KPop Demon Hunters (2025)

At the beginning of the recent Merchant Ivory discussion episode of the main podcast, most of the crew expressed great admiration for the recent Netflix original KPop Demon Hunters, and I must now add my own voice to that chorus. I resisted for as long as I could, but after the overwhelming number of Halloween costumes I saw and heard about this year, I was finally curious enough to give it a shot, and it’s quite cute. 

HUNTR/X is an all-girl K-pop trio who also happen to be demon slayers, with their musical talent being an integral part of their spirit-busting arsenal. For generations, different trios of women have spent their lives fighting the infernal forces while also building and reinforcing the “Hanmoon,” a kind of psychic forcefield that keeps the armies of evil from entering our world. The most recent incarnation is set to complete/permanently reinforce the Hanmoon, visually represented by it turning golden, which will permanently sever the demon ruler Gwi-Ma (Lee Byung-hun) and his minions from our realm and prevent his influence from spreading. HUNTR/X’s lead singer is Rumi (Arden Cho!), an orphan whose mother was a demon hunter/musical idol and who was raised by her mother’s bandmate/co-slayer Celine (Yunjin Kim). Rounding out the trio are Mira, the snarky dancer who is the black sheep of her wealthy family, and Zoey, a Korean-American lyricist and rapper from Burbank; both were also trained by Celine in demon slaying/pop idol branding. 

In the underworld, Gwi-Ma accepts the proposal of an underling named Jinu (Ahn Hyo-seop) to think outside the box and, instead of sending wave after wave of minions against HUNTR/X, interfere with the psychic power that they get from their fans to weaken the Hanmoon instead. To that end, Juni appears in our realm, accompanied by four other disguised demons, as the newest boy band, Saja. Like any perfectly crafted group of that genre, each member is designed to appeal to a certain demographic: there’s the innocent and adorable Baby Saja; the pink-haired pretty boy Romance Saja; the aptly named Mystery Saja whose hair obscures almost his entire face; and Abby, whose personality is … having abs (he’s my favorite). Just as HUNTR/X is poised to release their new single, “Golden,” which will solidify their idol status and let them turn the Hanmoon gold, Saja immediately starts to overtake HUNTR/X in popularity, undermining the power needed to complete the ritual. Worse still, unbeknownst to her bandmates, Rumi is finding it increasingly difficult to hide her “patterns,” the telltale markings that betray her heritage as the child of a demon and a hunter, which Celine has forced her to keep hidden for her entire life. Jinu notices this in their first fight, and with a budding potential romance between them, now she has two secrets to keep. And she’s losing her voice! 

KPop Demon Hunters has been an enormous success, and is currently sitting at the top of Netflix’s most viewed original film list. It’s easy to see why; this is an easily-digestible animated musical with a distinctive style and catchy music. It’s clearly for children but is a bit of a throwback among kiddoe media in that it understands that its target demographic is not going to be its only audience, and thus makes the effort to include humor that appeals to the whole family, not just its smallest members who need to be babysat by a screen for 90 minutes. Other than this summer’s Freakier Friday (which was also PG), I’m hard pressed to remember the last time a movie that was made for a primarily young audience bothered to create something that older siblings and parents might enjoy, rather than merely tolerate. This kind of pop music has never really been my thing, I’m afraid, and I don’t really see that changing; the film’s Big Song “Golden” recently played at my gym and I would not have known it from any of the other pop music that passes by me in the stream if it hadn’t been pointed out to me. That’s not a mark against the film at all, just an observation that I’m a tertiary demographic here, and the music was consistently good throughout, even if my comparatively elderly ears couldn’t quite discern what I was hearing some of the time. (I first heard the lyric “Now I’m shinin’ like I’m born to be” as “Now I’m shining like a butterbean,” which I knew could not be correct but got stuck in my head.) Even more than that, I really appreciated that the film allowed itself to go a little hard on the violence and horror elements, and this is a movie that I could see being an effective introduction to the thrill of cinematic fright for a younger audience, of the kind that I was fortunate enough to benefit from.

An urban fantasy musical is a great idea, and I can’t imagine a better execution of it than this film, especially in its ineffable lightheartedness that manages to keep the film in the family-friendly realm despite some of the more challenging subject matter. As someone with no expertise in this genre, my two main points of comparison are admittedly very Western™, but I kept thinking of Josie and the Pussycats and Buffy. The similarities between HUNTR/X and the Pussycats are mostly visual, with them being a musical trio whose lounging around in their Avengers-style penthouse mirrors the royal treatment that the ‘Cats get in their film. When it comes to Buffy, I can’t help but think about that first season storyline—Buffy/Rumi falls for a much older demon with a soul (Angel/Jinu) and has to keep this from her excitable, borderline autistic-coded (Willow/Zoey) and snarky (Xander/Mira, although Mira is way cooler) friends, all while keeping secrets from her mother/mentor. There’s also the sixth season, where a resurrected Buffy fears that she’s “come back wrong” and is now part demon, and she covertly starts seeing Spike while keeping both her relationship and her condition from her friends. If you’re starting to worry that I’m going to say something negative about this, fret not; a comparison to Buffy is a high honor in my home, and I loved seeing the echoes. I was also delighted to hear Arden Cho’s voice, as I’ve been a fan of hers since her Teen Wolf days and I’m excited for the career possibilities that this success will bring her.

I didn’t touch much on the themes of the piece, but suffice it to say that they’re a bit deeper than the standard fare. It’s not a recent trend for animated and otherwise child-oriented film to be about self-acceptance, but even something like the recent Nimona (which I quite liked) has a tendency to have a slight twinge of the performative, while the complexities of self-identity and prejudices are handled with a little more nuance here. The exhilarating action sequences and the peppy music break the film up so much that it feels like you’re at a concert even when the film is giving you something to chew on, narratively, and I appreciate that. It’s not going to be for everyone, but it’s not a bad choice for a fun movie night.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Queens of Drama (2025)

I am a white, childless nerd rapidly nearing 40 years of age, so please take my trend-watching analysis of what’s cool & hip among the kids right now with a mountainous grain of salt. I do have the same 24/7 internet service and all-consuming social media addiction as every other doomed soul with the misfortune of living through these Uncertain Times, though, so I believe I am entitled to a little Youth Culture observation, however distanced. One clear theme so far this decade is that the fashions and pop iconography of the early 2000s are just as fetishized now as the 1980s were when I was a teen in those aughts. Everything crass & classless about the 2000s is now subject to ironic kitsch: middle-part hairdos, low-rise jeans, tramp stamps, belly rings, nu-metal, bejeweled & vajazzled everything. Since even I—an old man, a proverbial “Unc”—am aware of this current aughts-worship trend, I assume the moment is soon to pass, so I must act quickly in recommending a movie that fits the fad.

The new Altered Innocence release Queens of Drama is the perfect French musical for the supposed Y2K Indie Sleaze renaissance. It’s a knowing throwback to the vintage tastes of yore, drowning the audience in cathode-TV screens, compact disc rainbow sheen, and blinged-out nipple rings. The logline says it’s a sapphic romance between early-aughts pop & punk songstresses, so it makes sense the result of their union is pure electroclash. Imagine, if you will, a fanfic in which Kelly Clarkson and Peaches had a secret, decades-spanning love affair, and the only public record of its existence was a deep-dive YouTube video hosted by the “Leave Britney alone!” guy. Queens of Drama is Velvet Goldmine by way of Glitter, a self-aware attempt to give the pop culture runoff of the early aughts the epic rock-opera treatment that’s usually reserved for movements like punk, glam, and metal.

We start in the 2050s, with a squealing makeup-tutorial YouTuber getting the audience hyped to hear the lurid details of a secret love affair between their closeted pop-idol fav and her butch punk-scene girlfriend. The two women meet backstage during open auditions for an American Idol-style competition show called Starlets Factory. One is a formally trained singer whose mother has engineered her to be the next Maria Callas, while she’d personally much rather be the next Mariah Carey. The other is a self-proclaimed punk singer whose electroclash group Slit has built a small following in local lesbian bars singing outrageously filthy pop tunes about fisting & cunnilingus. Their attraction is mutual & ferocious, but the resulting love affair is quickly corrupted by their clashing levels of fame and their clashing comfort levels with their sexuality (as the pop singer stubbornly remains closeted to maximize the longevity of her career). Meanwhile, they discover another secret love affair conspiracy between their own favorite pop singers of the 1980s (think Madonna & Kate Bush) through breadcrumb trail hints left in vintage music videos, making their own story a part of a larger lesbian pop continuum.

At the risk of sounding like the twentysomething cinephiles who treat distributors like A24, Neon, and Criterion as if they were auteurs instead of corporations, Queens of Drama is perfectly in tune with the Altered Innocence brand. First-time filmmaker Alexis Langlois brings their own sensibilities to the screen here, especially in their fetishistic focus on the fashion iconography of the early aughts. At the same time, the film clearly belongs to the same queer fantasia realm as the work of Altered Innocence mainstays Yann Gonzalez & Bertrand Mandico. If nothing else, there’s a shot of the electroclash singer riding a miniature motorcycle that’s straight out of Gonzalez’s own debut You and the Night. As a result, the movie is much more easily recommendable to anyone who loves The Wild Boys & Knife+Heart than to anyone who loves Crossroads & Glitter, but surely there’s enough of a Venn Diagram overlap there for this title to find a dedicated cult audience. They just have to act quickly before the youth inevitably move on to indulging in 2010s kitsch instead.

-Brandon Ledet

Lurker (2025)

Lurker is All About Eve by way of Nightcrawler, with a little bit of The Talented Mr. Ripley thrown in for good measure. Or is it a love story, albeit a bit of a fucked up one? 

Matthew Morning (Théodore Pellerin) is working retail alongside Jamie (Sunny Suljic) at an LA boutique clothing store when mononymous musician Oliver (Archie Madekwe) comes in one day. Matthew quickly puts “My Love Song for You” by Nile Rodgers  on the shop’s sound system, and Oliver is impressed by the man’s musical taste, resulting in Matthew being invited to hang backstage at Oliver’s show that night. Oliver’s entourage member Swett (Zack Fox) and producer Bowen (Wale Onayemi) haze him a bit by making him drop his pants, but when he goes one further and loses his underpants as well, it endears him to them immediately. Matt notices a quiet member of the posse, Noah (Daniel Zolghadri) lurking in the back of the green room before he meets Oliver’s manager Shai (Havana Rose Liu), who takes note of Matty’s apparent infatuation with Oliver and recommends that he find a way to make himself useful if he wants to stick around. When he’s invited to hang out the next day at Oliver’s luxurious home, he finds himself stuck doing menial house chores like taking out the garbage and washing dishes while Bowen and Swett play Call of Duty and watch nature documentaries and Oliver largely seems apathetic to his presence. When he captures some candid footage on a low-res Sony commercial video camcorder of Oliver goofing around in the driveway on a BMX, Oliver lights on the idea of having Matty hang around and work on “the documentary,” which creates friction with Noah, who is the crew’s “official” documentarian. When Matty’s former co-worker Jamie also starts to work his way into Matty’s new social circle, Matty goes to increasingly harmful lengths to ensure that his place in the hierarchy remains unchallenged. 

Lurker is about many things. Matt’s behavior is nebulous; although he’s willing to escalate to physical harm and extortion to remain close to Oliver, the exact reasons are ambiguous enough to offer multiple interpretations. The most straightforward possibility is that Matty is simply obsessively in love with Oliver, and although Oliver himself is only ever clearly seen in the sexual company of women, Matty’s reaction to Oliver’s physical (but most likely platonic) affection demonstrates that the singer is the object of his desire. It’s clear that Shai sees Matt’s desire to be in Oliver’s orbit and may even see that attraction to Oliver as she encourages it initially, while his male friends tease Matt for “sounding like one of [Oliver’s] bitches.” Matty is clearly affected by Oliver’s attention to him, with the bits of fraternal physical affection that Oli gives him acting as an emotional drug, and Oliver’s candid vulnerability with the newest member of his entourage is perhaps too encouraging to the unstable videographer. At one point late in the film, Oliver asks Matty why he’s even around, and Matt tells him that he’s there for the same reason that everyone else around Oliver is, it’s just that he’s more driven and “better at it,” in his own words. It’s not stated explicitly, but the implication is that Oliver’s group, which he previously compared to a family of his own choosing, is made up of clingers-on and sycophants trying to ride his coattails into a life of glamour. As an audience, I don’t think we’re meant to fully believe him and his stated motivations, as this supposed reasoning aligns with some of the things we’ve seen (Matty pretends not to know who Oliver is when he first appears in the store while clearly actually being invested in impressing him with his obscure musical knowledge, which wins him a bid at the golden ring of being in Oli’s crew) but also fails to explain the more psychosexual desire that Matt clearly has. 

The latter of these reasons is on fullest display in two scenes in the film. After Matt has successfully created a situation that allows him to blackmail himself back into Oliver’s home (if not his good graces), Oliver makes an attempt to steal the evidence from Matt’s room while he sleeps, but when Matt wakes up, Oliver lies that he wanted to check in on Matt and see if there is some way to get them back to being friends. Matt seems to accept the sincerity and immediately demands that they wrestle, tangling his limbs with the musician and rolling around with him, over the latter’s protests. Still later, when Oliver is on tour, Matt shows up with a girl to the hotel room where Oliver is hooking up with a woman and the two have their sexual encounters next to one another, Matt staring intensely and lovingly at Oliver the whole time. It’s this last that finally pushes Oliver too far, but for his part, Oliver seems to enjoy the attention at times, as there’s a bit of narcissism inherent to his entire career. Early on in the film, Matt tells him that he thinks Oliver has the potential to be the biggest star in the world, and for a moment it seems like he’s pushed his own apparent sycophancy too far to be believed, but after a beat, Oliver excitedly admits that he thinks the same and that the other members of his crew aren’t pushing him hard enough. Matt feeds into Oliver’s ego and the fact that it comes with a side helping of intense yearning doesn’t set off any alarm bells for Oliver until it’s too late. 

The basic scaffolding of this narrative is, as noted above, very much like All About Eve, with Oliver as the Bette Davis/Margo Channing of the feature, a widely known star, and Matty as Anne Baxter’s Eve Harrington who seeks that same level of fame and adoration. Although he does ultimately see success, the film ends at the premiere of the documentary, and when a fan expresses admiration and inspiration, it’s like the finale of Eve in which a young girl comes to Eve’s hotel room in much the same way she once appeared at Margo’s stage door. Matty takes it further, pushing Jamie off of a ladder (after already trying to separate him from the group at the airport) when he gets jealous of Oliver’s preference for Jamie’s ideas for the album cover over Matt’s. Where Patricia Highsmith’s Ripleyness comes from is in the nature of unstated queer obsession that runs as an undercurrent throughout the whole thing. Matt’s “in love” (read: obsessed) with Oliver, wanting to be with him but also to be him, and it’s all conveyed with great attention to detail. Aside from the use of outdated camera equipment to genuinely create an aesthetic that is so desirable that it’s often recreated digitally, what Matt’s bringing to the table with his old Sony camcorder is something that could easily be accomplished through Instagram style filters, but there’s a true commitment to the essence of truth that Oliver wants to convey with his art, and there’s something to be said for that. 

What I found to be one of the most interesting things about the film is the way that it explores the nature of what it feels like to utterly hate someone who sees you better than anyone else. Although Swett and Bowen treat Matt like a pariah once he blackmails his way back into being part of the crew, he either ignores this or is completely apathetic about it, as all he really wants is what he has: access to Oliver, even if the vibe has shifted completely. Everyone’s mistrust of him and their overt hatred for him is covered by Oliver’s having to keep playing Matt’s game, and even if it feels insincere to us in the audience, it’s sufficient to feed Matt’s internal need for Oliver’s attention and validation. In the end, however, after all that Matt puts Oliver through as part of a creative vision for Oliver’s next album, when Oliver sees the resulting footage for himself, he realizes that Matt has accomplished what he said he would: push Oli when the others would let him rest on his laurels with the fame that he already has. It doesn’t hurt that Oliver himself has dubious ethics; when Matt arrives for his first show, the musician is canoodling with a woman that Swett and Bowen picked out of the crowd for him, and the fact that this is a habit for Oliver is something that Matt is able to use against him. Exactly what Oliver did that Matt has footage of is ambiguous enough that we don’t necessarily turn on him, but allows room for doubt as to how honest any of his interactions are, up to and including his claims to Matt that he can be more honest with him than any of the others. What is it in Oliver that only Matt can see and capture? Is it a genuine (if criminally obsessive and jealous) love that Matt has? Is it a consuming desire to see Oliver become the best that he can be because of that love, or because he, Nightcrawlery, wants to ride the rising waters in Oliver’s wake? It’s unclear. 

This film was on the Black List (in 2020), meaning that it was relatively easy to find the screenplay. Matt is notably less evil in the final film, as the script that I found included him treating his grandmother much more coldly and cruelly, including getting her to pay for his flight back to the US after he gets stranded in London but ignoring her at the airport and taking an Uber (in the film she picks him up without incident). All that really remains of this in the final film is a brief scene in which he yells at her when she tries to talk to him while he’s on the phone with Oliver. There’s also an entire subplot about Oliver’s elderly neighbor, whom Matt (possibly accidentally) kills and then (definitely intentionally) moves into his garage so that he can continue to spy on Oliver’s group which is left out of the film. In the final release, the most violence that occurs is when Matt pushes Jamie off of a ladder (we see him later and, other than a broken nose, he’s fine) and when Oliver’s group beats Matty after they’ve finally had enough. It’s a choice that makes for a more interesting movie to make Matty less of an out and out serial killer and inject a bit more ambiguity, despite the fact that I went into this hoping to see just that kind of obsessive violence. Well worth it. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

DEVO (2025)

A frequent lament you’ll hear from Millennial cineastes is that we, as a generation, deeply miss the Directors Label DVDs from the early 2000s. Collecting the music-video catalogs of then-young auteurs like Spike Jonze, Michel Gondry, and Jonathan Glazer, the series wasn’t just fun background texture for dorm-room hangouts; it was also a crash course in surrealistic filmmaking techniques, finding some of that era’s most expressionistic directors taking their biggest creative swings in the only commercially viable medium that would support that kind of experimentation. Since the music-licensing deals that made those DVD collections possible have become too convoluted & expensive to justify a reissue, those long out-of-print DVDs now resell for exorbitant sums, effectively rendering them extinct (unless you were able to protect your personal copies from scratches and friendly-fire splashes of beer & bong water). However, there is an equally vital DVD collection of music videos from that early-aughts era that’s still affordable on resale: The Complete Truth About De-Evolution. A DVD reprint of a music video anthology originally published on Laserdisc in the 1990s, The Complete Truth About De-Evolution collects all of the music videos produced by the American rock band DEVO from their proto-punk days in 1970s Akron, Ohio to their commercial-product days in 1990s Los Angeles, California. It documents the gradual mutation of the music video format from art-film experimentation to the crass commercialism of MTV, positioning the band as a sarcastic Prometheus of the medium. I watched those videos obsessively in college, inferring the creative & professional trajectory of what became my favorite band by studying how their cinematic output evolves across the disc, never fully understanding how all the pieces fit.

The new Netflix documentary DEVO is a wonderful addendum to that music video collection, reinforcing the band’s legitimacy as an intrinsically cinematic project. Director Chris Smith (of American Movie notoriety) has a lot of fun playing around with the pop-art iconography DEVO satirized in their music videos and graphic art, charting the intellectual & cultural decline of post-WWII America through a constant montage of its most absurdly inane commercial imagery. He also invites the band to discuss the ideology behind their songs & videos at length in the kinds of talking-head interviews standard to the straight-to-streaming infotainment doc. The main project of DEVO the film is to explain the political messaging of DEVO the band to a worldwide audience of Netflix subscribers who only remember them as the one-hit-wonder dweebs responsible for “Whip It.” The interviews mostly reinforce the intellectual seriousness of the project, explaining the band’s early history as a response to the Kent State Massacre and its career-high sarcastic mockery of the pop music industry that paid their bills. As a result, it goes out of its way to downplay the more ribald sex jokes of tracks like “Jerkin’ Back ‘n’ Forth”, “Penetration in the Centerfold,” and “Don’t You Know” (the “rocket in my pocket” song) in order to convey the overall sense that they were a highbrow political act that was merely satirizing the ape-brain sexuality of fellow MTV-era pop groups. The narrowness of that argument doesn’t fully capture what makes the band so fun to listen to on full-volume repeat, but it allows Smith to deploy them as a soundtrack to America’s cultural decline in the 20th Century, which flashes in nonstop montage like a feature-length version of their video for “Beautiful World.”

There are plenty of vintage DEVO clips included here that I’ve never seen before, scattered among the more familiar lore of the band’s career highlights: their violent relationship with the factory workers of Ohio barrooms, their significance to the CBGB punk scene, their early brushes with David Bowie & SNL, their political-pamphlet arguments that humans evolved from “insane mutant apes”, etc. My biggest thrill, however, was seeing clips from the music videos on The Complete Truth About De-Evolution restored in HD for the first time, since I’ve been watching them on the same ancient DVD for the past two decades. Formally, there isn’t much variation on the typical straight-to-Netflix pop doc template that points to Smith as an especially significant filmmaker; it’s more in line with his recent, anonymous docs on Fyre Festival, Wham!, and Vince McMahon than his career-making doc on the production of the regional horror film Coven. If there’s any one choice that makes the film stand out among other infotainment docs of its ilk, it’s the narrowness of scope. Of DEVO’s nine studio albums, Smith only covers the first five — their most artistically significant (and each an all-timer). There’s no obligatory reunion & redemption footage in the third act after the band’s initial break-up, either, because the film is not about DEVO as a rock ‘n’ roll act; it’s about DEVO as a political act. It juxtaposes their most overtly political lyrics with the most overtly asinine cultural detritus of their era in order to convincingly argue that their music was more subversive than it was cynically mercenary. That’s something you can gather by directly engaging with the work yourself in The Complete Truth of De-Evolution, but it doesn’t hurt that the truth about DEVO is now even more complete.

-Brandon Ledet

Smile 2 (2024)

I wanted to see a new-release horror on the big screen in the lead-up to Halloween, and the offerings are desperately thin.  There are no original horror films in wide release this week (give or take the last few remaining screenings of The Substance, which premiered over a month ago).  Everything on offer is reboots & sequels, continuing this summer’s trend of name-brand horror properties filling in the gaps left by the usual action/superhero fare that’s nowhere to be seen this year.  Among the few horror franchise extenders that did make it to theaters in time for Halloween, it was difficult to find one worth leaving the house to see. Besides being a novelty-Christmas slasher, Terrifier 3 simply looks too mean.  By contrast, Beetlejuice 2 & Venom 3 both look too goofy, to the point where they barely converge with horror at all.  Smile 2 was the obvious choice, then, since it falls somewhere between those tonal extremes.  I remember the first Smile movie being cruel in its messaging that the suicidally depressed should self-isolate to avoid scarring or infecting loved ones with their mental illness, but at least it wasn’t as violently, grotesquely misogynistic as the first Terrifier film.  I also remember Smile being silly in concept, never overcoming the initial cheese of building its horror around an evil Snapchat filter, but at least its sequel isn’t going to indulge in the self-aware schtick of a Beetlejuice or Venom sequel: echoes of you-had-to-be-there comedic properties that would’ve been better off abandoned as one-off novelties.  So, Smile 2 reigns supreme this Halloween, entirely by default.

I suppose Smile 2 is also superior to the first Smile film entirely by default, given that it finally comes up with a reason for The Smile gimmick besides it looking off-putting.  In the first film, the titular Smile is a body-hopping demonic curse that possesses the minds of the mentally unwell, driving them to suicide within a week, then transferring to a new host through the miracle of Trauma. It’s represented onscreen as the hallucinated smiling face of everyone the possessed victim meets, creeping the doomed soul out with a harsh face-altering digital filter that exaggerates their features (a gimmick borrowed from Blumhouse’s Truth or Dare, from which Smile 2 also borrows its ending).  You could meet Smile halfway by mentally reaching for some thematic connection in how it’s isolating to suffer a mental episode while everyone around you is seemingly, sinisterly cheery, but there really isn’t much to it beyond it looking creepy.  However, Smile 2 does justify The Smile visual gimmick in its narrative, this time following demonically possessed popstar Skye Riley (Naomi Scott) as she prepares for a career-comeback tour after rock-bottoming as a drug addict.  Skye is outfitted to look like Lady Gaga in her onstage costuming, but her offstage struggle to please fans, staff, press, record label execs, and her micro-momager while maintaining a cutesy smile read as Chappell Roan.  Being grinned at by strangers & sycophants all day really does seem like a tough part of the popstar gig.  Usually, the millions of dollars in monetary compensation help make that discomfort worthwhile, but I can see how being stalked by a suicide-encouraging demon might tip that scale in the wrong direction.

Not that it’s easy to know exactly what poor Skye Riley is going through.  The demon’s main method of attack is to cause its hosts to hallucinate, confirming their fears that nobody cares about them, and they deserve to die alone (soon!).  As a result, roughly 90% of Skye’s onscreen journey happens entirely in her head, and the movie constantly pulls the rug from under her to reveal that she’s imagining things, often while humiliating herself in public.  It’s the kind of social cringe that makes you cover your eyes in embarrassment while watching a hack sitcom more often that it is the kind of unnerving horror that makes you cover your eyes in dread.  There are plenty of genuine scares, though.  This being a mainstream studio horror means that things get real quiet every time Skye is alone, only for a loud soundtrack stinger to startle the audience with an out-of-nowhere jump scare (punctuated by a creepy smile, of course).  Her luxury apartment is also invaded by a hallucination of her backup dancers doing a body contortionist routine straight out of Climax, revealing anxieties around how she’s passed around like a doll during her stage act.  Thankfully, no one stops the plot dead to recite search engine results for the word “trauma” like in the first Smile film, but there’s still plenty of brooding over topics like addiction, survivor’s guilt, and suicidal ideation, establishing a visual device where Skye chugs bottled water every time she’s triggered.  Just when you think all of this could be solved by the popstar-in-crisis admitting herself to a “health clinic” for “exhaustion,” though, the film reminds the audience that, yes, there is an actual, physical demon at work here – not just a metaphorical one.

In popstar-crisis terms, Smile 2 is about on par with Trap but oceans behind Vox Lux.  It makes good use of the inherently exaggerated music-video aesthetics of its setting but just as often strays from that world to dwell in the same drab, grey spaces most mainstream horrors occupy.  It’s clear that writer-director Parker Finn was funded for more creative freedom to play around as a visual stylist here than in the first film, and he uses the opportunity to make a name for himself as a formidable auteur before tackling his next ill-advised project: a modern remake of Żuławski’s Possession.  The results are mixed.  The high-gloss pop music aesthetic and sprawling 127min runtime suggest an ambitious filmmaker who’s eager to leave his mark on the modern-horror landscape, but by the third or fifth time he frames that landscape through an upside-down drone shot you have to wonder if he has enough original ideas in his playbook to pull off a name-brand career.  I’m not yet fully invested in Parker Finn as an artist, but I am grateful that he delivered a moderately stylish mainstream horror with a few effective jump scares during such an otherwise abysmal Halloween Season drought.  Smile 2 might not have meant much to me as cinema, but as a commercial product it supplied exactly what I demanded.

-Brandon Ledet

Tokyo Pop (1988)

The names behind the production & restoration of the international 80s punk romcom Tokyo Pop can be a little jarring at first, but you quickly get used to it.  Kino Lorber’s recent Blu-ray release of the movie states that its restoration was made possible by the Jane Fonda Fund for Women Directors.  I did not previously know that fund existed, but it does track with Fonda’s keen, career-long political awareness within the Hollywood system.  The statement goes on to say that funding was supported by contributions from Dolly Parton & Carol Burnett, who aren’t regularly in the business of film preservation & distribution.  The Dolly Parton donation makes the most immediate sense, given both her collaboration with Fonda on the classic workplace-politics comedy 9 to 5 and her philanthropic contributions to other worthy causes, like developing a viable vaccine for COVID-19.  Burnett’s involvement only makes sense once you learn that her late daughter, Carrie Hamilton, stars in the film in her biggest role outside of her TV credits.  So, the only collaborator here that I can’t fully make sense of is the namesake of the Woman Director in question who’s being supported by Fonda’s fund.  Tokyo Pop was Fran Rubel Kuzui’s debut feature as a director and earned great accolades after its premiere at Cannes.  What I can’t fully wrap my mind around is the fact that Kuzui’s only other directorial credit is the 1992 movie version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, another high-style cult classic with great sleepover VHS rental appeal.  Why didn’t she get an opportunity to direct more movies?  It’s the kind of sexist Hollywood funding disparity that requires activist intervention, say, from a Jane Fonda type.

Hamilton stars as an NYC rock ‘n’ roller who moves to Japan on a whim and becomes an unlikely popstar.  Arriving without a plan or much pocket change, she’s saved from going destitute by a soul-crushing job playing hostess to drunk businessmen at a karaoke bar and by a fortuitous hookup with the singer of a rock ‘n’ roll band who’s looking for a gaijin (foreigner) vocalist.  She’s reluctant to take the singing job at first, since part of the reason she fled New York in the first place was that she was tired of “singing backup for creeps.”  She eventually gives in, though, and the band quickly becomes a kind of Japanese novelty act, performing karaoke-style covers of pop tunes like “Do You Believe in Magic?” and “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman”.  The songs are admittedly corny, but Hamilton is admirably thorny in a Smithereens kind of way, playing the sour counterbalance to romantic co-lead Yutaka “Diamond Yukai” Tadokoro’s childlike sweetness.  In one standout sequence, he teaches her Japanese as sexual foreplay, but then she stops the session short once he mounts her with boyish over-enthusiasm.  The movie constantly undercuts its romcom beats in that way, ultimately deciding that it’s even more romantic if its central players don’t end up together in the end – prioritizing personal triumph over interpersonal connection.  As far as white-women-soul-searching-in-Tokyo stories go, it’s at least as effective as Sofia Coppola’s Oscar-winning Lost in Translation, with the added benefit of not taking itself nearly as seriously.  Incredibly, Diamond Yukai also appears in that film, but that time without his band Red Warriors in tow.

As smartly balanced as its romantic-comedy notes are, Tokyo Pop is most remarkable as a documentary time capsule of 80s Japanese pop kitsch.  It gawks at the pop-art iconography of Tokyo from every angle it can manage, taking the audience on a tour of psychedelic rock clubs, karaoke bars, fast food restaurants, kaiju-scale advertisements, pro wrestler locker rooms, unlicensed Disney-themed hostels, and pay-by-the-hour sex motels.  Our lead has no defined persona of her own, imitating famous American singers in her stage performances and advertising her availability to any band who’ll take her, regardless of genre.  Tokyo’s cultural persona more than makes up for that deficiency, overwhelming the screen with the bright, cartoonish colors of a city-size arcade.  It’s entirely possible that Fran Rubel Kuzui never directed much after this debut because she never wanted to leave that arcade.  Most of her non-Buffy career highlights after Tokyo Pop are tied to the Japanese entertainment industry rather than Hollywood or the NYC indie scene, mostly exporting low-budget American films and seasons of South Park there.  Tokyo Pop ends with Hamilton bravely deciding not to allow Tokyo to swallow her up, so that she gives up a loving relationship with a fellow rock ‘n’ roller so she can be her own person instead.  Maybe Kuzui gave into the candy-coated mania of that city instead, allowing herself to get fully lost in translation.  Or, just as likely, she just wasn’t given many worthwhile opportunities by the money men of American film studios so she created her own career path outside the US instead, refusing to play “backup for creeps.” 

-Brandon Ledet

Privilege (1967)

I’m sure the millions of dollars help ease the tension a little, but being a popstar really does sound miserable.  Between recent reports of Ice Spice twerking with joyless dead-eyed monotony, Taylor Swift cancelling tours dates under credible terrorist threats, and Chappell Roan tearfully begging her own fans to back the fuck off and let her breathe a little, it appears that the all the Pop Girlies aren’t enjoying fame so much as they’re Going Through It.  This isn’t some recent phenomenon of the social media era either, which has encouraged obsessed fans to stand out in a global crowd by either viciously “defending” their Fav online or by hurling water bottles at that Fav in person, depending on which attracts the most momentary attention.  Being miserable has been a core fixture of modern pop stardom from the very beginning, which you can mostly clearly track over the course of The Beatles’ transformation in the 1960s from four goofball lads looking for a laugh to four miserable hippie chain-smokers who could no longer stand to be in a room with one another.  Culture scholars will point to earlier celebrities like Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby or Louis Armstrong as the first true popstars, but there’s something hyper-specific and extensively documented about the Beatles saga in particular that makes them feel like the Big Bang event of the modern pop landscape.  The scale & ferocity of Beatlemania will likely never be matched again in our post-monoculture era, but whenever I see how drained & defeated modern stars are by their own rabid fanbases, I always think about the Beatles cancelling all future live performances mid-career because the crowds simply did not know how to behave.

That symbolic, definitive role of The Beatles as the poster boys for popstar misery was already apparent when the band was still active.  At least, Peter Watkins saw great importance in the band’s dehumanizing level of international fame.  His 1967 film Privilege is a grim satire of Beatlemania, extrapolating a dystopian trajectory for “the youth of the future” based on how they treated the popstars of their day.  The film is set in the “near future” but only could have been made in the Swinging 60s UK, indulging in the far-out, psychedelic fashions & designs of its era while simultaneously diagnosing Beatlemania as a symptom of widespread cultural rot.  Real-life Manfred Mann singer Paul Jones stars as the fictional rock singer Steven Shorter (a lateral move in terms of flashy stage name recognition).  As the most beloved and most hassled pop singer of all time, Steven’s unremarkability as a name and as a presence is slyly mocked in the opening scenes where an endless sea of screaming teens hold up signs that simply read “STEVE!” in perfect banality.  Steve’s parade procession leads to a music video-style performance in a church, where he is handcuffed inside an onstage cage and physically rattled by his audience of orgasmic fans.  A narrator helpfully explains that the popstar’s violent stage act is designed by his handlers (more of a government propaganda agency than a mere record label) as a public service, a necessary release of tension for the attendees.  Basically, Steve is thrown to the wolves, who ravenously pick at his bones in staged concert footage that could easily double for a document of an early Beatles show if it weren’t for the jail-cell prop.  Despite being the most famous and most loved man in the world, he does not look happy to be there.

Not everything about Privilege‘s skepticism of pop music stardom still rings true.  The more we get to know Steve through the semi-romantic, semi-journalistic prying of an artist paid to paint his portrait (Swinging 60s supermodel Jean Shrimpton), the more we get to know the apparatus that puppets his cardboard-cutout personality.  The governmental project of Steven Shorter is revealed to be a long-term scheme to harness counterculture sensibilities and shepherd the youth into ultimately embracing a doctrine of Conformity.  He’s the propaganda mouthpiece for Church & State, a bread-and-circuses distraction for the masses who don’t realize they’re being manipulated by unseen councils & boardrooms.  It’s a pretty basic take on the music industry, all things considered, recalling more over-the-top productions of its era like The Apple or Lisztomania in its Free Love counterculture vs. fascistic conformity politics.  That cynicism feels increasingly reductive & dismissive in a post-Poptimism world, where disregard for mass-marketed art that appeals to teenage girls has been deemed largely misogynistic.  It’s Paul Jones’s dead-eyed, dutiful performance as Steve that adds a layer of nuance to that rote social commentary.  His abject joylessness as a non-person who’s been designated as the in-the-flesh embodiment of every living consumer’s desires & fantasies still rings true to how Top 40s pop stars interact with their public today.  The critical class may have found a way to appreciate & legitimize pop music as an artform, but pop fandoms & factions have yet to find a way to engage with their chosen Favs without draining all of the life & joy out of those popstars’ bodies.

While its intensely 60s fashions and intensely cynical thoughts on the music industry may feel extremely dated (in good ways and bad), Privilege was ahead of its time in terms of filmmaking aesthetics.  Watkins tells the tragic story of Steve the millionaire pop singer as if it were a documentary of a future event that had not yet arrived.  It’s narrated like a nature film, as if Steve’s alien characteristics are worthy of zoological study rather than human psychoanalysis.  Much of the camera work is handheld, following the fictional popstar through crowded parties and bumping into the drunken attendees, who in turn stare directly into the lens in awkward awareness of the audience on the other side.  It’s a psychedelic pop-music mockumentary version of The Truman Show, profiling a character who already knows he’s living in an artificial environment beyond his control and has grimly resigned himself to that fate without protest.  Bringing a documentarian feel into that intensely fake, plastic, semi-futuristic world makes for some great tension the movie might feel thin without, and it’s a choice that has only gotten more effective as it’s aged into a Swinging 60s time capsule in the half-century since initial release.  Steve’s visible misery as the Near-Future King of Pop has also helped preserve Privilege as something continually current & relevant, much more so than it would be if Steve actually enjoyed his job and his money as the world’s #1 idol.

Brandon Ledet

But I’m a Bootlegger

1999 was an incredible year for the high school comedy.  It was the year of Drop Dead Gorgeous, 10 Things I Hate About You, Drive Me Crazy, Cruel Intentions, Jawbreaker, Election, and the lesbian conversion-therapy satire But I’m a Cheerleader.  Only, I didn’t immediately see But I’m a Cheerleader the year it was released, nor did I find a copy at my local video store in the years that followed.  Jamie Babbit’s calling-card comedy was just as revered as its better-distributed contemporaries among my friends in the early aughts, but as someone who relied on the limited, sanitized selection of the Meraux branch of Blockbuster Video in those days, it just never made its way into my bedroom VCR.  So, But I’m a Cheerleader fell under a distinctly 90s category of movies that I saw for the first time after listening to their CD soundtracks for years.  See also: Clueless, Romeo+Juliet, and The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; all bangers.  I eventually fell in love with the candy-coated production design and post-John Waters queer irreverence of the film proper when I finally had access to it on DVD in the 2010s, but it already occupied a pastel-painted corner of my mind by then thanks to the familiar sounds of Dressy Bessy, Wanda Jackson, and soundtrack-MVP April March (whose anglicized cover of “Chick Habit” fully conveys the movie’s tone & aesthetic before you’ve made it through the opening credits).

Imagine my shock, then, to recently learn that But I’m a Cheerleader never had an official soundtrack release.  To me, its pop music soundscape is just as iconic as any teen movies’ you could name – Fast Times, Breakfast Club, Dirty Dancing, whatever.  And yet, there was apparently no legal way to access that soundtrack outside watching the movie start to end, straining to hear the songs past the spoken dialogue and VHS tape hiss.  In retrospect, the copy of the soundtrack I owned in high school must have been a burned CD traded with a friend, which was some truly heroic mixtape work that I never fully appreciated until now.  Come to think of it, I remember that CD having more April March tracks than the one that’s actually associated with the film, so I’m not even fully sure what was on it anymore.  It was a one-of-a-kind bootleg put together by an obsessive fan who was frustrated that they couldn’t access an official release, passed around as an act of public service thanks to the modern miracle of the CD-R drive. It may not have been accurate to the track list of the songs as they were sequenced in the film, but it was accurate enough to the cheeky humor, swooning romance, and cult enthusiasm of But I’m a Cheerleader that it kept the movie fresh in my mind for as long as it took to find it.  It’s yet another reminder “bootlegger” is just a dirty word for D.I.Y. archivist.

I didn’t know about this outrageous distribution oversight until a recent screening of But I’m a Cheerleader at a neighborhood bar, hosted by Future Shock Video.  A kind of bootleg revival of the vintage video store experience, Future Shock has been screening VHS-era classics around the city in recent months, mostly to promote the opening of their new weekends-only storefront.  This particular screening was a special one, though.  As a Pride Month event and a fundraiser for the Covenant House homeless shelter, Future Shock not only projected But I’m a Cheerleader for a packed barroom, but they also dubbed a small batch of unofficial But I’m a Cheerleader soundtracks on audio cassette.  By now, the movie itself has unquestionably been canonized among the Queer Cinema greats, but I was still delighted that the event was designed as a celebration of its all-timer of a soundtrack in particular.  I was also shocked to learn that the practice of distributing that soundtrack has always been a mixtape-only endeavor, when it should have been in just as many record stores as the official tie-in soundtracks for Clueless or Can’t Hardly Wait.  It turns out that passing around copies of the But I’m a Cheerleader soundtrack was just as much of a public service in the early 2000s as it is now in the mid-2020s.  My Sharpie-labeled CD copy then was not as pretty as the cassette I picked up the other night, though, so I’m including pictures of Future Shock’s version below.

It’s not too late for an official release of the But I’m a Cheerleader soundtrack.  If anything, the time is ripe.  Not only is the film more widely seen and beloved than ever, but its exclusivity as a first-time release would also play directly into physical media obsessives’ debilitating FOMO.  I just watched a bar full of young, queer movie nerds crowd around a humble tripod projector screen to watch this movie with their friends on a Wednesday night; there’s an audience for it.  Until that historical wrong is corrected and the soundtrack receives its first official release, all you can really do is make your own mixtape version based on the track list compiled below.  That can be a little tricky for the more independent artists on the soundtrack like Tattle Tale, who do not have the same far-reaching distribution as a Wanda Jackson or a RuPaul.  Speaking from experience, though, you could probably just sub out a similar-sounding track from the Tattle Tale-adjacent act Bonfire Madigan and no one would really know the difference.  Thankfully, Future Shock did not cut any corners in their own unofficial But I’m a Cheerleader soundtrack, but it would have been okay if they did. The off-brand, inaccurate version I had on CD in high school still did the trick.

  1. “Chick Habit (Laisse tomber les filles)” by April March
  2. “Just Like Henry” by Dressy Bessy
  3. “If You Should Try and Kiss Her” by Dressy Bessy
  4. “Trailer Song” by Sissy Bar
  5. “All or Nothing” by Miisa
  6. “We’re in the City” by Saint Etienne
  7. “The Swisher” by Summer’s Eve
  8. “Funnel of Love” by Wanda Jackson
  9. “Ray of Sunshine” by Go Sailor
  10. “Glass Vase Cello Case” by Tattle Tale
  11. “Party Train” by RuPaul
  12. “Evening in Paris” Lois Maffeo
  13. “Together Forever in Love” by Go Sailor

-Brandon Ledet

White Room (1990)

Patricia Rozema’s sophomore feature White Room is about to get its first-ever Blu-ray release through Kino Lorber, along with Rozema’s lesser seen follow-up When Night is Falling and her calling-card debut I Heard the Mermaids Singing.  I’m sure that the 4K restoration of White Room will be a worthy purchase for any crate-digging home video collector who’s interested, considering the sensual immersion of its video art fantasy aesthetic and its dreamy pop music soundtrack.  At the same time, I’m happy to report that the still-in-print Canadian DVD I bought for a third of Kino Lorber’s list price is impressively crisp and a great cost-cutting alternative to the upcoming upgrade.  I’m also holding out hope that the Blu-ray release will lead to White Room‘s return to online streaming platforms, since it’s not currently available and it’s the kind of bizarre discovery that makes you want to recommend it to anyone who’ll listen.

Maurice Godin stars as a squeamish suburban nerd with a bad habit of peering into his neighbors’ windows as the world’s least pervy Peeping Tom.  Like a boyish, wholesome variation on a De Palma voyeur, he accidentally witnesses the rape & murder of a famous rockstar while watching her lounge around her secluded home and spends the rest of the movie beating himself up over his inaction at her death scene (literally whipping himself with thorny roses, in this instance).  Determined to become a more courageous, active participant in his own life, he moves out of his confectionary family home and into the big scary city of Toronto, where he quickly finds himself at the funeral of the murdered woman: a famous rockstar named Madeline X, played by Margot Kidder.  At the funeral, he falls for an older, mysterious woman (Kate Nelligan) who appears overly distraught at the musician’s passing, and by following her further down the rabbit hole he accidentally uncovers a larger music industry conspiracy he wishes he had just left alone. 

White Room is part romance novel, part noir, and full urban fairy tale.  Despite its contemporary fascination with MTV-era music video artistry, its narrative operates on the kind of traditionalist fairytale logic that always makes for great cinema, no matter the era.  None of the acting or character details are especially convincing as Real, but they’re in total harmony with the storybook narration track that refers to our cowardly hero as Norman the Gentle instead of just Norm. Its fictional rock numbers (partially credited to frequent Robert Eggers collaborator Mark Korven) play into that fairytale vibe as well, falling somewhere between the timeless literary songwriting of classic Kate Bush and the dreamy rock & roll of the Mary Timony album Mountains, which wouldn’t arrive for another decade.  Norm only travels from the suburbs to the urbs, but he might as well have journeyed across several cursed kingdoms to break his beloved free from the witch’s spell that kept her imprisoned in a daze (by which I mean her record company contract).

By her second feature, Rozema was already incredibly smart as a low-budget indie filmmaker, squeezing major visual impact out of meager resources.  As the film’s only celebrity get, Margot Kidder’s time on set appears to have been limited to only a few days, which Rozema stretches out across music video & interview clips to build genuine mystique around the murdered pop idol Madeline X.  The location shooting around Toronto manages to transform familiar city streets into a convincing fantasy world just by isolating the geometric lines of architecture & infrastructure in abstracted frames.  Most importantly, Rozema fully embraces the low-budget aesthetic of MTV-era video art in a way that frees her from restrictions of the real, physical world.  Besides the obvious music-video tangents afforded by the mysterious Madeline X, the film also finds excuses to indulge in video-art inserts via Norman’s POV, giving us glimpses of primal feelings that he’s too timid to express in words through video-warped images of seagulls, chess pieces, softcore pornography – whatever abstract flashes of imagery overwhelm his imagination then disappear before he can pick up a pen to jot them down.

Speaking of Norman’s imagination, he’s a difficult character to pin down: a voyeuristic man-boy who’s both driven & repelled by sex but is somehow not a threat to the women in his life.  If anything, he’s a pure object of desire for those women, modeling a romance paperback blouse through the second half of the runtime while women stare at his denim-clad ass.  He’s sometimes feminized in the edit, taking the place of the women he stalks in their most vulnerable moments and cast as the only actor who appears nude onscreen.  Godin’s performance can be a little frustrating in its boyish naivety, prompting you to imagine what more eccentric actors might have done with the role (Crispin Glover, Kyle MacLachlan, and Matt Farley all came to mind), but by the time the more hardened urbanites around him mock his earnestness with laughter it’s clear his blank-slate screen presence was more of an artistic choice than an oversight.  Norm is a fairytale prince defined by his desires & pursuits, and a lot of the joy in the film can be found in the small smirks of the women who find his naivety irresistibly cute.

If there’s anyone I’d most enthusiastically recommend White Room to besides hardcore Rozema Heads already won over by I Heard the Mermaids Singing, it would be to anyone who was charmed by the urban fantasy logic of this year’s kids-on-bikes comedy Riddle of Fire.  The narrator’s introduction of Norman the Gentle’s is just as amusingly verbose as the introduction of Petal Hollyhock, Princess of the Enchanted Blade in that more recent oddity.  Both films understand the rhythms & reasoning of fairytale storytelling on such a deep spiritual level that they can include video games & MTV parodies without their participation in the ancient traditions ever being questioned.  We instantly get the magical thinking of their narratives based on vibes alone.  The only acknowledgement of influences White Room has to get out of the way is in an end-credits dedication “with apologies to Emily Dickinson,” since the poet’s work was heavily referenced in the fictional pop-music lyrics of Madeline X.

-Brandon Ledet

This is Me … Now: A Love Story (2024)

Jennifer Lopez is an amazing dancer, a magnetic actress, and . . . a singer also.  Outside her soulful tribute to Selena and the freak-chance payoff of the dance hit “Waiting for Tonight”, JLo’s decades-long singing career hasn’t produced many highlights, which is what makes it so awkward that she’s insistent on commemorating her legacy among the two towering pop acts of the current moment: Beyoncé and Taylor Swift.  Instead of sitting it out while those two titans fight for the throne in their own competing, career-defining concert films, Lopez has naively entered the fray with a couple career-recappers of her own – first, through the grand spectacle of a Superbowl halftime show (greatly aided by collaboration with Shakira) and, now, through a self-funded “visual album” retracing the steps of Beyoncé’s culture-shifter LemonadeThis is Me … Now: A Love Story is an hour-long collection of music video vignettes, titled as a follow-up to JLo’s 2000s era pop album This is Me … Then, which is only notable for puzzling the world the personal-brand PR anthem “Jenny from the Block”.  This is Me … Now is a massive vanity project that cost $20mil of Lopez’s own money, meant to celebrate her romantic reunion of the Benifer partnership and to solidify her status as one of the great artistic minds on the modern pop landscape.  Personally, I would’ve much preferred that she just work with talented, established filmmakers like Tarsem or Soderbergh again, but at least this latest project was an interesting failure, which is more than you can say for most of her recent streaming-era acting jobs (and most of her post-90s music video work as a pop star).

This is Me … Now starts with abstract, poetic ambitions, as JLo self-narrates storybook romance fantasies about her rocky path reuniting Benifer (illustrated as an uncanny CG motorcycle crash), about her years of suffering repeated heartbreak (illustrated as uncanny CG steampunk dystopia featuring a giant mechanical heart powered by rose petals), and about her lifelong idolization of true love (illustrated by an uncanny CG hummingbird searching for its floral soulmate).  In this early stretch, it’s seemingly competing with fellow post-Lemonade projects Dirty Computer & When I Get Home to challenge the boundaries of the music video as a cinematic artform.  Then, it quickly backslides into standard-issue romcom tropes, making for a weirdly talky & plotty “visual” album.  All of the fantasy elements of the narrative are contextualized as dream sequences, each to be analyzed in therapy sessions with a teddy bear psychologist played by Fat Joe.  Teams of celebrities, factory workers, and stock romcom characters join Joe to coach JLo through her crippling love addiction so she can find her way back to her beloved Ben, a destination she can only reach by learning to love & hug her inner child (again, in a dream).  It’s all very tidy and, frankly, unimaginative, which is a shame considering the free-for-all fantasy promised in its opening heart factory sequence.  By the time the closing credits pad out the runtime for a 12-minute eternity—just barely stretching the film over the one-hour feature length finishing line—it’s clear there isn’t enough artistic drive behind this project to justify the classic MGM title card announcing it as A Movie.  Meanwhile, Lemonade, Dirty Computer, and When I Get Home all ranked among the best movies released in their respective years, regardless of form.

I’m not sure that JLo has the ability to stage her own sprawling, Tarsem-style fantasy piece, but I do think she could manage Maid in Manhattan: The Musical if tasked.  The only times This is Me … Now pays off its “so bad it’s good” irony-watching potential is in generic romcom voiceover about how people call her crazy for wanting to commit to traditional monogamous partnerships, about how she still believes in “soulmates and signs and hummingbirds,” and about how when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she always answered “In love.”  It’s a thoroughly committed “me, me, me, I, I, I” tribute to her own hungry heart, combined with a genuine cinephilic soft spot for classic romances like Singin’ in the Rain and The Way We Were.  The problem is that her artistic ambitions reach far beyond those Blockbuster Video romcom boundaries, and they ultimately prove to be an Icarian downfall that exposes her limitations as both a pop singer and a visual artist.  Of course, none of these shortcomings really matter, because This is Me … Now has already accomplished everything it set out to do; it refreshed JLo’s name in the pop stardom conversation by promoting her new album and promoting her ongoing tabloid romance with Ben Affleck.  Whether or not it’s any good is beside the point, which is generally how her pop music career at large contributes to her overall celebrity.

-Brandon Ledet