Ok, I’ll be honest. I just discovered that Cagney & Lacey is on Netflix Instant, so I’ve ben lax in contributing to your instant viewing salvation. I’m sorry. Donsies.
I watched Role/Play a few weeks ago and considered watching it again to refresh my memory for writing this review, but thought better of it, seeing as I already have indigestion and frankly, am running out of Tums. I hope you appreciate that I do this for you, dear reader, braving 1.5-star Netflix shit-shows so you don’t have to. My point: this movie is so stupid.
My cup of iced red wine almost drained (thank you, Trader Joe’s), I turn myself to the matter at hand. Dreya Weber. And it appears she’s turning into a homoflix category all of her own (see The Gymnast). But she is more than that. She is a goddess of some singular genre devoted to “pansexual” women (I swear I read that self-proclaimed shit on Wiki, but it’s possible that’s the four beers I had before the red talking) who wish to make art with their male partners about fucking women. Should I be upset? Or overcome by her pale, gauzy tops? I think you know the answer.
In honor of 9/11, I decided to watch A Marine Story today. Just shy of four minutes in, the incomparable Weber had already thrown some meth head punk to the ground and a minute later was ordering tequila from a small-town shop clerk. And this is all after she got her gay ass discharged from the military. Nice work – and you can get it if you try.
I love Robyn. I always have, and always will. When she broke into music-fame in the US with her hit “Do You Know (What It Takes)” it the late 90s, I threw down my Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet soundtrack and began worshipping a new compact disc overlord: her debut album Robyn Is Here (and she still is, as I’m currently saturating my brain with the electro-bliss of her latest album Body Talk).
I also love lesbians. I always have, and always will. I’m a “lezbro” if you will. So it’s no wonder that when I came across an L film in the G&L sec on Netflix named after one of my fav Swede lady’s biggest hits, I had to check it out. And, as luck will have it, Show Me Love did not disappoint.
Now I’ve seen my share of Euro-gayboy coming out films from the 90s (and of course, by “seen” I mean I watched Beautiful Thing so many times I wore out the VHS), but I must say, I haven’t seen
many any gaygirl ones. Until now. And I gotta say, this movie sent my inner dutch boy heart a (fuzz) bumpin’.
Well, what’s the point? And that’s what Training Rules seeks to uncover. Yes, faggots. It is not just fun and games here in Ohio. Not normally a fan of the documentary form, I took it upon myself to give this one a look after a hard-hitting spin class got me all fired up and ready to go. This film clocks in at just over and hour and paints a fairly dismal portrait of women’s lives in sports, focusing on the story of Jen Harris, a hotshot college basketball player whose career was cut tragically short by the homophobia she encountered as a student-athlete at Penn State. We don’t get to hear a hell of a lot from Harris for legal reasons, but her parents contribute a great deal to the narrative and it’s pretty heartbreaking. Other testimonials are provided by ex-Penn players (the Gulas twins are particularly cute), the awesomely dykey softball coach Sue Rankin and a variety of other sports activists. I didn’t even know there was a National Center for Lesbian Rights!
Don’t say I never did anything for you. It took me nearly three hours to watch an hour and change of the first season of the web series We Have to Stop Now. I nearly exhausted my beer rations in the first sixty minutes, had a nervous breakdown over a Facebook message my ex sent me in the next, but by the last third had grown so accustomed to the prehistoric Internet connection offered to me courtesy of Extended Stay America, I couldn’t imagine watching an Instant Netflix selection any other way. That’s right readers. I’m writing you from the cozy suburbs of Dublin, Ohio where I will be for the next month and Daddy got some time on his hands. Bring on the lonely nights!
I’ll be honest. Judging by the cover art that was posted on Netflix, I thought Heartbeats was a lesbian movie. Nope. Just has some really pretty boys in it. And yeh, that was kind of a letdown. In fact, I hesitate to even call this movie a gay movie. It’s basically a Québécois version of Threesome, with way better cinematography. It only really earns its gay chops by including a gay sex scene, lit moodily, that starts with crying. Classic.
I guess I should run through the kind of standard movie review stuff first, before getting to what you really want to hear. This film is gorgeous. Director/star Xavier Dolan has made a beautiful film that has some beautiful people in it (hubba, hubba Niels Schneider as Nick!), and the performances in the film are intricate, nuanced and compelling – definitely a level of skill that rarely dons the cloak of “gay cinema.” And the outfits outfits are awesome. Werk.