snow Dogs as a model for a troubled R-rated Australian comedy that was trapped in post-production. After Dogs, Bruckheimer and the feature's team overhauled this property into the PG-rated Kangaroo Jack, complete with making sure the kangaroo briefly became a chatty CG character. The result was January 2003's biggest movie by a considerable margin with a $66.93 million domestic cume. A new strategy was born. Subpar family movies that couldn't make it anywhere else on the calendar could open over MLK weekend and (thanks to a dearth of competition) make a pretty penny. 

By January 2005, two major family movies, Racing Stripes and Are We There Yet?, were launched in January (only the former opened over MLK weekend). A month once devoid of family features was now housing multiple motion pictures targeting this demographic. 2006's Hoodwinked! chalked up another $50+ million domestic performer for January family films, though it would take another three years for the holiday weekend's biggest kid-friendly success story. As the end of the 2000s approached, Paul Blart: Mall Cop became a box office phenomenon opening over 2009's MLK weekend.

Impressively, that same weekend housed another family movie hit, Hotel for Dogs (canine films do well in January, I guess). With $73 million domestically, Hotel for Dogs outgrossed Kangaroo Jack despite direct Paul Blart competition. Tooth Fairy was 2010's foray into January family films (though it didn't open over MLK weekend), while Beauty and the Beast 3D dropped over MLK weekend 2012. Save for The Nut Job's terrific $19 million debut over MLK weekend 2014, though, Hollywood began abandoning this January frame as a family movie launchpad after 2012. The only mid-to-late-2010s exceptions are the first two Paddington films. Otherwise, MLK 2019 and 2016 were devoid of major family movie newcomers.

This void isn't surprising, given the shifts happening in Hollywood at the time. Major American studios were shifting towards making fewer, but more expensive movies. With this strategy alteration, fewer (if any) mid-budget live-action family films were getting made. What family features were still produced were so costly that they couldn't rely on box office performances on par with Snow Dogs and Hotel for Dogs to get by. While the two Paddington films (particularly the first hit feature) did respectable numbers in this frame, Dolittle dropping over MLK weekend 2020 was like an admission of pre-release defeat rather than a sign that this Robert Downey Jr. star vehicle was the next Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

Hastening the decline of the MLK weekend family movie was a little title by the name of The LEGO Movie. A month after the dismal Nut Job ransacked $50+ million from North American audiences, The LEGO Movie shattered expectations with a $257 million domestic cume. That comedy opened over February 2014's first weekend, or one week before the three-day President's Day weekend holiday. Suddenly, a new corridor for launching family features in the first two months of the year opened up. To boot, it could produce megahits right in line with Hollywood's "bigger=better" mantra.

For the major studios, it wasn't even a question of whether or not they wanted a Snow Dogs or LEGO Movie in terms of box office numbers. MLK weekend quickly became a ghost town in the late 2010s (save for Paddington 2) while the pre-President's Day weekend housed The LEGO Batman Movie and Peter Rabbit. In 2020, Sonic the Hedgehog (opening over the President's Day weekend frame) did circles around MLK weekend family movie Dolittle, a sign of how much baton had been passed when it came to family movie scheduling.

There's been no real attempt in the 2020s (thus far) to revive the MLK weekend family movie. Last year, Paddington in Peru even shifted its U.S. release date from January 17, 2025 to February 14, 2025. Even that marmalade enthusiast has abandoned the timeframe that he once dominated. For 2026, the only new MLK weekend family movie is Charlie the Wonderdog (somehow starring Owen Wilson). Given that Wonderdog's distributor has never released a movie that's grossed over $4.3 million domestically, I doubt it's going to leave much of a box office mark. Universal is also putting Madagascar back into a little over 1,000 theaters. Neither is exactly Kangaroo Jack 2.0 in terms of box office potential.

The kind of family films that once thrived theatrically over this holiday, like dog-centric movies or Kevin James star vehicles, are now (if they even get made at all) dropping on Netflix and Prime Video. Major Hollywood studios won't make them period and the ones that do get created head to the small screen. No wonder this weekend's now such a non-starter for family movies at the box office. But hey, at least this holiday weekend's cinematic offerings did give the world Monster Trucks. Yes, Creech's cinematic debut hit theaters on January 13, 2017 after countless delays, and Paramount Pictures wrote down the film as a massive box office bomb (how rude to do that before its debut). Go away, Kangaroo Jack. Sayanora, deceptive Snow Dogs canine. Sorry, snarky houseflies from Racing Stripes. Creech is the champion of January family movie cinema. She may not have done much at the box office, but her artistry stands heads and shoulders above The Nut Job and its ilk. Once more, into the Creech, as they say.

Why Has The Academy Awards Struggled Recognizing International Performances From Non-White Actors?

The answer to the above question should be obvious. After all #OscarsSoWhite. There has only ever been one Black Best Actress Oscar winner in the 97-year history of the Academy Awards (Halle Berry in Monster's Ball is the lone victor). There are immense struggles to get English-language performances from actors of color on the radars of Academy voters. It's unsurprising that international performances from actors of color also struggle to get Best Actor, Best Actress, etc. Oscar nominations.

Still, this erasure of international non-white performances at the Oscars fascinates me, especially as the Oscars have begun annually nominating multiple foreign language titles for Best Picture. Thanks to external factors like the increasingly globalized Oscars voting base and the decline of the mid-budget American movie, international cinema has begun excitingly and regularly winning categories like Best Original Song, Best Sound, and Best Animated Feature. However, Oscar nominated non-white international performances are still a rarity at this ceremony. 

What's going on here? And more importantly, what great performances has the Academy snubbed through this practice?

At the 34th Academy Awards, Sophia Loren's Two Women performance became the first foreign language turn not hailing from either an American film or feature primarily in English to get an acting Oscar nomination. To boot, it won the Best Actress trophy that year. From there, a smattering of French, Italian, Swedish, and Slovakian performances garnered acting Oscar nominations in the 60s and 70s. A common overlapping element, though, was that these performances all originated from European countries. Hiroshi Teshigahara's The Woman in the Dunes (which hailed from Japan) could score a Best Director nod, but its integral performances were MIA in the Oscar acting categories.

When non-white actors delivering non-English performances do win Oscars, it's for films that are produced in America. Benicio del Toro's turn in Traffic as Javier Rodriguez, largely done in Spanish, inhabited an American feature from director Steven Soderbergh. Steven Yeun and Youn Yuh-jung's unforgettable Minari turns (largely realized in Korean) existed in an A24 film shot in America. The rare, welcome exceptions in this department are Yalitza Aparicio and Marina de Tavira's Roma performances. Otherwise, international cinema acting nominations are exclusively the domain of white European performers like Javier Bardem, Marion Cotillard, Roberto Benigni, and Isabelle Huppert.

Even Parasite, a film that the Academy heaped endless Oscars onto, didn't escape this trajectory. Song Kang-ho and Cho Yeo-jeong's performances (among many other excellent turns) were snubbed that year in a crop of acting Oscar nominations that were almost exclusively white (Cynthia Erivo in Harriet was the lone exception), Parasite remains one of only three 21st-century Best Picture Oscar winners to score no acting Oscar nominations. One of those other three is the English-language feature Slumdog Millionaire which, like Parasite, entirely utilized actors of Asian descent.*

So what's going on here? Why didn't Takashi Shimura score heaps of Oscar nominations on his lifetime? How did the two iconic central Drive My Car performances not get any Oscar love? Why is Wagner Moura (a white guy, as his movie, The Secret Agent, itself notes) the only foreign language performer getting any Oscar buzz this year?

Part of this stems from a general hostility to international cinema from American audiences. While Life is Beautiful and Pelle the Conqueror got into the Oscars acting categories, titles with subtitles have often been as "boring" or "extra challenging" to watch by American voters. Given how the Oscars voting base largely focused exclusively on a small class of American figures for so long, it's not surprising Kareena Kapoor as "Poo" in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham was ignored while Eddie Redmayne and Jared Leto have Oscar nods (Redmayne has TWO!).

Plus, the Oscars have historically had a dismal track record of representing non-white faces at this ceremony. Don't forget, Michelle Yeoh's Everything Everywhere All At Once Best Actress Oscar nomination made her only the second Asian performer (following Merle Oberon in The Dark Angel) to be recognized in that category. The same erasure that kept Nickel Boys out of the acting categories last year (how did Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor not get a Best Supporting Actress nod there?!?) also ensures international actors of color are unspeakably scarce at the Oscars. This horrific history means the Oscars have missed out on acknowledging truly incredible turns like Leila Hatami in A Separation or Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love.

I also have a totally speculative reason why these performances don't gain more Oscar traction: unfamiliarity with the actors. So much Oscar momentum is based not necessarily on artistry, but on stories. "Leonardo DiCaprio is overdue for an Oscar!" "This is the movie we need right now!" "Finally, you're getting your time to shine!" These are the phrases peppering major entertainment publications as Oscar season gets into full swing. Such sagas that'll resonate with Oscar voters are easier to concoct when they involve performers whom voters are familiar with. 

Character actor J.K. Simmons, for instance, has been in the industry for ages. That omnipresence gave Sony Pictures Classics an edge when crafting his Best Supporting Actor campaign for Whiplash. They could promote this performance as not just sublime, but a way to give an industry veteran his flowers. That's not to detract from the outstandingly tense and bravura work Simmons delivered in that 2014 masterpiece. Rather, it's a sign of how even great performances can get an extra Oscar boost from Western voters being familiar with their work.

In contrast, many turns from international actors of color are from performers Western Academy members may be unfamiliar with. A typical Oscar voter is going to know the entire career of Leonardo DiCaprio. They may be less familiar with Lee Byung-hun or Shu Qi and how their 2025 performances reflect or fascinatingly respond to their earlier work. To boot, international titles of all stripes are typically handled by tinier or even entirely homegrown outfits in America. Without Netflix, Comcast, Disney, or even A24 money at their side, these distributors don't have the resources to get international performances on the radar of Oscar voters. 

All of these reasons shouldn't be seen as excuses or rationalizations of this long-standing Oscar erasure. Rather, they reflect the frustrating problems plaguing this awards show that still has so much sway over the larger culture and a film's theatrical run.

However, let's end this piece on a more upbeat note and give roses to the various international performances that the Oscars won't (barring a miracle) be recognizing at the 98th Academy Awards. For starters, Park Chan-wook's No Other Choice is crammed full of outstanding turns. Leading man Lee Byung-hun is a master of physical, ineptitude-driven comedy in his absorbing performance. Son Ye-jin as his character's wife is also a riveting treat. The Voice of Hind Rajab similarly has an excellent cast, with the standout here being Saja Kilani as Rana. She's confined to a chair and being framed only from the waist-up for much of Hind Rajab, yet Kilani still delivers a soul-shattering turn. Her raw portrayal of feeling devastated at the world's injustices will leave any viewer distraught.

Jackson Yee inhabits so many different characters and archetypes of cinema's history throughout the absorbing Resurrection. It's a towering work embodying versatility. Ma Shih-Yuan in Left-Handed Girl is remarkable, while Alice Carvalho absolutely owns the screen with her one big scene as Fátima in The Secret Agent. Then there's the entire cast of It Was Just An Accident, which features nary a dud performance. The film's MVP, though, is Mariam Afshari as Shiva. Her climactic monologue when she finally unleashes all the torment she's been forced to bottle up will haunt my dreams forever and ever. She's delivering the kind of mesmerizing work that should automatically inhabit any discussions of 2025's best performances. However, Mariam Afshari's artistry doesn't need award nominations to justify its greatness. This kind of exquisite work will live on and on, even after the Oscars inevitably snub it and any other 2025 international performances from non-white actors for a nomination.

* = amusingly, the third film in this equation is The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which has the whitest cast imaginable.

The 83rd Golden Globes let down talented nominated artists with paeans to toxicity

An It Was Just An Accident image demonstrating what everyone had to do after viewing the 83rd Golden Globes catastrophe

Well, at least Ricky Gervais didn't show up in-person.

Like a browbeaten  Franz Kafka protagonist returning to work at a dead-end job even after turning into a cockroach, I shuffled into my couch last night to once more watch the Golden Globes. Each year I swear I'm done. This will be the year I skip this award ceremony, I'm always complaining about. Yet, like terrible clockwork, my eyeballs remain glued to this glitzy debacle. I'm predictable. I'm resistant to change. As AJR once sang, "I'm weak." But hey, at least I wasn't the person in charge of the music at the 83rd Golden Globes.

If any element encapsulated what a boondoggle this enterprise was, it was the barrage of random modern pop tunes scattered throughout the ceremony. Only occasionally (like Timothee Chalamet's Marty Supreme win being accompanied by "Everybody Wants to Rule the World") did the tunes remotely make sense win for what was happening on-screen. Mostly, it was a grab-bag of familiar yet incongruous pop songs just blaring over people walking to the stage or presenters coming to the stage. Were the producers worried that viewers would stop paying attention if they didn't have "stimulation" every second of the ceremony?

That concern would certainly explain the presence of the two announcers that kept weighing down the 83rd Golden Globes. Kevin Frazier and Marc Malkin were tasked with doing the "coming up...Best Animated Feature" segways into commercial or dialogue while winners strolled up to the stage. Frazier and Malkin's approach to this task was to emulate a pair of boisterous radio DJs who compel you to switch to another station the moment they start talking. Their banter was cringe-inducing, while their delivery of lines like "will [Chalamet] thank Kylie Jenner again? We are about...to...find...out!" was way too hammy, even in award season, a realm that gave us Ariana DeBose's "Angela Bassett did the thing" line.

Irritating is the only word for Frazier and Malkin's antics. I instinctively began to groan the moment they started talking. Worse, combining them with the overt needle drops as folks like Stellan Skarsgard walked to the podium imbued the proceedings with the wrong kind of excess. The days of Donald Sutherland at the Oscars dropping a behind-the-scenes tidbit about Shrek (which just won Best Animated Feature) while soaring orchestral music plays are apparently gone. Now it's all about overstimulation that woefully distracts from the movies themselves.

The art that the Golden Globes are supposed to be highlighting kept getting lost in the shuffle during the 83rd Golden Globes. This included the weird choice to not show clips from the various movies/TV shows when the acting category nominees were announced. Who wants to see why Chase Infiniti and Lee Byung-hun are getting universal raves when you can just cut to a wide shot of the entire ballroom with as little yellow dot indicating where these people are sitting? Rather than letting viewers appreciate tremendous artistic accomplishments, these wide images just conveyed cold distance. 

Then there were the disgraceful elements of the ceremony that dramatically undercut the most moving moments from the various acceptance speeches. Teyana Taylor concluded her richly deserved Best Supporting Actress win (for One Battle After Another) by declaring:

"To my brown sisters and little brown girls watching tonight, our softness is not a liability. Our depth is not too much. Our light does not need permission to shine. We belong in every room we walk into. Our voices matter, and our dreams deserve space."

What a magnificent speech. Shortly afterward, Frazier and Malkin kicked off the first of many Polymarket plugs during the ceremony. These showed viewers which of the nominees were the favorites to win per this crypto-driven prediction market's users. First of all, keep some element of showmanship and surprise in an awards show. Don't just blare "this is whose the favorite to win!" More importantly, crypto services have been shown to heavily affect Black and Brown communities, including how data centers fueling crypto and AI are being built on "environmental racism" targeting those marginalized populations. Teyana Taylor made a righteous plea for a Black and Brown women to remember their humanity. The 83rd Golden Globes kept highlighting a service and practice running counter to that humanity.

Then there was the fucking UFC promo, oh God. One of those announcers made the declaration that "these next two presenters are so in demand we had to get muscle  from the UFC to protect them." A pair of UFC fighters then came out in a clumsily arranged shot before they immediately left the stage. Chappell Roan's "Pink Pony Club" then played as the Heated Rivalry duo came out. The joke was already a weird one predicated on "UFC machismo and then SURPRISE! Gay stuff!" It was also eyeroll-worthy corporate synergy, as the parent company of CBS (the new broadcast home of the Golden Globes), Paramount Skydance, just announced a long-term deal to air UFC fights.

What made this especially disgusting, though, was that it happened right after The Secret Agent won Best International Feature. This movie about working-class people banding together in the face of totalitarianism and the horrors of living under fascism is a masterpiece. Yet director Kleber Mendonça Filho's acceptance speech was shamefully cut short, while this UFC plug got to play without any trims. 

Even more egregiously, the UFC is an organization (like Paramount Skydance) in deep cahoots with fascism, including the "grand wizard" (as Bob Ferguson would say) in the Oval Office. How sickening to provide a pat on the head to a movie so masterfully exploring the horrors of existing under fascism only to then devote screentime to a fascism-endorsing sport. The marginalized and working-class voices that The Secret Agent elevates and underscores are the same ones UFC head Dana White and other leaders in this organization constantly dehumanize. The whiplash here was staggering. Like the Oscars giving No Other Land the Best Documentary Feature Oscar while refusing to support one of its directors when he was attacked by IDF soldiers, this Golden Globes ceremony couldn't follow even 10% of the moral convictions of its nominated artists.

These disgusting developments combined with other baffling moments, like Snoop Dogg's befuddling Best Podcast category presentation (if that sentence doesn't describe a layer of Hell, I'll eat my hat) or Panic! at the Disco's "High Hopes" playing when KPop Demon Hunters won Best Animated Feature (why not play "Soda Pop," "Takedown," or "What It Sounds Like" from the actual movie?!?) made for an entirely bizarre ceremony. The outside world is burning down. ICE agents are killing human beings like Renee Good. Nobody reasonable would expect the ceremony that nominated The Tourist for Best Picture to have the good sense to "lead the revolution." A little more tact to not shill for crypto and UFC, though, is not too much to ask.

What's sad is, whenever the everyday artists making great movies got up on stage, the ceremony finally had a warmth and humanity that was irresistible. The KPop Demon Hunters Best Original Song speech was such a lovely ode to the struggling dreams. "Rejection is just redirection" is a great mantra that I'll be adding to my everyday lexicon. Paul Thomas Anderson giving a special thank you to Regina Hall in his One Battle After Another speech was deeply moving, ditto his tribute to the late assistant director Adam Somner. Also loved that Chloé Zhao gave Ryan Coogler a shout-out from the stage about their time together in Sundance Labs. Man, those two being in the same room decades ago, what I wouldn't have given to be there.

The 83rd Golden Globes, unfortunately, needed more of that rich humanity or even just memorable spectacle (like the Best Original Song performances at the Oscars) to make the three hours function nicely as satisfying "bread and circuses." Instead, it was a clumsy experience marked by janky audio cuts (I lost count of how many times a presenter saying "the nominees are..." got drowned out by orchestral music that was cued up too soon) and limp writing for the presenters. The lack of footage showcasing the nominated movies/performances/TV shows just made the whole thing feel less like an ode to a year of artistry and more like a chance for Paramount Skydance/Silicon Valley synergy. Why did I see Polymarket bullshit more often than Sinners footage?

The distracting presence of toxicity was exemplified by Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos lurching over the table belonging to Warner Bros. title One Battle After Another. This man, whose dedicated years to slaughtering movie theaters, now lurched over a collection of talent behind a film exemplifying the joys and craftsmanship going into theatrical cinema. I know Sarandos and the other Netflix brass have purchased Warner Bros., but they don't own it yet. I also know Sarandos is always at major award shows, including the Golden Globes. However, why was he seated here or allowed to sit there? It was so gross to constantly see him and be reminded that Warner Bros. will soon get swallowed up by the folks endorsing Tony Hinchcliffe.

In presenting the night's penultimate awards, Julia Roberts said this was a night for "artists". She did not say it was an event for Silicon Valley Baron Harkonnen to remind everyone of his monopolistic cultural ambitions. Unfortunately, folks like Sarandos were at the forefront of the 83rd Golden Globes. Many of the films nominated at this show, like Sinners, The Secret Agent, One Battle After Another, It Was Just An Accident, and No Other Choice, implored audiences to look around and challenge the wider world. The 83rd Golden Globes, meanwhile, asked viewers to shut up and hug their new daddy, Polymarket. 

Sidenote: Hey, it looks like Scott Gairdner, the co-host of my favorite podcast (Podcast: the Ride), directed the AMC Theatres podcast segment! No wonder Griffin Newman made a voice-over cameo in this bit, I got so excited when I heard his voice, I was just listening to his PtR Timekeeper episode in the gym yesterday.

Let your guard down and embrace the unique craftsmanship of The Testament of Ann Lee

Musicals make people more uncomfortable than nearly any other genre. Countless stories exist of people groaning the moment they realize a motion picture involves people singing. Movie marketers are terrified of promoting that motion pictures, like Wonka, are actually musicals. This hostility has even infiltrated corners of the genre's modern form. Musical movies themselves now often feature characters making self-satirical "oh God, please, no singing!" jabs (see: Spirited).

I couldn't tell you why there's so much discomfort over this style of cinematic storytelling. Maybe it's because the very sight of human beings crooning about their feelings instantly jolts people away from reality. Perhaps general audiences are self-conscious about watching anything that's "silly". Whatever's behind it, I was reminded of people's chagrin with musicals at my Testament of Ann Lee screening. As the runtime wore on, attendees trickled out of the auditorium like water flowing from a barrel's fracture. There were also constant instances of people's phones/smart watches buzzing brightly or individuals scattering to the bathroom.

It was clear this crowd was uncomfortable with this period piece ballad littered with extravagant displays of singing and physicality. Me? I'm the weirdo who loves bravura musicals like Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Better Man, and The Lure. Naturally, The Testament of Ann Lee was right up my alley. Better yet, the feature also channeled the bittersweet atmosphere of First Cow. It's like writer/director Mona Fastvold cooked this one up in a lab for me.

The Testament of Ann Lee's Story and Approach to Reality

Growing up in Manchester, Ann Lee (Amanda Seyfried) was raised to believe that there's a certain order to things. Women do what men want. Religion is used to inspire fear and hostility between people. As she grows up, Lee and her brother William (Lewis Pullman) become enamored with a new approach to religion from a group that eventually becomes known as the Shakers. These are souls who express themselves through elaborate "dance" routines and chants. After ceaseless hardship (including the loss of four children during childbirth), Lee becomes deeply entrenched in this religion.

That's a bit of an understatement, actually. She eventually becomes the movement's figurehead. Letting a woman serve as the centerpiece of a Christ-driven religion makes her coalition (which emphasizes non-violence, celibacy, and harmony between all people) a target. There's only one place where she and her people can fulfill their fullest potential: America. Here, Ann Lee and her followers build up land where they can realize all their wildest dreams. Unfortunately, new forms of turmoil and aggressive oppression also await them.  

Fastvold and fellow screenwriter Brady Corbet keep viewers constantly on their toes throughout Ann Lee with compelling contradictions. For instance, though Ann Lee's high stature in her religious community is apparent, Fastvold's camera doesn't hold back in emphasizing this woman's vulnerability. Her most distraught moments in incarceration or during childbirth reinforce how we're watching an often endangered human being.

Simultaneously, this entire film is narrated by Lee's friend Mary Partington (Thomasin McKenzie), who emphasizes how certain aspects of Lee's life are now lost to legend. Did she speak in just 12 different languages in one confrontation with English authorities...or 72? Perhaps she just rambled in tongues on that fateful night? Partington's narration and the visuals leave this ambiguous. Equally uncertain are segments like John Hocknell (David Cale) pointing his finger outward and harmonizing as he pursues the ideal terrain for Lee's colony. Partington suggests this particular sequence is based on legend...could it have actually happened this way?

Whether or not Lee is actually imbued with the power of God is even left up to viewers. Throughout The Testament of Ann Lee, one can simultaneously perceive divine and practical explanations of various "holy visions" or psychological breakthroughs. The duality and quietly shifting definition of "reality" don't just provide an inspired bedrock for an unorthodox musical. It also makes for a sublime template for a religious-based movie. I remember as a child getting in trouble with church higher-ups for daring to ask if stories like Jonah and the Whale were allegories rather than straightforward facts. With The Testament of Ann Lee, Fastvold encourages the inquiries that I was encouraged to stifle as an adolescent.

Bouncing between reality and legend, not to mention blurring the line between the two, Ann Lee ingeniously taps into religious mythology's enigmatic qualities. Plus, it makes for a captivating feature. 

All Hail Amanda Seyfried

Impressively, even while oscillating between surrealism and reality, Fastvold unwaveringly makes Ann Lee consistently transfixing. Part of that comes from the inspired casting of Amanda Seyfried in the role. This performer's always carried such an immense soulfulness in her physicality and vocals. Even in a frothy good time like Mamma Mia!, her voice carried palpable humanity and yearning in songs like "Honey, Honey." She ropes you into her characters' interior worlds and makes their longing and ambitions so real they might as well be your own. Those gifts are why she's such a great anchor and audience point-of-view character for Jennifer's Body, for example.

Here, Seyfried's performance, like Fastvold's script, doesn't lose sight of Ann Lee as a human being. You can see rich, heartbreaking pain in her eyes (rooted in all the loss she's suffered) when she's cuddling with a friend against a snowy window, even as Lee's voice speaks of resilience and ambition. Seyfried's engrossing presence depicting Lee giving grandiose speeches or intimately talking to newcomers, meanwhile, makes it apparent why anyone would follow Lee as a religious leader. Whether it's shouting to the rafters about the world's injustices or making fresh faces feel like they're the only two people in a crowded room, Seyfried realizes each side of the character marvelously. The down-to-earth and mythological versions of Lee both come so naturally to her.

As for the sequences where Seyfried really leaves it all on the floor, there's really no other word for her work other than "jaw-dropping." A musical number entitled "Hunger and Thirst" especially excels in this department. Here, Seyfried (in a largely unbroken single-take) portrays a starved Lee writhing on a prison floor reaffirming her surrender to a higher spiritual power. With no props, a detailed background, or extravagant physicality to draw from, Seyfried still more than justifies the camera's unblinking nature. How could one look away from such a stripped-down depiction of a human being's enduring spirit? 

This whole sequence is a masterful showcase of acting-based conviction, yet while watching The Testament of Ann Lee, it didn't register as that. I just perceived this sequence as a raw look at Ann Lee's dedication to her deity. Seyfried's talents are so immense that they never distract or overwhelm the story and character she's servicing, the sign of a truly legendary actor. 

Luscious Visuals And Melancholy Themes Are a Holy Triumph In Ann Lee

Given that this feature hails from the same creative team behind The Brutalist, you know Testament of Ann Lee was going to deliver on the glorious imagery front. Brutalist cinematographer Lol Crawley and The World to Come (Fastvold's directorial debut) lenser André Chemetoff sat this one out, which means cinematographer William Rexer gets to tackle his biggest feature film to date. Shockingly, his grandiose Ann Lee visuals are an improvement on his camerawork from three of Movie 43's segments. There's so much painterly beauty scattered throughout this title, particularly in how Fastvold and Rexer lean into the distinctive moods evoked by natural weather. Elements like melancholy snowfall or blisteringly hopeful sunlight work wonders in informing some of the feature's most unforgettable tableaus. 

The theatricality in the cinematography echoes the grandiose sensibilities of The Testament of Ann Lee as a whole film. Several sequences, namely anytime hordes of people begin to fiercely dance and harmonize together, are absolutely stunning in their gusto. Everything is being left on the floor in these set pieces, and it's remarkable to witness. An inevitable, devastating climactic sequence where everything goes to Hell, and Ann Lee is attacked, is similarly transfixing (albeit for more heartbreaking reasons). 

This and other Ann Lee scenes practically grabbed my head and commanded my attention. It's always extraordinary to experience instances where a motion picture truly comes alive, and it feels like you're barely holding on. Fastvold's filmmaking impressively overwhelmed and captivated me, an experience only enhanced by watching these images on a grand big screen.

It is in that shattering finale that The Testament of Ann Lee's melancholy core is reinforced. Like First Cow, this is a story about what attributes can't survive in Europe or America. Subverting rigid gender norms? Emphasizing kindness instead of cyclical violence? Daring to suggest we're all equal and worthy of love? Those won't thrive in colonial spaces built on genocide and repressive religion. Fastvold's vision of Ann Lee depicts hostilities against her as a precursor to the motivations behind subsequent American horrors like the Tulsa Race Massacre, the murder of Wyatt Outlaw, the Lavender Scare, the murder of Renee Good by ICE agents, and so many other events. 

Anyone who dares to "challenge" white male power structures, whether by active protest or simply existing. will be brutalized. Like those two men at the heart of First Cow who just want to make biscuits and tend to a cow, Ann Lee's hopeful vision of religion is at odds with a crueler, larger world. Her dream cannot last. That adds an extra aching core to this beautifully-realized movie, not to mention a center that's tragically very relevant. A bunch of men getting fantatically violent over what kind of genitalia a woman (in this case Ann Lee) has...why does that sound familiar? 

Once more, The Testament of Ann Lee astonishes in how many seemingly paradoxical plates it juggles with such finesse. Resonating as so horrifically relevant to post-1700s American events doesn't deprive Ann Lee and these characters of their emotional immediacy. Their world still registers as so beautifully immersive and discernibly 18th century. Chalk part of that up to the terrific visuals. The way light seeps into interior domains in this pre-electricity world, for instance, really makes one feel like they've stepped into a time machine. Committed work from the stacked ensemble cast also goes a long way towards making Ann Lee's period piece backdrop work. Everyone speaks in jagged accents (combinations of Irish and British accents, specifically) and an old-timey vernacular that aren't polished up to make Ann Lee and company sound more "accessible" to modern audiences. 

Whether it's in its critical examination of America's history, its most bravura set pieces, or just the outstanding costume and production design (props to Malgorzata Karpiuk and Sam Bader, respectively, on those two departments), The Testament of Ann Lee astonished me. This movie's ambitions are so grand that it even pulls off some humorous moments (namely, some bits centered on John praying) without upsetting the delicate tone. Paradoxical creative impulses are executed with grace here from top to bottom. After her striking and unflinching directorial debut, Fastvold has returned with an even more ambitious yet similarly striking filmmaking accomplishment. If you're adverse to musical cinema in general, Ann Lee won't be your cup of tea. For the rest of us, who prefer "Naatu Naatu" and Phantom of the Paradise to "gritty reality," come bask in this sensational filmmaking. 

You Can't Predict What Will Be Popular. Isn't It Wonderful?

It's 1990.

Disney is convinced Dick Tracy will become the Mouse House's biggest box office hit of the year. How could it not? It combined legendary actor Warren Beatty (and all the nostalgia for his 60s/70s hits) with a famous comic book character. 1989's Batman needed to watch its back. However, the box office victor for Disney that year was another Touchstone Pictures release: Pretty Woman. A low-budget romantic-comedy released in March (NOT summertime) and relying on fresh-faced movie star Julia Roberts, Pretty Woman made $178 million domestically and left Dick Tracy in the dust financially. 

Let's go forward to 2002. 

Do you think any studio executive imagined that Men in Black II, Austin Powers in Goldmember, Die Another Day, or Red Dragon would make significantly less at the box office than My Big Fat Greek Wedding? That indie rom-com started off small in limited release, but kept on drawing crowds to theaters for months on end. It was the fifth-biggest movie of 2002 in North America.  

It's 1967. The Graduate, a tiny low-budget film starring then-unknown Dustin Hoffman, is the number one movie of the year. It does circles around vastly costlier musicals like Thoroughly Modern Millie and Camelot. Two years later, Easy Rider, with a $400,000 budget, outgrossed the $25 million-budgeted Hello, Dolly! That was despite the former film having no pre-existing source material to its name. 

Fatal Attraction outgrossing Beverly Hills Cop II. Speed outgrossing Clear and Present Danger. Crazy Rich Asians outgrossing Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Bumblebee, and Mary Poppins Returns. Every year brings new examples of how you can't predict what will become popular in the world of film. It's wonderfully exciting. It also makes the norms of Hollywood extras frustrating. Such standards were more pervasive and infuriating than ever in the year 2025.

For decades, Hollywood's grown increasingly reliant on pre-existing brand names to carry the day. A penchant that was already prominent in the 80s has become omnipresent today. Increased competition for people's eyeballs and corporate consolidation (not to mention a greater emphasis on pleasing stockholders above all others) has led to everything being franchises and IP-driven. Studio executives keep getting heftier and heftier paychecks while insisting there's no money to take a chance on original projects in realms like animated family films, comedies, teen-skewing features, and more. All the while, evidence keeps piling up at your local multiplex that general audiences crave something new.

Sinners, Weapons, Marty Supreme, The Housemaid, these were all non-sequels (three weren't based on any pre-existing material), and they all made more than Tron: Ares, Ballerina, Now You See Me, Now You Don't, and countless other 2025 movies reviving pre-2020 brand names. Even A Minecraft Movie, a piece of traditional IP blockbuster filmmaking aimed at today's kids rather than 80s nostalgia, reflects the essentiality of embracing concepts that haven't been brought to the silver screen before. Nobody can predict anything in this business, even if the Silicon Valley overlords crave algorithms and terrifying levels of control that can "seemingly" eliminate unpredictability.

Even on television, the uncertainty over what will connect with the public is apparent. Did anyone at HBO think the second Peacemaker season would get significantly less pop culture traction than Heated Rivalry, a hockey show they just acquired for U.S. release? This small program was a massive sleeper hit and left countless bigger-budgeted 2020s TV shows tied to big-name stars and brand names in the dust. People were much more curious about a hockey program unlike anything they'd ever seen than Monarch: Legacy of Monsters.

Returning to films, it's worth pointing out that One Battle After Another is up to $133 million at the international box office. That's a sum only $59 million behind the foreign box office total of Thunderbolts*, which both cost more to make and was a traditional PG-13 superhero movie sequel. Meanwhile, there's a good chance Weapons outgrossed Five Nights at Freddy's 2 globally. Looking at the global film scene, the Japanese film Kokuho (based on the Shuichi Yoshida novel of the same name) has broken box office records in its home country. Its $119.64 million worldwide gross is ahead of sequels like The Accountant 2 and Karate Kid: Legends. Then, of course, there's sequel Ne Zha 2, which provided its own kind of surprise in topping the worldwide box office for 2025 with $2.15 billion. Who could have ever expected a film outside of America to gross this much?

All this uncertainty should inspire Hollywood studios to realize that no brand name (unless it's Zootopia) guarantees a box office hit. Do not rely on old and tired franchises to provide "security." That way only produces I Know What You Did Last Summer, Snow White, and M3gan 2.0. If nothing is certain, why not embrace that reality and provide steady doses of original, unexpected filmmaking? Sinners, Weapons, and shouldn't be exceptions. They should be norms and golden stars for an American film industry currently stewing over how to turn Labubu's and Hot Wheels into major motion pictures.

Even indie studio A24 learned it's always the unexpected titles that strike most effectively the hard way in its 2025 cinematic exploits. Its costly The Smashing Machine movie, reuniting Dwayne Johnson and Emily Blunt from an earlier Disney blockbuster, made less domestically than Friendship, a low-budget title A24 acquired out of the Toronto International Film Festival in 2024. In this specific case, newbie cinema leading man Tim Robinson was more appealing to audiences than Dwayne Johnson. Could A24 executives also have imagined that a 215-minute drama like The Brutalist would make more than a mainstream-friendly title like The Death of a Unicorn?

Studios big and small are constantly learning how unpredictable the world of art is. That might sound like a weird thing to say while the biggest movies in the world are Zootopia and Avatar sequels. Just ask The Running Man, Tron: Ares, M3gan 2.0, and Joker: Folie a Deux...those brand names are the pronounced exceptions, not the rule. While those two dominate multiplexes, The Housemaid and Marty Supreme are also tearing it up financially. These R-rated projects are proving adults will come out to theaters for productions that aren't intertwined with long-standing brand names. 

Give people something new, and especially give young people projects and concepts that can belong to them (rather than trying to make them care about Kevin Costner westerns or Julia Roberts campus thrillers)...the possibilities are endless. Heated Rivalry, Sinners, Marty Supreme, Weapons, these are the 2025 pop culture properties that reaffirm a hunger from movie and TV audiences for something they haven't seen before. This is the kind of reality that's bound to make algorithm/A.I.-driven executives sweat profusely. For the rest of us, this is an exciting demonstration that the next pop culture phenomenon can come from anywhere. 

This practice thrived in 1990, 1967, 2002, and so many other years of artistic history. Despite COVID-19, streaming, corporate executive indifference to artists and movie theaters, the unexpected breaking out and surpassing the "surefire" hits has endured into 2025. If that isn't enough to give one some hope for 2026, I don't know what will. 

The Lesbian Bar Fraud

 

If I was watching a movie and it began with an ear-splitting needle drop of Tyler Farr’s "Redneck Crazy" before an AI chatbot recited passages from Brisingr, it’s doubtful anything in the subsequent film could save the feature from being dubbed a disaster. Even if every inch of the ensuing runtime was on par with Drive My Car, Central Station, or RRR, nothing could make me forget that awful opening. Sometimes, an entities beginning is so dismal it capsizes everything it touches. 

I had a similar experience last night walking with two of my friends to a lesbian bar for a New Year’s Eve celebration. As we strolled down the sidewalk, giggling and trading inside jokes, a car zoomed by us. Even while traveling at great speeds, the denizens of this act took the time to roll down the windows and yell at me, “show us your titties!”

Fucking men. And in the "gayborhood" of Dallas nonetheless. What an uncomfy moment that was an ominous harbinger of the night to come.

Roughly an hour-ish later, my two friends have entered the dance floor. My throat's a little parched, so I head over to this tinier side bar in the establishment to get a drink of water (I don't drink alcohol). Once I'm standing in line, I excitedly see that the bartender has put on Southland Tales on the bar's TV. Perfect New Year's Eve movie, yay for someone else enjoying that movie's madness. As I'm taking in the very overstimulating sights and sounds of this lesbian bar 20 minutes past midnight on New Year's Day, a woman begins talking to me.

This lady, let's call her Bayonne, was wearing a T-shirt, long jeans, and blonde hair. Classic masc lesbian attire. She leans into my ear and starts asking me basic questions about my name, how my night's going, and complimenting a slight shimmy I was doing moments earlier. Then, she drops a bombshell inquiry: "so what are you interested in, Lisa?" I told her I was a lesbian, which I don't think she quite heard over the music. I leaned in to her ear and repeated it again. It was immediately my turn to be auditorily confused since Bayonne then asked me something that I only heard as a gurgle of vowels. 

After asking her to repeat it, Bayonne then raised her voice and asked if I could expand on my sexuality preferences. I was a bit lost here. Didn't "lesbian" cover things? In a moment of trying to figure out how to communicate how I'm also interested in non-binary people while some 2005 rap hit was blaring in my ears, I remarked something about my "flexibility" with people. "Well, there are lots of women here that are flexible," Bayonne proclaimed before reaching out her hand to bid me a good night. I was previously getting flirty vibes from her, but I guess my comments hadn't been to her liking. Oh well.

A moment later, as I was still waiting to order my water, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Bayonne was now talking to a nearby straight couple. The dude in the relationship worked as "a contractor" and opined something about "not being ready" for some matter Bayonne brought up. After a brief pause, I couldn't help but notice that this dynamic had escalated drastically. Bayonne was now passionately making out with the guy's cisgender partner. My suspicions of Bayonne fishing for smooches and New Year's passions were confirmed. And in that moment, my heart shattered.

After seeing this kiss, my brain immediately thought, "that could have been you, Lisa, if you hadn't said something stupid." Then another terrifying thought crept into my mind...had my voice turned off Bayonne? Had she seen me in my red, flower-covered dress from afar, come up to flirt with me, and then realized I was trans as I began talking? Did she spend our whole conversation reeling from her "miscalculation" and hoping to bolt to the nearest cis-woman to kiss? Was I not enough to be seen as "attractive" or "properly woman" for smooching?

Now, to be clear, this is not me saying some toxic shit like "if you aren't attracted to me, you're transphobic," I swear to God. I've just had plenty of weird experiences in the dating/flirting world with women's weirdness towards my gender. There was that one woman on a dating app who declared, "you're kidding, right?" after I sent her a picture of what I looked like. Women asking me if I'm in "cosplay" when I'm dressed as myself. Don't forget about that lady who spent five minutes of our Denny's date elucidating to me how and why Dave Chappelle wasn't transphobic and was properly crusading against "men invading women's spaces." 

I will never know if this whole Bayonne experience was an extension of this phenomenon. Most likely, she just didn't vibe with my energy and moved on to somebody else. Maybe she even has a fetish for "cucking" straight men and my single lesbian ass could never fulfill that. Still, it was a weird interaction that led me to feel dysphoric and romantically hopeless before 2026's first half-hour was through. I've never kissed anyone as a trans woman. Anytime these flirty endeavors go awry, my brain immediately catastrophizes and opts to think, "you just blew your one chance, nobody will want to be around you now." 

I know that's not true. I know that's cruel and the kind of phrase I'd never say to another person...why should I say it to myself? When crushing disappointment and overstimulation combine, though, rationality goes out the window. I was soon sitting at this location's main bar, holding back tears, convinced this whole night was a bust. I felt like the lesbian bar fraud, a woman who was so alone in a sea of expansive friend groups, heterosexual couples, and lesbian expressing intimacy that was always out of my reach. Thank God for my two kind friends who provided me with much-needed comfort and perspective in this low moment. 

There were sprinkles of fun to be had in this night afterward. However, I kept feeling like a "fraud" throughout the evening. There were my inept experiences on the dance floor, where the entire crowd engaged in choreography that totally went over my head. I shuffled at the front of the dance floor, trying to follow the feet of strangers in a desperate attempt to join the crowd. Instead, I looked like Princess Giselle channeling Mr. Bean. Then there was the moment I talked to a couple, with one member of the duo mentioning how there were a lot of men in this lesbian bar. I reflexively went "yeah, gross!", which led half of this pair to go "oh, they're not that bad, cut them some slack."

Even in this interaction, I felt like a fraud. Was my extreme disdain for the men who so often made me feel small or scared another way I couldn't connect with other lesbians? This place was so crowded with partying souls that you often couldn't move your arms. Yet here was another moment where I felt like I was alone. It was like I was back in my bedroom at age 25, silently putting on women's clothes and hoping nobody else in the household walked in on me. Nobody to talk to. Nobody to relate to. On a different planet from the other souls in my vicinity.

Between this and my strip club odyssey back in September, I think my brain's coping mechanism for feeling socially isolated is to retreat inward. More specifically, my brain finds it a lot easier to tell myself "you're the problem, you're the intruder, you're the fake" than coping with the multitude of external problems surrounding me. Once again, me being overwhelmed in a noisy bar (and being surrounded by weird dudes) led to me perceiving myself as a "fraud" who didn't belong. The scarcity of other trans women in the vicinity didn't help fend off this perception. 

My eyeballs couldn't immediately see a bevy of other trans souls to provide some camaraderie. Instead, my pupils just kept stumbling on cis-het dudes cradling women. They looked like guys who'll mansplain why Morgan Wallen ISN'T racist to you before trying to grope you in an elevator (so future GOP appointees to the Supreme Court). Those aren't exactly comforting figures for a distraught and dysphoric trans lesbian needing to remind herself she belonged here.

By 1:40, "the lesbian bar fraud" left this establishment with her two friends and headed home. Going outside and letting the 40-degree weather envelop my body really did wonders for my mental health. This lesbian bar was like its own pocket dimension while I was in there, or perhaps a black hole: a place where sunlight couldn't escape its gravitational pull. Staring up at the stars, I was reminded of how there was a wider world out there. A beautiful world full of greater possibilities beyond Bayonne and insurmountable, anxiety-inducing noise. Even so, I still cried recounting my Bayonne experience in the car ride home. My 2026 was not off to the best start, even with the reassurances of the night sky.

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One of my greatest problems is what I call my "blinders issue." When I get stressed, it's like I suddenly procure those blinders horses wear on the racetrack. In other words, I can only see the here-and-now, not yesterday, tomorrow, or the greater picture. Throughout this New Year's Eve lesbian bar experience, I was so overwhelmed with noise, dysphoria, and social anxiety that I could only obsess over the present. Yet I know, deep down, I'm not a fraud. I'm a valid woman. Not only that, but I'm blessed to be surrounded by people who remind me of that in beautiful ways big and small.

Two nights before this New Year's Eve event, I celebrated my 30th birthday with dear friends (only women, enby's, and other marginalized gender-identifying people!) with karaoke and the yummiest Mexican food imaginable. The nine people who showed up that fateful night were such kindhearted souls who complimented my looks, referred to me as "girlie," and gave me such thoughtful gifts (makeup, lipstick, hairbands, nail polish, etc.), perfect for accentuating my presentation of womanhood. One of my friends even took me into the ladies' room to help retie up the back of my dress. What a kind gesture!

Best of all, I didn't even have to think about my gender identity or if I was "woman enough" in these social confines. I just got to exist for a little over five hours, secure in being a lady, and basking in the vibrant personalities and joyful lives of the people I'm so grateful to call my friends. This was a night of immense gender euphoria, partially because I wasn't scrambling to reaffirm my gender to these wonderful souls. I'm so grateful for memories like those on countless levels, but especially after last night's lesbian bar debacle. 

I guess there was no way that bartime outing could recover from getting harassed by those gross dudes. They truly were the real-life equivalent of a movie starting with "Redneck Crazy" and AI Brisingr recitations. But I survived. Writing all of this chaos down, my heart aches for the pain I went through. However, I'm also grateful for the kindness and identity-reaffirming elements of my life that ensure that New Year's Eve turmoil isn't the norm for my entire existence. That includes the empathetic ears and joy provided by my friends last night. They made an often unbearable night a lot more tolerable. 

Well, welcome to 2026, I suppose. This "lesbian bar fraud" is really, really, really tired. Here's to hoping the New Year is full of more events like my unforgettable karaoke/Mexican food celebration...and less dysphoria and catastrophizing thoughts. 

Me, my darling friends, and an iconic pink frog after karaoke fun