Seven years after 10 Things I Hate About You debuted as the best-ever adaptation of Taming of the Shrew, She’s the Man brought us a lovely adaptation of Twelfth Night. It’s not as witty or distinctive as 10 Things, but it’s great on its own merits.

Twelfth Night has always been one of my favorites thanks to silly gender-bending hijinks, but I actually didn’t watch She’s the Man until 2023. I was the right age and demographic in 2006–plus I love(d) Shakespeare adaptations–but in this version, Viola is a soccer player, and I was actively allergic to anything remotely resembling sports. I’m not kidding you, I wore dog collars and forked my tongue at the football players. (I’m so sorry, hometown.)

If I had known very little of this movie involves soccer treated like sports, I would have watched and loved it. In retrospect, I really wish this had been my cross-dressing school movie rewatch, rather than the far crueler Sorority Boys.

The story is what you expect. Viola disguises herself as her brother to prove herself among male soccer players, then falls in love with her male roommate, played by Channing Tatum. Viola becomes a go-between for the guy she likes and the girl he likes, but the girl he likes actually likes Viola, and this is how we have fun you guys. This is gay and we love this.

I’m on the team that says Shakespeare knew what he was doing (wiki). I wouldn’t leap to calling Shakespeare bisexual; modern labels of sexuality don’t apply outside modernity, period. Throughout much of history, passionate sexual/romantic friendships among all genders were common, especially among the liberation of the artistic classes.

Point being, Shakespeare got mischievous, sexy jollies out of the cross-dressing stuff, and the material is one long cheeky wink-wink. Would you ever wonder why I love the Twelfth Night? Everyone needs to know being gay is hilarious.

ANYWAY, since this adaptation is from an era with such a prevailing culture of homophobia and transphobia, it’s miraculous that She’s the Man only spends a *little* time saying “no homo.” The behavior from a guy like Channing Tatum in She’s the Man gives me all kinds of red flags, but he kinda has no choice. His character has to set the 2006-major-media-expectations of boundaries, which means acting like it’s gross that he’s having intimate moments with this hot little twink.

Yeah, Amanda Bines, you killed it as a hot little twink. I understand Bines struggled with gender dysphoria creating this movie and I wanna express full sympathy. That said, in the 2000s, I was murdering people to try to date girls who looked Amanda Bines as a boy. When I say “t-boy energy,” with all the energy and confidence, that’s what I’m talking about.

Half the time, I could almost convince myself I was actually watching a movie about a t-boy just trying to pass in college with his afab body, lying about the orifice tampons pair with, hiding his binder, and putting up with intolerant relatives. I honestly want movies with this exact level of stakes and tone with cute trans kids (but without the slimy aura of “no homo”). You wouldn’t have to change that much for Tatum’s character to realize he’s in love with Bines regardless of gender presentation and be relaxed about it. A lot of us find guys who love the rainbow of gender identity within a single person. 🙂

Bines is a really fun comedian to watch, too. She has a full-body goofiness that looks like a cartoon, and her energy is exactly what the movie needs. Sometimes I get anxious watching fake-identity movies! She’s the Man keeps things funny instead of stressful.

Of course I think the movie would be better with a Viola/Olivia endgame, but I waited until the end of the review to say that, so I deserve a pat on the back.

If there’s any criticism to be had of this entire trilogy, you won’t hear it from me. I’m so attached to this fictional Greek family that I really just say “my cousins” when I’m talking with my actual family about the people in this movie. I love my cousins. As far as I’m concerned, sequels to the original are just like, getting another newsletter about what my Greek cousins are up to. (I am of Irish descent, but probably seeded by Alexander the Great tbh.)

Years after the first movie, Toula’s little girl is in high school and looking at college. Toula’s feeling empty nest vibes real hard. She’s struggling to fill the void in her life by running around and pining for others’ babies, but Ian is looking forward to more time with his smoking-hot wife. The two of them are so hot, I’m rooting for Ian here. Don’t get me wrong: my youngest is nine years old as I write this review and I’ve been dying for babies for *years*. I get Toula *completely*. But Toula and Ian have only gotten hotter since the first movie, and in my soul, I believe they deserve to spend the rest of their lives railing each other without getting cockblocked by children.

Anyway, Toula is mostly hoping her baby will go to college nearby, while Paris (not actually a baby) feels the urge to escape the smothering behemoth of her family. Paris lovingly endures her family really well. Enduring the scrutiny of family who don’t care you’re not their whole entire property is A Lot, and Toula *does* understand. Mostly.

Then scandal unfolds! Toula’s Dad and Mom aren’t legally married! The wedding certificate wasn’t signed, so these adorable elders are ~living in sin~. Yet Mom is reluctant to marry him for realsies, because Dad is a pain in the ass who doesn’t appreciate her. Drama! And also an opportunity for a second big fat Greek wedding, thankfully.

Little new ground is covered here, but it’s done so nicely, I couldn’t care less. The sequel is a series of homages to the first movie, adjusted to fit different characters or different times. Toula’s visual transforms again; Toula and Ian get spicy in the car again; harassment about boys is a problem for Paris now; wedding beats happen again, but transposed over Mom.

We also touch bases with Ian’s parents. I think it’s such an interesting detail: He asks his parents to rely on him more, and they seem sorta confused. Ian wants to be tangled up in *all* his family. As an “Anglo” married into the family, Ian is seldom the focus, but his characterization really grows in moments like these, so he’s also never background.

Predictability is reassuring when you mostly just want to see your cousins have a good time, and they do, so we do too. Love radiates out of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2.” When Toula and Ian go through the ritual of marriage again, I’m beaming with them.

Shout out to Joey Fatone, the best member of NSync, who is also revealed to be my Gay Greek Cousin. We love you Cousin Angelo!

(image credit: Universal Pictures)

Read the comments on a news story any time you see a “hot” older woman having assaulted a young boy. You’ll see loads of people claiming that it’s ridiculous to treat this as a crime. “In my time, this was our fantasy!”

May December has zero patience for this toxic, abusive, nonsense narrative, and spends two hours showing us how absolutely no glossy perception will change the fact this is a way lives are utterly destroyed by child sex abuse.

The actual experience of watching May December is mostly one where you see a monster of a woman become mirrored by another monster of a woman, and it’s done with such high camp – from the soapy piano to the lingering angles and hilarious choices of scene cuts – that it’s easy to get lost in how much of this is just Natalie Portman vs Julianne Moore.

They’re riveting when they go head-to-head, and they provide all the entertainment that brings us back to psychological suspense as a genre. These two give us every ounce of complex-horrible-milf drama that pulls us back again and again to the likes of Gone Girl and Girl on the Train. The long dialogues with a strong focus on slowly unspooling these characters’ glass houses of self-identification is riveting enough to make me giggle-clap.

And then May December gives us Joe.

Joe is in his mid-thirties now, the same age as when he was assaulted, and the children he had with his abuser are all flying away from home. Joe has grown up to be a painfully nurturing soul. He is only allowed to exist in support of Moore’s needs, but he’s found ways to love deeply elsewhere; his protective adoration for his children is as heartwarming as eviscerating, he’s taken a job in medicine, and he nurtures monarch butterfly eggs to adulthood.

We’re given no time to wonder if Joe is okay. He’s not. Moore speaks to him in a clipped, demanding, motherly way, which turns into simpering babygirl talk the instant things aren’t going her way. Joe barely knows how to talk, period, because he’s internalized the fact that he’s not supposed to. He follows Moore’s precise commands from the moment we see him, and that’s before he spends a while crying on the roof because he’s not sure if he’s parenting his son or traumatizing him. Joe has genuinely no idea. He doesn’t know how adults and kids are supposed to interact, but he fights to nurture because Joe wants to protect others from what happened to him.

Julianne Moore’s character was 36 when she began grooming and ultimately assaulted 13-year-old Joe, who was picking up hours at the pet store where she worked. Moore’s character uses a lot of justifications for this: Moore has always been “young” for her age, and Joe has always been “old” for his age as the primary driving factors. This is overwhelmingly a racialized valuation. White women are allowed to be little girls for basically ever, but most others (especially men of color) are burdened with the costs of adulthood immediately.

Bringing in Natalie Portman’s character – an actress who will portray Moore, and is now researching her – isn’t really what starts making everything fall apart, but maybe she makes it happen faster. I’d say it’s not because of what she’s revealing. Everyone in town knows what’s going on, no matter how broadly they smile about it. They carry on the story that everything is great with Moore’s family. They pity her for being so mentally frail at best, and loathe her for being a manipulative psychopath at worst, but everyone is letting the illusion of a happy family persist.

No, everything is already on a trajectory toward disaster before Portman arrives. Joe’s texting a friend about leaving. The kids are leaving too. Moore doesn’t have a real career. Things are fraying. Portman only makes it go faster because she’s on a self-servicing mission of her own. She claims that she’s looking for some massive truth. In fact, she’s looking for an identity to adopt. She begins mimicking Moore so closely, Portman begins drooling over casting photos for the children who might play Joe, and herself becomes a continuation of the abuse against a now-adult man who still hasn’t ever had a relationship on his terms.

Portman is just as insecure in her sense of self as Moore, just as broken. Without an apparent identity of her own, Portman seems like a vampire getting her first drink of blood in months whenever she can slurp up another of Moore’s characteristics. She’s not here to show the skeletons in Moore’s closet. She’s here to build a version of herself that is powerful and will use other people.

The tension surrounding everything builds and builds. It’s obvious things are going to go bad to a nail-biting degree, but where? How? Moore’s character may have a history as an abuse victim. She has a gun. Portman and Melton got close. Moore’s first son is circling. The graduation is coming. The storm is here.

This grand build-up leads where?

Joe’s most mature butterfly ecloses and leaves. His twins graduate high school. He’s relieved he got them to adulthood without the same extent of abuse he suffered – in that they had childhoods at all, period – and we have to cry with him.

And we see Natalie Portman filming her flick. It’s low-budget and tacky. The grandeur collapses into a woman repeating the same seductive line in a baby-lisp to a young model. She put all this work into preparing herself for a flick that ends up with the “hottest” (??!?!?) of young boys as Joe, and she won’t move on from the seduction scene. She wants to keep doing it and redoing it, living in that moment forever of being perfectly powerful, completely powerful, and feeling zero guilt about it.

~

It’s masterful to have us dragged along, enjoying such a soapy, pulpy presentation of characters by two actresses, and then exposed to Melton’s incredibly human performance. May December suggests you might also enjoy the drama these women are enjoying. Is this not fun? But then it points to him and says, “That’s the cost.” It never flinches away from the fact that our tabloid drama comes at the expense of an actual human life. The news stories, the biopics, the miniseries, the movies running for awards, the ravenous hunger artists have to make others’ trauma their gain. At the center of it all is a man whose innocence was stolen and he is not okay about it. And we don’t really get relief on that point. We don’t know he’s going to be okay later. He’s probably not.

This director previously brought us Velvet Goldmine, and I wouldn’t have thought he could create such a masterpiece again, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t pull it off with this one.

(image: Netflix)

There is something caustic and bright and bitter and totally unhinged about 2000s comedies, especially college comedies. Every movie asks you to enter a fantasy world of its construction; comedies of this era made a fantasy where there was only Hot Girls and Ugly Girls. One type existed visibly, with value, and the other type was a makeover away from becoming the first kind, which is important. All women exist relative to their importance to heterosexual white male boners.

The House Bunny resides firmly in a more sympathetic corner of this universe, but nonetheless the same universe, and as a femme who was unlucky enough to turn 20-years-old in 2008, it’s hard to react positively to *any* corner of it. In many ways, The House Bunny externalizes so many of the most toxic ideas that I had managed to internalize from my environment.

It’s remarkable, then, that I could receive The House Bunny without any protective nostalgia (I hadn’t seen it before now!), and still manage to fall smitten with a whole lot of it.

I don’t think there’s much point in talking about anyone but Anna Faris. That’s not to say that there weren’t a lot of great performances – the ensemble is stacked to a ridiculous degree, including Adam Sandler’s favorites and a few smart picks from the outside – but that Anna Faris-with-character-appropriate-fresh-lip-fillers delivers a once-in-a-lifetime performance so singular, I wonder why she never “blew up” bigger in the industry.

The exact same screenplay would have been radically different led by anyone else, and I can’t imagine *anybody* with the combination of comic talents that Anna Faris has. Her warmth, vulnerability, and good humor are matched by a propensity for also suddenly scream-snarling and staggering away from a grate with second-degree-burns. She goes from saying everyone’s names in a monster-voice to being irresistibly sweet to cackle-shriek funny within the same sentence sometimes. I don’t understand how it’s possible to do it in a way that feels lovably authentic.

I want this woman to be my best friend, my mom, my wife, etc.

Also, having always seen Anna Faris in more normal contexts outside of this, like holy shit she’s so banging? Her body? Is? Ridiculous? She looks better than Playboy Bunnies do, and in fact looks better than the beauty standards of the era, which were pretty anemic. I don’t wanna get gross out loud about her physique but, just, damn. I could go on for a while. I will be going on for a while, privately.

(What the hell is wrong with Chris Pratt?)

I’ve never seen Emma Stone this good, either. With the excellence of Faris, nobody should be able to keep up with her, but Stone is actually a perfect foil. They’re such a good girly comic duo, more similar than different, though with wholly different results. Faris’s character is usually sexy when she lets loose because she’s a Sexy Person, but when Stone tries to sexily let loose, she’s off on a rant about mice dressed as Abraham Lincoln, and I like both of them so much.

If I wrote paragraphs about every actress who murdered in this movie, I’d be doing a master’s thesis. Beverly D’Angelo is in the movie. BEVERLY D’ANGELO! Oh my God, I wish she would punch me in the tit. So I just wanna add that Adam Sandler’s friend Dana Goodman playing a Zeta member who is essentially a human yeti is entirely glorious.

I love women too much not to love this movie, basically.

I get the sense that The House Bunny wanted to love women more than the culture of 2008 did, too. Maybe this was the start of something new and better? Most tropes could have been performed more offensively, for however much that means. They veered away from homophobic representations. In fact, in The House Bunny, anything other than heterosexuality is utterly nonexistent, even for the gratification of the male gaze. (Think of how many comedies you’ve seen with excuses made up for straight girls to wrestle and/or kiss.) It’s possible they chose zero gay rep over homophobia. It’s *so* aggressively straight. Again: Zetas may be ugly, disabled, not white, or very hot but pregnant, but they may not be queer.

The movie, my life, and society in general would have been better if Faris and Stone’s characters were capable of seeing how they helped one another become better, and if they could have had a romantic resolution together. Instead, there are two random dudes to reward the girls for their personal growth. Okay fine whatever.

(Yes, I really do think every movie from the 00s would be better with more lesbians and trans women, and considering how brutal that decade was to live through as a girl romancing girls, I shall make no apologies for my unchecked rage.)

The bitterest pill to swallow in retrospect is the myth of Hefner and the Playboy Bunnies, as we know everything happening there was greasy, gross, exploitative, and not nearly as fabulous as the reality show sought to portray it. You have to accept that myth to enjoy this movie because The House Bunny relies upon the idea that Anna Faris could be a pure soul because she was so loved and accepted among her hypersexual sistren at the always-partying Playboy Mansion. It’s gross. It’s all so gross.

And yet.

Remembering details of The House Bunny makes me want to rewatch it already, just because I don’t think I can get enough of Anna Faris in this role. Or Kat Dennings! (Lesbian coded until she becomes Lizzie Maguire coded.) Or Shooter McGavin. Or… But it’s also gross in ways that bother me personally, so I struggle to turn off enough to enjoy it. I bet I would love loved it in 2008.

I think it would be fair to say this is a great comedy made by huge talents in an era that was a cultural wasteland for America. I don’t love revisiting my young adulthood’s pop culture, but I’m glad I did for this one specifically.

(illustration credit: me)

I can’t rapture over this flick without some visual aids. All images in this post are credited to Apple.~

Storytelling is the most ancient human art; acting out those stories is presumably equally old. In such terms, Shakespeare’s stories aren’t *so* old, and we certainly have older. But the kind of story that Shakespeare tells through MacBeth is a very ancient story indeed, about hubris and power and the ability of a breathtakingly badass monster wife to make her husband dance. The play is a now-historic look at even more historic tropes.

I’m not the only one who never gets tired of getting yet another look at these stories with the newest iteration of storytelling sensibilities. I mean, at this point, I’ve seen a lot of “new” takes on Shakespeare!

When I grew up, the Hot Current Take on Shakespeare was emphasizing how much of it easily transposed to modern drama. 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s the Man, and even the anachronistic Shakespeare in Love all have a very particular delighted way of playing with the tropes, for instance. The Lion King gave us Hamlet for Kids. We also got dramas transposing the entire social culture of society upon street gangs in West Side Story.

Joel Cohen, sans the Other Cohen, expressed his appreciation for this most ancient story in a fascinatingly retrocontemporary style. The Tragedy of MacBeth is as much a love letter to the golden age of cinema as it is to theater, Shakespeare’s work, and the art of acting.

Visuals are compelling and minimalist. It looks like they filmed in a Los Angeles mansion, part brutalist concrete architecture and part Spanish colonial, but research* informed me that these were all sound stages. (*My research is “Rory told me they read it in an article.)

Perhaps Coen wanted old world of Macbeth to look like somewhere that a king might live in modern California, transposed onto the fashionably bleak surfaces. It reminds me of Old Hollywood. If Gene Kelly had tap-danced into the technicolor universe of Oz, he probably would have originated from this black-and-white palace instead of Dorothy’s Kansas farmland.

We never make it to Kansas. The world always feels very small, like you’re either sitting in a black box theater or Duncan was ruling from a walled enclave in the apocalypse. A snowglobe of staring trees, biting archways, and hollow hallways that hear every single whispered monologue. It starts small and it irises tight around MacBeth until he chokes.

Rory had an interesting observation about the extremely stark cinematography in this flick: it’s a lot like the effect the cinematographer of Villeneuve’s Dune sought to get across, except mostly with sandstone faces.

We both agree that it’s taken further, and more effective, in The Tragedy of MacBeth.

Committed performances from some of our generations greatest actors are, of course, fantastic. Just listening to Denzel purr, chuckle, bark, and menace his way through the character arc is a treat. If this was just an audiobook of Denzel Reads MacBeth, I’d be basically just as happy. It’s impossible not to love MacBeth early in the play, fraternally affable, just as it’s impossible to feel bad for him once he loses. And my God does the man deserve to lose.

Any of us could be swayed by the ravenous cruelty of Frances McDormand as Lady MacBeth, and we’d deserve to take the same fall that both of these characters do–literally, in her case. It’s stunning to watch her ambition build a fragile house of daggers around her husband, who is ill-suited to wear the crown, and then watch every single knife gash this woman to the bone as her house falls apart. Some actresses were just born for the role I guess. She kills.

Though none carry the dramatic responsibility so much as these two leads, the witches portrayed by Kathryn Hunter are a deeply unsettling modern dance act, and it’s sorta crazy that Moses Ingram brought so much character to Lady MacDuff with so little time. The actor playing her kid was soooo cute and seemed to be having fun, so I couldn’t get too mad about the MacDuffs getting offed, but the performance makes it seem extra-stupid for MacDuff to leave them behind. What a MacDick. I still rooted for him against Denzel though, and that’s saying something.

Generally, I guess, my favorite part is how well this movie really does interpret Shakespeare’s dialogue-only scripts in a way that makes the intrigue so clear. Every character feels well-understood. Their roles are defined. In the hands of Joel Cohen, an ancient story I’ve struggled to parse sometimes in the past becomes clear as Game of Thrones.

And I don’t even need the characters to be in high school, sarcastic, and dressed fashionably to care about the story anymore. I think that means we (myself, the culture) are growing up.

I posit there are really two ways you should watch this movie though:

For the first time, in a normal way, paying attention, enjoying how badass the story is and how great the performances are. The spacious sound design is eerie. The beating heart-type sounds drag you into madness right with MacBeth. This is a horror movie, and it’s incredible.

And then watch it a second time muted. No sound! Just visuals.

Look at the rhythms of the set design. Just as spacious and eerie as the sounds. As beautiful as paintings.

A rapture!

I love this damn movie.

In the spirit of movies like Before Sunrise and My Dinner With Andre, What Happens Later is essentially a 1.5-hour long conversation between your dad and the woman he loved when he was thirty. Willa and Bill get snowed into an airport overnight and have a postmortem about their romance, which ended twenty-five years earlier.

When I first saw this movie announced, I promptly ran off to buy and read the stage play upon which it is based. The trailers made everything look so shiny/stylized/simplistic that I kinda thought the leads were dead, and the airport was Purgatory. The title also supports such a reading. I could not get emotionally invested until I knew if this was the case.

I’ll try to refrain from spoilers otherwise, but I’ll tell you this: They’re not dead.

Phew.

Now that we know these adorable Boomers are alive, we can appreciate what’s actually a stylized rumination about love and life. Romcom sweetheart Meg Ryan has spent much of her career living through the love stories of fictional people who usually never age past their thirties; now she’s “forty-nine years old” (respectful cough) but still thinking about what love means.

Ryan and Duchovny have a great rapport, especially if you’re fond of the kind of romcom where the leads bicker for a while. The development of their relationship throughout the movie changes in a dramatic but expectedly tropey direction, and it all feels very natural.

Like the play, the history between these two is revealed slowly through dialogue as they begin to open up to one another. And once we see how and why the two of them never healed after each other, I got weepy! It was so well-performed. I really didn’t think I could like Duchovny enough to care, but I really, really cared.

The stylized elements make it clear the whole time that these two need to be brought together so they can connect and heal. It’s the most fundamentally romcom element. Turning away from love left them unhealed for years, but as soon as they got back into it, they could find a way to be whole again. It feels like Meg Ryan is shouting the thesis statement of her career into the universe with What Happens Later: Love each other, darnit! Love makes it better!

Meg Ryan’s style as a director is all over this movie, and I gotta say, I love how spacious it is. She likes to give cuts room to breathe. She frames everything like paintings, focusing on composition, geometry, and values in order to create moments that look the way they feel. I would love to see more just like this from Meg Ryan. I know there’s a big appetite for romances featuring people older than thirty-five, forty-five, and older. There’s no age where this message loses its shine. I’m here to support you, Meg Ryan!

This is a really nice holiday romcom that belongs on the shelf with your other warm cozy holiday flicks, although there is more of an HFN than an HEA. But there’s plenty of room to imagine an HEA if you want one. I like how the movie doesn’t *need* an HEA. (I totally am imagining one.)

(image source: Bleecker Street)