romance

War and Peace, Part II: Natasha Rostova (1965)

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The second part of Sergei Bondarchuk’s four-part adaptation of War and Peace contrasts and serves as companion to the previous film, which focused primarily on the “war” of the title, while Part II: Natasha Rostova, instead gives us a portrait of “peace,” as much as such a thing can exist in the heartland when war is at the borders. Natasha Rostova (Ludmila Savelyeva) played a fairly minor role in the first film, where she appeared as a young girl at a fête hosted in her family home in honor of her older brother Nikolai, before he went off to the war effort alongside Andrei Bolkonsky (Vyacheslav Tikhonov). There, her childhood innocence was a counterpoint to the war that we would soon see, and served as a reminder of what the war was meant to protect. Here, she is still naive, but is reaching adulthood. When she goes to her first ball, we hear her internal monologue as she panics that no one asks her to dance. Encouraged by Pierre (Bondarchuk), who is now officially Count Bezukhov, Andrei takes his “protege” for a spin around the parquet, and it only takes one waltz for sixteen year old Natasha to be utterly smitten with him. 

Andrei, who has been in a state of depression after recovering from his near death in the last film only to arrive home in time to watch his wife die in childbirth, ponders an apparent dead oak in early springtime, and compares himself to it, a hollowed shell that only seems alive. After meeting Natasha, he is reinvigorated, and passes the same tree, only to discover that it has put out new green leaves for the spring. He appears at the Rostova’s home and asks for Natasha’s hand, but states that they should not announce their engagement and instead delay marriage for a year, ostensibly so that Natasha can have some life experiences and decide if marriage to an older man is really what she wants for herself. (It’s worth noting here that I have no idea how old Andrei is supposed to be, but Tikhonov was almost forty.) He goes away to further convalesce abroad, and she goes nearly mad with missing him. Pierre has made some kind of peace with his wife Helene, and she attends the Moscow Opera with Natasha in tow, which leads to the girl meeting Helene’s brother Anatole (Vasily Lanovoy). Anatole was part of Pierre’s old drinking crowd with Dolokhov (Oleg Yefremov), the man Pierre wounded but did not kill in a duel in part one, and is an utter cad. At Dolokhov’s suggestion, he begins to pursue Natasha, despite already having married a foreign woman while serving abroad. When confronted about this by his sister, he declares that either the other marriage is irrelevant in Russia, in which case he gets what he wants, or he’ll be found to be a bigamist and driven out of polite society, in which case he will still get what he wants, which is Natasha’s innocence. Eventually, Natasha’s hostess learns of her plans to elope with Anatole and chastises her, and Natasha breaks down in tears; Anatole’s attempts to abscond with Natasha are repelled by Andrei’s watchmen. When Pierre sees Anatole’s eyes light up at the prospect of being bought off, he calls him a “vile, heartless brood.” 

Andrei is, ironically, no prince either. In the first film, he tries to convince Pierre to never marry, citing his unhappy union with the very pregnant Lise, whom he completely abandons in order to join the war effort despite there being no expectation of him to do so. Textually, it’s a good thing that he did, as he will prove invaluable to the war and a great leader later, but that’s immaterial to his motivations. He returned from the Battle of Austerlitz just in time to bear witness to Lise dying in childbirth and tell her that he loved her and regretted leaving her alone. This time around, he immediately falls in love with a child (the standards of the time notwithstanding), tells her he’ll marry her but not for a year, and then disappears again. (It appears that this delay was a demand by Andrei’s father in the source text, but no explicit reason is given in the film other than the one cited above, that she should be allowed to gather some life experiences before getting hitched to an older man.) When she does become excited at the prospect of marrying him, after spending weeks yearning for him to return to the Rostova family compound, we get to see him react in real time as his affection turns to disgust the moment that the marriage proposal is accepted. I’m not sure if this is an intentionally ugly portrait of Andrei, to show that he’s a man who immediately stops desiring something the moment that he actually has it, but whether this is a deviation from the source text or something that was not considered in the novel is irrelevant; it’s textual here. In the film’s closing minutes, Pierre reminds him of a conversation that the two had in St. Petersburg regarding morality and ethics. “I said that a fallen woman should be forgiven,” Andrei admits, “but I didn’t say that I could forgive her; I can’t” (emphasis added). As someone going into this adaptation with no real knowledge of Tolstoy’s novel, I had assumed that Pierre was one of its heroes, but I’m not so sure now. 

As Natasha breaks down, declaring her life to be over, Pierre cheers her up by telling her that if he were younger and single, he would beg for her hand, and this appears to break her out of her funk. Immediately after, Pierre is taking a sleigh ride when he sees Napoleon’s Comet overhead, and that narration informs us: “It seemed to Pierre that this falling star was a symbol of what was passing in his own softened and uplifted soul.” An image of the comet in the night sky is suddenly harshened by the crashing of a loud, dramatic scare chord, then some peasants crossing themselves, which was a delightful transition. The year “1812” rolls up onto the screen as ominous music plays, and the final image that we see is of Napoleon’s forces invading the western Russian frontier, promising more hideous war in the immediate future, “contrary to human reason, and human nature.” 

After the explosive, violent nature of Part I: Andrei Bolkonsky, Part II: Natasha Rostova is a bit of a breather, which makes the pacing of the whole thing feel slightly less thrilling in comparison. Despite being nearly an entire third shorter than Andrei, Natasha feels longer. The less dense narrative events are given some space to stretch out; it is, perhaps, too much breathing room. Internal monologue is a tricky thing to adapt to film as a medium, and one of the go-to failed examples that always comes to mind is David Lynch’s Dune, in which different characters’ thoughts are shared with the audience via whispery voice over. That’s not a novel idea in and of itself, but everything gets a bit muddied when the audience is bombarded with the thoughts of dozens of people. That tactic was also present in Andrei, but that film was cramming so many things into its long runtime that one didn’t have time to contemplate it. Here, we find the Rostova women preparing for a ball at around eight minutes into the film, and there’s an unfathomably complicated tracking shot as they all get ready, and then at about nine minutes in, they arrive to the gala, where we get another extremely impressive tracking shot that moves from the grand staircase in the entryway of a palace, goes up the stairs in order to watch Natasha and her cousin ascend, then enter the ballroom and wind through the various corridors, and it’s four minutes without a single cut. It’s beautiful and masterful, but we spend a lot of time at this party, to the point that one starts to have a little too much time without anything progressing. One becomes a bit tired of the pageantry and starts to wonder when we’re going to just get on with it, especially since there are still many hours left to go in this story. 

Where the film does see great success is in its style. One gets the feeling that Bondarchuk was delighted to get to play indoors after what must have been a miserable shoot on the first film. There are several sections in which the film becomes a split screen, divided between warm and cold colors, as characters have conversations that parallel one another. It makes for a beautiful tableau:


On the beauty of its images alone, this film safely rides into “excellent” territory, despite not living up to the standard set by Andrei. The ominous cliffhanger ending is a delight, and I’m looking forward to seeing how this plays out in the following segments. You can find Part II on Mosfilm’s YouTube channel here.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

The Invite (2026)

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After the much derided (but enjoyed by me) Don’t Worry Darling, Olivia Wilde was put in director jail for a while, only returning this year with the premier of The Invite, a comedy starring Wilde, Seth Rogen, Penélope Cruz, and Edward Norton. Wilde and Rogan portray Angela and Joe, a couple whose married life is circling the drain, with Norton and Cruz as their upstairs neighbors Hawk and Pína. Taking place over the course of a single, awkward, semi-disastrous, illuminating dinner party that Angela and Joe host, the film plays out as a less biting, more comedic version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

The strains on Angela and Joe’s married life are self-evident from the get-go. Angela is a consummate (and bad) liar who, when caught in her dishonesty, simply freaks out until something else comes up conversationally that distracts from her lies. She prepares an elaborate meal and charcuterie in her excitement over the dinner, which was only planned earlier that morning after a chance encounter with Pína, despite lying to Joe that she told him about it the night before, and that he simply didn’t listen to her. When Hawk compliments her on a designer rug, she claims to have found it at a flea market, despite the audience seeing her unpack it and lay it out during the film’s opening title sequence. It appears that she has chosen to fill her life with these falsehoods (and too many podcasts) to distract herself from its banality, despite that life being one that she chose, as she admits that she got her degree and never did anything with it. For his part, Joe is also dissatisfied, seeing himself as a failure due to the one hit wonder nature of his band, his employment as a music instructor at a third-rate, non-prestigious conservatory, and the fact that the couple and their daughter live in the apartment that he grew up in. From within the horizon of her own unhappiness, Angela can only see that they live in a beautiful home, have a daughter who adores her father, and that Joe has an ideal job, regardless of the lack of respect that his institution commands. 

Into this dynamic comes the duo of Pína and Hawk, whom Angela is desperate to impress and for whom Joe has nothing but contempt, as he finds Hawk’s casual small talk in the elevator annoying, not to mention that the upstairs couple’s sex life is both very active and extremely loud. The dinner itself is a disaster, Angela’s souffle is completely burnt, Pína is revealed to be a vegan (debatable, given that her contribution to the meal is a flan) and unable to eat anything other than the charcuterie olives, and Angela’s lack of planning means that their only option for wine is a bottle given to them by Joe’s late uncle to save for a future anniversary. The two break off into pairs, with Pína joining Joe for a joint in his office while Angela gives Hawk a tour of the house that ends with tequila shots. With everyone properly socially lubricated, Hawk and Pína apologize for the frequent ruckuses upstairs before Joe can address the subject more hostilely, and admit that they are swingers who are interested in their hosts. Angela is fascinated by the possibilities that this opens up, and Joe, initially resistant to the idea based on the assumption that he would be excluded, also warms to the idea. The results are moderately disastrous, but not in the way that one would expect. 

The Invite is an adaptation of the 2020 Spanish film The People Upstairs, with a screenplay from Rashida Jones and a co-credited Will McCormack, whose only feature writing credit prior to this was as a co-story writer on Toy Story 4. The script is a delight, capturing a great deal of insight into relationships and their idiosyncratic disconnections (or, as Leo Tolstoy might put it, each failing marriage is “unhappy in its own way”) while never losing sight of the fact that this is first and foremost a comedy. That doesn’t mean that the film treats every part of its subject matter with levity, with a particularly noteworthy scene in which Norton’s Hawk delivers a sobering monologue about his failures as a husband to his now-deceased wife, but even that is undercut by the fact that this is Hawk’s self-rationalization for his current sexual curiosity. Penélope Cruz struts around this film with the knowledge and understanding that she is one of the sexiest people on earth, and her calm, casual demeanor is as magnetic to the audience as it is to an enraptured Angela. I also found myself charmed by Seth Rogen here; much of his film career consisted of variations on the single central idea of “pothead gets into A Situation,” which has never been a brand of humor that resonates with me. In The Invite, Rogen is still the snarky stoner providing commentary on everything that passes before him, but he’s also a sad, trapped man, and he conveys that complexity in a commanding way. 

The real revelation here, as is the case with all of her projects, is Olivia Wilde. Booksmart was universally praised while the critical reception to Don’t Worry Darling was… harsh. It’s impossible to fully sift out every part of that backlash to the latter that had more to do with the casting and behind-the-scenes controversy than the actual quality, but criticisms of Darling included that it was a bit of a mish-mash, never fully committing to any of its myriad ideas enough to coalesce into a solid thesis. While that wasn’t a problem for me, The Invite is a film that’s so confident and singular in its vision that it feels like a direct answer to that critique. This film is the twenty-first century reinvention of Woody Allen’s 70s adultery comedies (the film is even dedicated in memoriam to Diane Keaton), but Wilde has so thoroughly committed to separating the art from the artist that she has taken on Allen’s role as both director of the film and neurotic lead, with great success. Wilde reveals herself here as a very talented physical comedian as well; one of the biggest of my many laughs in this film came during Angela’s argument with Joe about cancelling the dinner, where the camera shifts to a downward angle that positions the front of the oven on the left side of the screen. Wilde crouches into the frame, almost feral, gesticulating to the souffle within. It’s very confident, but also strangely vulnerable, and I loved it. 

A story like this has the potential to feel extremely heteronormative, especially as it revolves around two typical man/woman pairs, one of them sexually repressed and the other more permissive and exploratory. While it stretches belief that a modern day couple would be completely unfamiliar with swinging, if this were an American film of even a decade ago, the main couple would open things up a little, have an awkward interaction that proves that they really love one another, and resolve to recommit to heteronormative routines. The Invite doesn’t do that; in fact, it never gets to the “sex” part of the sex comedy, and instead has the encounter collapse before it ever really gets started. Angela and Joe’s relationship isn’t rattled by temptation in order to come out stronger on the other side; instead, the revelations that emerge from both the need for trust and the rejection of anger that open relationships demand highlights that each is miserable. The ending is deliberately ambiguous, as Pína tells them directly that, in her opinion as a psychotherapist, their relationship is over, but also that a new relationship can form between two people if they try. It’s sweet without being overly sentimental, and it works.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Lagniappe Podcast: Leather Jacket Love Story (1998)

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For this lagniappe episode of The Swampflix Podcast, Boomer & Brandon discuss David DeCoteau’s uncharacteristically sincere romance drama Leather Jacket Love Story (1998).

00:00 Spacecon
14:55 Masters of the Universe (2026)
22:31 Swing Shift Maisie (1943)
26:00 Maisie Goes to Reno (1944)
31:20 All the President’s Men (1976)
35:55 Ministry of Fear (1944)
40:31 Die Nibelungen – Kriemhild’s Revenge (1924)
45:40 Blades of the Guardians (2026)
50:30 Ramekin (2018)
58:07 The Doll (1962)
1:01:55 Across the Hall (2009)
1:08:15 The Currents (2026)
1:11:45 Relic (2020)
1:16:40 Mr. Monkey’s Magic Merry Go Round (2026)

1:21:14 Leather Jacket Love Story (1998)

You can stay up to date with our podcast through SoundCloud, Spotify, iTunes, TuneIn, or by following the links on this page.

– The Lagniappe Podcast Crew

Il Posto (1961)

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It goes without saying that a critic’s personal biases can have a major effect on how they rate a film. So, it’s probably best to be honest about those biases up front, rather than pretending that you’re reviewing films from a purely objective perspective. Personally, the bias I find the most difficult to get past is an embarrassingly simple one: setting. No matter when a movie is set throughout history, I find it’s far easier to lose myself in a story set in a city, rather than the great rural outdoors. No matter whether it’s in the blazing heat of the dusty Old West or on the icy crags of a European mountaintop, I always have to work a little harder to care about stories set outside The City, where my simple urbanite mind longs to be. At least, that’s what was on my simple mind while watching films by Italian neorealist Ermanno Olmi, whose two most famous titles are rooted in the Italian countryside. Olmi’s 1977 Palme d’Or winner The Tree of Wooden Clogs profiles the daily lives and toils of sharecroppers in rural Italy at the turn of the 20th century, forever held down by predatory landlords. It’s a remarkably thoughtful, righteously political work, but I’d be lying if I said spending so much time in the mud & muck of daily farm life didn’t test the endurance of my half-open eyelids. In his 1961 breakout film Il Posto, however, a young man who lives in the Italian countryside actively seeks employment in nearby Milan, hoping to break away from his parents’ small-town control over his daily life by exploring some newfound urbanite freedom. Now, that’s a story I can easily relate to, especially by the time all of his hopeful, youthful momentum crashes into the brick wall of a bureaucratic desk job, where all youth & hope goes to die.

The remarkable thing about urban living is that—unlike farm work—it never really changes all that much. Il Posto is set a half-century and an entire continent away from where I’m living & working today, and I recognized so much of my daily joys & indignities reflected back at me from the screen. Our scrawny desk-jockey hero Domenico (Sandro Panseri) timidly learns his way around a public transit system, a busy coffee counter, an awkward office party, and an endless labyrinth of path-blocking street construction in his early days as a shy, soft-spoken urbanite in the exact ways that I remember them in New Orleans. Stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before: He goes looking for a job, and then he finds a job; heaven knows, you know the rest. In Il Posto‘s most surprising sequence, we briefly leave Domenico’s POV to catch a glimpse of the quiet home lives, petty workplace grievances, and go-nowhere artistic projects of his older, more established coworkers, who’ve long ago settled into the exact daily routine that’s soon to take over his entire life. From there, the film mostly amounts to a catalog of small character quirks & warmly human interactions found in a cold bureaucratic environment, determined to discourage such comradery through staggered lunch breaks and other interdepartmental barriers. Our little country boy’s big city dreams are adorable at first, as he smirks his ways through all the little indignities of modern urban living with the charming boyishness of an Italian Timothée Chalamet. When an older coworker who’s deluded himself into thinking he can live a full life by sneaking in some writing sessions on the clock between work assignments suddenly dies, however, it’s clear the paper-pushing desks Domenico is working towards are just one-man prison cells, each carrying a life sentence. At least, that’s what’s resonating with this humble office worker who’s currently sneaking in a writing session on the clock between work assignments.

Structurally, Il Posto follows the basic plot beats of an eternally popular urbanite genre: the romcom. Our adorably hopeful office worker quickly falls in love with the very first cute girl he meets in the city (Loredana Detto), then spends the rest of the picture trying to capitalize on that romantic spark while ignoring the thousands of other potential matches surrounding him in Milan. Their will-they-won’t-they relationship is undeniably cute, but it’s also undeniably naive, considering how many obstacles daily labor puts between their potential to socialize and how many other people are hanging around as unengaged romantic competition. Eventually, the film’s labor concerns overwhelm its romantic ones, crushing Domenico’s spirit at the very last minute with a kind of heartbreak he was too infatuated to see coming. So, what we effectively have here is a romcom setup to a bleak labor-politics punchline, ultimately making Il Posto just as much of a neorealist political screed as the rural, landlord-bashing Tree of Wooden Clogs. If I could write about film objectively, I might be lauding Wooden Clogs as the more technically impressive work over this scrappy tale of youthful disillusionment, or I might cite this duo as ideological equals in their shared themes of labor exploitation. Since I write subjectively, however, I have to say that the film that most drove home just how long I’ve been hopelessly crushed under the expectations of daily, dehumanizing labor is the one where the main character does the same kind of meaningless work that I do, arrives to his desk via the same city-owned vehicles that I do, and approaches his personal relationships with the same kind of dorky earnestness that I do — ignoring the vast social potential of modern urban living in favor of more immediate loyalty & intimacy. Such is the life of a city boy with a desk job.

-Brandon Ledet

Erupcja (2026)

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The Year of Charli continues, uninterrupted. There’s seemingly a new movie featuring Charli XCX out in theaters every week this year, ranging from soundtrack work (Mother Mary, “Wuthering Heights”) to minor acting roles (Faces of Death, The Gallerist, I Want Your Sex) to a full-on feature length self-portrait (The Moment). During the recent Brat Summer hype cycle, the British pop singer proclaimed herself a cinephile, sharing her personal Letterboxd account for wide public scrutiny and flashing the names of buzzy auteurs (David Cronenberg, Ari Aster, Joachim Trier, etc.) at her Coachella audience in her trademark nightclub font. It wasn’t until this year’s Charli Movie deluge that the attention flowed the other direction, though. Cinephiles are now confronted with the pop star’s screen & soundtrack presence on a weekly basis, whether we’re actively seeking it or not. All of her various 2026 projects were planned & produced at different times, but they’ve collected at the dam of film distribution to release all at once in one mighty flood. So, if this Charli onslaught is going to continue (for as long as it takes for the new Gregg Araki & Cathy Yan movies to come out, anyway), it is comforting to know that there’s at least one title in that flood that’s both stylishly cool & dramatically compelling, suggesting that she has a longer movie career ahead of her once this wave of post-Brat cinephilia naturally crests.

Erupcja stars Charli XCX as a Londoner on holiday, dragging her milquetoast boyfriend (Will Madden) to Warsaw, Poland after suspecting that he was planning to propose to her in Paris, France. The reason she chose Warsaw in particular is because she has a semi-sordid history of partying there, thanks to a long term on-again-off-again toxic friendship with a local slacker (Lena Góra), who works the counter at an inherited flower shop. Ever since they were teens, the two directionless women have felt a thrillingly volatile connection with each other, seemingly confirmed by news reports of a major volcanic eruption coinciding with every time they meet. So, whenever Charli’s immature party girl pops back into Warsaw to check in on her favorite ambitionless florist, it’s because she’s feeling the urge to blow up her entire life again, leaving only ash & rubble behind. They drink, they dance, they ghost the baffled boyfriend until he gets the picture and abandons his proposal plans. Despite all of its allusions to grand-scale natural disasters, Erupcja is intimately tiny in scope, trailing behind a clique of unimpressive thirtysomethings as they party through a series of romantic meltdowns while playing tourist in Warsaw. The overall mood is ecstatic, though, evoking big feelings through small gestures. It’s also the first instance I’ve seen where Charli XCX shows genuine dramatic chops as an indie-scene movie starlet, rather than just using The Movies as a multimedia brand extender. Whenever she’s offscreen, the audience deeply misses her.

For all of my Charli XCX blabbering here, I was most interested in Erupcja due to the growing name recognition of writer-director Pete Ohs, whose career in low-budget indies has been a constant, pleasant hum in recent years. I was first impressed with Ohs’s editing work in the Gen-Z gun violence drama Beast Beast, and his name has continued to pop up in exciting works like the supernatural stalker thriller Jethica (as a writer-director) and the video game fantasy adventure OBEX (as co-writer, editor, and cinematographer). Ohs’s background in music video work shows in each of his projects’ ability to find high style in cheap scenery, in this case searching for glimpses of laidback urban cool on every Warsaw street corner. The narration echoes that Eastern European setting by mimicking the cadence of a vintage propaganda film, reporting on the thirtysomething hangabouts’ emotional states by dryly stating how they’re feeling and what they’re dreaming between their petty arguments. Ohs also directly illustrates his characters’ emotions in flashes of muted, chalky pastels that serve both as mood-ring insights and as easy scene transitions. Like his work in Beast Beast, there’s also some thoughtful acknowledgement of how much of these young people’s lives are anchored to their phone screens, often flashing back to memories of absentminded late-night scrolling as if it were just as dramatically significant as any offline, real-world event.

It speaks well to Charli’s interest in cinema as an artform that she’s been taking the time to collaborate with up-and-coming filmmakers like Pete Ohs & Daniel Goldhaber instead of leveraging her pop star notoriety to exclusively work with more established names like Gregg Araki & David Lowery. Despite the explosive energy suggested by its title, Erupcja will mostly register as a quiet rumbling on the cinematic Richter scale, while more aggressively advertised projects like “Wuthering Heights” & The Moment will guide most of the loudest Year of Charli discourse. There’s something quietly extraordinary about Erupcja, though, like watching a volcanic eruption through news reel footage on your smartphone. It’s such a small container for such a big personality, and that contrast makes her presence all the more compelling.

-Brandon Ledet

The Puffy Chair (2005)

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I’m not fully sure where the current film culture consensus is on the Duplass Brothers. They’ve been quietly making low-budget indie dramedies for two decades now, and the larger cultural response to their work has remained at the same low, continual hum. Back when they started in the mumblecore days of the early 2000s, however, their performatively unpretentious filmmaking style made a relatively big splash in the industry, enough to convince established heavy hitters like Jonathan Demme to try their own hand at aggressively casual digicam dramas like Rachel Getting Married. I suppose I feel some personal affection for the Duplasses as Metairie-boys-made-good locals who’ve survived in an industry that’s since moved on after mumblecore’s brief moment in the Sundance sunshine, but I only occasionally dip into their work when it touches on genres I frequent, like the camcorder horror Creep or the sci-fi whatsit Biosphere. Given the wider cultural apathy for their indie cinema contributions (alongside an even harsher indifference to fellow mumblecore pioneer Joe Swanberg), I was surprised, then, that their breakout debut The Puffy Chair was given a 20th anniversary victory-lap release this month, celebrating two decades of quiet, low-budget crowd displeasers from our old pals Mark & Jay.

Mark Duplass stars in this go-nowhere road trip drama, co-written and co-directed with his brother Jay. It’s partially a movie about brothers, contrasting the frustratingly rigid, stubborn personality of Mark’s protagonist with the free-spirit openness of his fictional brother, a habitually jobless artist (Rhett Wilkins). More so, it’s a movie about bros, examining the quirks & kinks of the modern hetero male ego and finding the entire gender lacking in morality & merit. Our two brothers in crisis embark on a road trip to purchase the titular La-Z-Boy recliner as surprise gift for their father’s birthday, hoping to stage a family reunion with a familiar relic from their familial past in tow. They butt heads on the trip, as brothers do, but most of their personal issues arise from their relationships with women. The free spirit in the van falls in love just as quickly as he falls out of it, while our egotistical anti-hero drags out a doomed romance with a long-term girlfriend (Katie Aselton) whom he’d rather bicker with than commit to. The entire trip is shot on handheld, commercial grade digicams as if it were a documentary, and the only major splurge in the budget is the puffy La-Z-Boy, which goes through as much anguished hell as the characters who drag it down the highway. It’s all low-stakes, mildly funny malaise until late-night alcohol binges make the romantic arguments too vicious to bare, and the characters take their frustrations out on the chair instead of parting ways like they should.

The broey sensibilities of The Puffy Chair aren’t an accident; they’re deliberately evoked as a kind of self-skewering. Every detail about Mark Duplass’s self-assured asshole protagonist is seemingly designed to parody an early-aughts indie-scene bro archetype: his floppy hair cut, his American Apparel hoodie, his tighty-whities, his entrepreneurial pursuits as a failed musician turned band manager, his name being Josh. This very clearly a “depiction ≠ endorsement” situation, with the film’s main mission being a character study of the minute ways that Josh is a self-centered prick. Still, there is a kind of default-macho POV emanating from behind the camera that doesn’t feel entirely pointed or intentional, and that broey sensibility might help illuminate why the Duplasses have quietly drifted from the center of the indie filmmaking scene over the past couple decades. The same day that I watched The Puffy Chair in theaters, I had streamed Shudder’s feminist talking-heads documentary 1000 Women in Horror at home, in which women filmmakers are interviewed about their participation in & appreciate of the genre. In it, actor-turned-director Brea Grant relays an anecdote about her early days as a performer where she frequently had to ask male screenwriters what her character does for a living, since she could get no sense of who they were as a person outside their relationships to the male leads. That question echoed in my mind hours later watching The Puffy Chair. Does Josh’s girlfriend have a job? Does she have a life outside the world of Josh? It’s impossible to say.

It’s funny that this movie’s quiet re-release has coincided with a wider cultural celebration of the TV series Nirvanna the Band, which got its own theatrical victory lap earlier this year with Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie. Both movies parodically skewer the same early-aughts indie scene bro archetype; Nirvanna the Band just has an easier time winning an audience over with overt humor while The Puffy Chair feels sadistically eager to dwell in discomfort. Between them, I feel like I’ve accidentally stumbled into a cursed time machine that only goes back to my worst college years. Their respective soundtracks are a major part of that temporal displacement, with Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie kicking off on a vintage Ben Folds track, while The Puffy Chair includes college-radio hits from Death Cab for Cutie, Spoon, and Of Montreal – all bands that have been collecting cultural dust since the dingiest days of the flip-phone aughts. While last year’s Secret Mall Apartment attempted to revive the new-sincerity hopefulness of the 2000s indie scene, The Puffy Chair & Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie brought me back to that decade as I actually remember it: grotesquely broey, depressed, poorly dressed, in standard definition. To their credit, The Duplasses appear to have been hyper aware of the era’s faults & foibles as they were happening, ready to be captured on MiniDV tapes for Sundance festival audiences’ squirmy mortification.

-Brandon Ledet

Lagniappe Podcast: High Art (1998)

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For this lagniappe episode of The Swampflix Podcast, Brandon & Britnee discuss the drugged-out indie romance High Art (1998), directly following its recent Gap Tooth screening at The Broad.

00:00 Vinegar Syndrome Denver
10:16 Fackham Hall (2025)
14:05 Thank God It’s Friday (1978)

22:50 High Art (1998)

You can stay up to date with our podcast through SoundCloud, Spotify, iTunes, TuneIn, or by following the links on this page.

– The Lagniappe Podcast Crew

“Wuthering Heights” (2026)

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Brandon has already written about Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights,” and although I was forewarned, my own love for the source material meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to check this hot mess out for myself. And what a mess it is! Not as hot as one would expect, though, given that the director’s stated intention with this adaptation has been to recreate the horniness that she presumes is the universal experience of all first time readers. The thing about ”Wuthering Heights” is that the text I found myself thinking about most often while watching it wasn’t the novel itself or any of the prior adaptations, but Wicked: For Good. In writing about that film, I posited that its greatest flaw is also its greatest weakness: it only exists as a commercial product because of its connection to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and its offshoots, sequels, and adaptations as a brand. The first half of the play (and the earlier film that adapted only that opening half) is allowed to find all sorts of fun things to explore within the “canon” of Oz, since the only thing it carries over is the necessity that, at some point, the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch must eventually become enemies, in the public eye if not in reality. Everything else is fair game. In the second half of the play, which became For Good, every action exists in service of putting the characters from Wizard of Oz into the positions that they will be when Dorothy meets them upon her arrival in the fairy land, so characters march lock-step toward their places in the canon regardless of whether that works on a narrative, character, or even emotionally meaningful level. “Wuthering Heights” has the same problem. I’m not going to say it’s a bad movie because it’s a bad adaptation of Wuthering Heights, which it most certainly is, but it’s a bad movie because it’s an attempt at adapting Emily Brontë’s novel at all. 

Widower Mr. Earnshaw (Martin Clunes), the tenant of farmhouse Wuthering Heights, returns home from the city with a young boy in tow, whom he “rescued” from a life of being abused by a drunken father so that he can come to the Heights and be abused by a drunken stranger instead. He gives the boy to his daughter, Cathy, who names the child “Heathcliff, after my dead brother,” and the two form a fast friendship. Also present in the household is Nelly, who as the bastard daughter of a lord is not entitled to recognition or shelter, but is welcome to act as the formal companion to Cathy; this relationship is challenged by Cathy’s burgeoning devotion to Heathcliff, who absorbs some of Earnshaw’s parental abuse. Some years later, Cathy (Margot Robbie) and Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) watch as a procession of carriages deliver their new neighbors, The Lintons, to the manor of Thrushcross Grange. Cathy, who has been raised with no mother and is thus somewhat as wild and unmannered as her lowborn foster brother, sneaks up to spy on Edgar Linton (Shazad Latif) and his “ward” Isabella (Alison Oliver) and ends up injuring her ankle and being hosted at Thrushcross Grange for several weeks to recuperate. She returns to Wuthering Heights “quite the lady” and admits to Nelly (Hong Chau) that she has fallen in love with Linton and will marry him; she says aloud that she cannot marry Heathcliff because of their vast social class gap, and Nelly, knowing that Heathcliff has overheard this, keeps this information to herself. Linton and Catherine marry, Heathcliff leaves, Catherine becomes pregnant, and Heathcliff returns, at which point Catherine learns that Nelly allowed him to believe that Catherine didn’t love him. Heathcliff marries Isabella, but he and Catherine begin a brief, torrid affair that ends in tragedy. 

If you’re familiar with the novel (or any of its more faithful adaptations, although there are surprisingly few), then that synopsis undoubtedly feels strange to you. It’s like Brontë’s in some ways; the character names are the same and some of the larger events from the novel are present. The exclusion of Hindley, Cathy’s brother and Heathcliff’s primary tormentor (and thus also his wife and child), is very jarring, as is the complete absence of Mrs. Earnshaw. Earnshaw family employee Joseph has also been aged down and cast with a handsome actor (Ewan Mitchell), eschewing the novel Joseph’s characterization as a religious zealot and instead giving him the chance to engage in kinky, largely unseen BDSM with one of the housemaids so that Heathcliff and Cathy can observe them surreptitiously in a way that sets both characters’ sexual imaginations ablaze. Most adaptations focus solely on the Cathy/Heathcliff story and leave out the entire plot about the second generation that constitutes the entire second half of Wuthering Heights, so its excision here isn’t surprising, but knowing that it doesn’t need to take that into consideration, “Wuthering Heights” decides to instead have Cathy not only die, but miscarry her child with Linton, since there’s no reason to have a living child if the story isn’t going to continue. I also can’t fault the film for choosing to narratively manifest the “Nelly is the villain” theory. Although I have personally never accepted that in my reading of the text, it has become the prevailing literary lens for the novel’s academic criticism since James Hafley first posited this thesis in 1958. (If you have JSTOR access, his essay can be found here; it’s a good read even if you, like I, remain unconvinced.) 

If you’re not familiar with the novel, none of this may seem like it changes that much about the text, but I can assure you: it does. My distaste for the film could be said to be either (a) entirely predicated on, or (b) have nothing to do with my love of Wuthering Heights, by which I mean that I don’t particularly care that this is a bad adaptation of Wuthering Heights—in fact, the number of faithful adaptations is rare, and I prefer some of the less faithful adaptations over the more detail-oriented ones—I just don’t think this needed to be an adaptation of Wuthering Heights specifically. It almost feels as if Fennell responded to critics’ dismissal of Saltburn as a lesser Talented Mr. Ripley by deciding to take her Wuthering Heights-inspired erotic fiction and—in an inverse of E.L. James filing the serial numbers off of her Twilight fanfiction and publishing it as Fifty Shades of Grey—direct an adaptation of that and call it “Wuthering Heights.” I’m not frustrated with this movie as a fan of Brontë’s; I’m frustrated with it as a movie lover, the part of me that just wants to go to the movies and have a good time. Where this ties into Wicked: For Good is that like that film, “Wuthering Heights” goes awry in having to fall in line with the text that it is branded, meaning that the film is inexorably tied to the text from which it takes its name, when liberating it from that title would have allowed this to go in more interesting directions.

Robbie is very good as Cathy (Elordi is fine), but our two lead characters are so boring. In the film’s second act, we get to see some of the home life of Heathcliff and Isabella, and it’s the best stuff in the movie. Instead of being a victim of Heathcliff’s abuse, Isabella is all-in on his weird degradation play; she gets off on sending letters to Cathy and Nelly lying about how horrid Heathcliff is to her while also clearly enjoying being chained up and treated like a dog. We’ve already gotten a clear look into her bizarre psyche earlier in the film, in which we learn that she has an entire room devoted solely to her hair ribbons, and we get to see her create a fun murder scene in miniature by venting her frustrations at Cathy herself on the doll she made of the woman instead, with a dollhouse tableau that’s as funny as it is disturbing. While sitting in the theater, I couldn’t help but think about how much better a movie “Wuthering Heights” would be if it realized that its most interesting character was Isabella, and the movie had been made about her instead. I fantasized about the film taking a sudden turn into being about Heathcliff realizing that Isabella truly could match his freak and the two of them falling for each other. “Wuthering Heights” could never go in that direction because it’s called “Wuthering Heights,” rather than “[Untitled Emerald Fennell Sexy Gothic Romance starring Jacob Elordi].” The first time that we meet Isabella, she’s sitting in the garden and delivering an excruciatingly detailed recap of Romeo & Juliet to Linton. For a moment, I really was naive enough to think that Fennell was going to do something truly audacious, and that the mention of the play would draw attention to something crucial that Shakespeare’s play and Brontë’s novel share: they are decidedly tragic, non-romantic stories that the general public perceives as romantic. Alas, this was not to be the case, and the director’s much-vaunted “audacity” was once again constrained to the erotic consumption of another person’s bodily fluids (and occasionally egg yolks). Ho-hum.

Where Emerald Fennell does allow herself to get really freaky with things that she adds from outside the text are the moments where the film does actually shine. When she first arrives to live at Thrushcross Grange, Cathy is ushered into a room that Linton has prepared for her by having the place painted “the most beautiful color in the world, the color of [Cathy’s] flesh.” As we enter the room, it looks tasteful enough, but as the camera moves closer we get to see that Linton has had the decorators recreate not only her freckles but the light, almost imperceptible blue veins beneath. It’s delightfully grotesque. The film also occasionally goes for utter camp in a few fine moments, with the standout being the scene in which Mr. Earnshaw dies, surrounded by a physically impossible stack of empty wine and liquor bottles. The film also features very beautiful tableaux; there are several nearly-still chiaroscuro images of characters lit solely by the natural light streaming through a window, calling to mind Rembrandt’s Anna and the Blind Tobit or the Rembrandtian A Man seated reading at a Table in a Lofty Room. Evoking the imagery of Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog is an easy go-to for Heathcliff’s return, but it’s also an effective choice. Visually, the film’s depiction of Thrushcross Grange having strong juxtapositions of white and blood-red are striking, even if the choice doesn’t seem to have a deeper meaning other than the most superficial symbolism. Any one of those things would have been a delight to see in [Untitled Emerald Fennell Sexy Gothic Romance starring Jacob Elordi], in which Fennell wouldn’t have felt the need to remain bound to “adapting” Wuthering Heights and instead been able to go full bore into the story she really wanted to tell. Instead, we have this disappointment.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Pillion (2026)

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There’s a new entry in the small canon of high-style comedies in which Harry Melling plays a new-to-the-game BDSM sub who discovers a latent desire to serve leather daddies, following several years’ wait after Amanda Kramer’s Please Baby Please. Die-hard fans of that two-film genre haven’t been waiting as long as devotees of the equally small canon of British melodramas about homosexual bikers with turbulent home lives, who’ve been waiting several decades for a follow-up to 1965’s The Leather Boys. Pillion is a worthy addition to both of those micro-genres, both wryly amusing in its depiction of post-Tom of Finland kink play and sincerely dramatic in teasing out the romantic tensions within that scene. Harry Melling’s sheltered protagonist is adorably in-over-his-head as the newest addition to a gang of leather-clad biker brutes, playing against Alexander Skarsgård as the disconcertingly handsome dom who takes him on as a pet. The power dynamics of their sexual play is clear from the start, but the dynamics of their romantic life are much fuzzier & unstable, given that Skarsgård’s smirking hunk mug is impossible to read, leaving Melling’s mewling underling with lots to think about while awaiting commands. It doesn’t help that onlookers universally treat their pairing as a sight gag, baffled by how a little imp who looks like Melling could score such a chiseled Adonis (with obvious emotional baggage and a pathological aversion to even the smallest peck of a kiss).

At the movies, most BDSM romances are told from the POV of a newly initiated sub who’s excited by the thrill of being bossed around but unsure of their personal boundaries or desires within that new role, until the dom overexerts their power and breaks the spell. In real life, it’s the sub who wields all the power, having pre-planned and negotiated all the things they want done to them during playtime while pretending it was all the dom’s idea all along once the games begin. Pillion starts as the movie version of a BDSM romance, then ends on the reality. Harry Melling plays an uncloseted but embarrassingly inexperienced gay man who still lives at home with his parents well into his 30s, until he lucks into the exact thing he wants: a big, exciting biker hunk who bosses him around and adopts him as a pet. He’s beamingly proud of his “aptitude for devotion” within this new relationship, but he’s also unsure about much of himself he should commit to it, because he cannot decide which master’s expectations to meet: his dom’s or his parents’. His terminally ill mother (Lesley Sharp) is especially concerned that what her sons sees as a game might cross over into emotional abuse, and he’s desperate to ease her mind without disappointing his new owner. The struggle within the relationship is that by the time he learns to assert himself to his mother’s liking, it becomes clear that he’s hitched his wagon to a damaged top, and the whole dynamic falls apart.

The attraction to telling these kinds of kink-dynamic stories on the screen is that they make the small power negotiations within all romances vivid & explicit. Not for nothing, they’re also hot. Before he realizes that he’s owed power that his top refuses to allow him (like a bad dog owner who neglects to take their pup on walks), Pillion finds a lot of awkward humor in the excessive gratitude its protagonist shows to his new hunky lover for even stooping to notice him, much less fuck him. It also finds a lot of on-screen steam in the actual fucking, dwelling on the minor physical gestures of its wrestling matches, blowjobs, and exhibitionist picnic-table sodomy. There’s also some intoxicating poetry in its nocturnal bike rides, when our POV sub finally finds a way to get out of his own head and live in the excitement of the moment — a subliminal headspace that carries over into the bedroom. The only thing he needs to learn is that he has a lot of say in how that mental subspace is reached, whether or not the first dom he meets agrees. So, for a gay leather-kink indie drama, Pillion really does have something for everyone: funny jokes, hot sex, and personal growth to be enjoyed by all. The film is even bookended with Christmas scenes, so you can gather the entire family around the TV to watch it next holiday season, joining other beloved Yuletide British rom-drams like Love Actually and About a Boy.

-Brandon Ledet

Singles (1992)

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There’s a fun storytelling device in Susan Seidelman’s Sex and the City pilot that greatly added to the casual, Gen-X appeal of the show’s early seasons, before being dropped from its format entirely: the direct-to-camera confessionals. In early episodes of Sex and the City, main characters and single-scene players alike were introduced to the audience via street-interview soliloquies, adding to the show’s simulated confessional candor about modern New Yorkers’ sex lives. I used to assume that Seidelman staged those documentary-style interviews as a way to mimic the blind-item anecdotes of Candace Bushnell’s original “Sex and the City” newspaper column, maybe borrowing some visual language from reality TV in the process. In retrospect, that device may have been borrowed from an entirely different early-90s Gen-X relic, separate from the MTV Real World confessionals that they coincidentally recall. Structurally, Cameron Crowe’s 1992 grunge-scene dramedy Singles is a major stylistic precursor for the initial Sex and the City aesthetic, profiling the sexual & romantic lives of lovelorn slackers in the same confessionals-and-vignettes rhythms that Seidelman helped establish for the show. The differences between them are matters of perspective & tone. Singles is set in Seattle instead of New York, it’s cuter than it is raunchy, and its characters are idealistic twentysomethings looking for love instead of jaded thirtysomethings looking to settle.

The core friend group profiled in Singles are connected through the exact kinds of cultural hubs you’d expect to find in early-90s Seattle: warehouse concert venues, hipster coffee shops, and the single-bedroom apartment complexes that give the film its title. All of its characters teeter between remaining single forever and halfway committing to serious relationships, unsure whether they can trust each other or if their hearts are being played with in pursuit of sex. The women are universally adorable: Bridget Fonda as the plucky optimist, Kyra Sedgwick as the cynical pessimist, Sheila Kelley as the A-type stress magnet. The men are varying levels of dopey: Campbell Scott as the careerist yuppie, Jim True-Frost as the dorky wannabe, Matt Dillon as the true-believer grunge scene burnout. They clumsily mix & match as best as they can while struggling to maintain that classic Gen-X air of apathetic cool that shields all raw emotion behind untold pounds of oversized sweaters, flannels, denim, and leather. The story’s scatterbrained vignette structure sets it up to function as a kind of backdoor sitcom pilot à la Sex and the City or Melrose Place, appealing specifically to teens just a few years younger than its characters, itching to move out of the suburbs and live adult lives in The Big City. Instead, it had to settle for reaching those kids through its tie-in CD soundtrack, which was such a successful cash-in on The Grunge Moment that it’s much better remembered than the film it was commissioned to promote.

Singles is so performatively laidback & low-key that it’s easy to underestimate its accomplishments as a Gen-X rom-dram. Consider it in comparison with 1994’s Reality Bites, for instance, which is so overly concerned with signaling its rebellion against Corporate Phonies and the sin of Selling Out that it becomes a kind of phony corporate sell-out product in its own right. Crowe’s handle on the era is much more humanist, recognizing that no matter how much Gen-X pretended to not give a shit about anything, they were still just lonely kids like every other generation before them. Where Reality Bites cast Ethan Hawke as a hunky poster-boy for disaffected slackerdom, Singles cast Matt Dillon as a goofball parody of the same burnout musician archetype, inviting the audience to lean in and search for the lovable lug below his jaded surface instead of shoving his charms in our faces. Crowe’s background as a music journalist doesn’t hurt Singles‘s credibility either, as it allowed him to include progenitors of “The Seattle Sound” like Pearl Jam & Soundgarden onscreen to vouch for the movie’s authenticity. Having his characters awkwardly flirt at an Alice in Chains concert gives the movie just as much cultural & temporal specificity as having Carrie Bradshaw order a Cosmopolitan at a swanky NYC nightclub. Their desires & behavior are universally relatable, though, even if you weren’t around for grunge’s first wave; anyone who’s ever suffered through an uneasy situationship in their 20s is likely to see themselves in it, no matter where or when.

-Brandon Ledet