It’s been a busy year for Luca Guadagnino. His tantalizing tennis drama, Challengers, was released earlier this year to widespread acclaim. With its frenetic narrative structure, sharp dialogue and pulsing EDM score, the film has remained a top contender for best of the year since April. Now, with Queer, based on a William S. Burroughs book, Guadagnino teams up again with many of the collaborators who made Challengers so impactful: screenwriter Justin Kuritzkes, cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom, composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross and costume designer Jonathan Anderson. Remarkably, the film, set in 1950s Mexico City, still bears the mark of an artist at the height of his powers—though at times a bit loose on the leash.
Lee, portrayed superbly by Daniel Craig, is an American expat living in Mexico City, frequenting bars with other Americans, waxing philosophical and drinking heavily. With a title as stark as Queer, one might assume sexuality would be a significant source of conflict, but that’s not entirely the case. Though locals seem mildly annoyed by his obnoxious “gringo” behavior, 1950s Mexico City serves as a safe haven for gay Americans. Lee brings men back to motels for sex without trouble. He’s also a heroin addict, which shapes his personality more subtly than expected after an initial scene of him shooting up. Enter Eugene, played by Drew Starkey, another American who captivates Lee, but with whom he can’t seem to forge a connection. This “will they, won’t they” dynamic between Lee and Eugene drives the plot—though “sort of” is the operative term. Eugene is more than just a love interest; he’s a new addiction.
Craig embodies Lee’s longing for Eugene with remarkable restraint. He’s boisterous and loud, but in private scenes, Guadagnino reveals a ghostly side of Lee reaching out to kiss Eugene. Earlier, Lee dissociates while talking to a friend, his body morphing slowly into television static—a visual reminiscent of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return, perhaps a bit too reminiscent, particularly after a dream sequence involving disembodied figures and a maze-like room. These glimpses into Lee’s mind give clues to the true nature of the plot. Even after Lee and Eugene have sex early in the film, the longing persists. “Talking without speaking” is a recurring phrase, as if Lee seeks a connection that transcends the physical and emotional—believing Eugene holds the answer.
Unfortunately for viewers following Lee’s journey for connection, Eugene is somewhat of an empty character, and Drew Starkey plays him as such. His disinterest in Lee is puzzling, especially since the film itself seems consumed by him. Eugene’s motivations for staying connected with Lee are hard to read—perhaps intentionally so, as this is ultimately Lee’s story. For Lee’s drastic actions in the third act to feel believable, Eugene needs to remain distant yet intriguing. With every close-up of his face, we seem to understand less about him. Though it’s difficult to buy into Lee’s obsession, the film takes meaningful strides to convey that obsession. Another phrase repeated by different characters is, “I’m not queer. I’m disembodied.” What initially seems like a denial of self ultimately reveals a profound self-awareness about Lee.
The film is bathed in a dreamlike atmosphere, enhanced by meticulously constructed sets. Most scenes were shot on soundstages with a hyper-stylized look reminiscent of Douglas Sirk’s melodramas. Exterior establishing shots often use miniatures, stop motion and painted backgrounds, creating an unsettling yet inviting environment—much like settling into a self-destructive situation. This concept extends to Lee’s white linen suit, which starts the film pristine and immaculate but becomes progressively dirtier and more worn, as though Lee never removes it, suggesting he’s slowly unraveling along with it.
The “space out of time” motif extends to the soundtrack. The film is filled with non-period-appropriate needle drops, opening with a cover of Nirvana’s “All Apologies” by Sinéad O’Connor, followed by additional Nirvana tracks. Rather than feeling like a Baz Luhrmann-style playlist, this choice aligns with the film’s presentation—not as a linear narrative but as a story remembered by the protagonist later in life. Though Nirvana didn’t exist in the 1950s, “Come As You Are” resonates with the character more than any period-appropriate music could.
About an hour and a half into the two-hour, 15-minute Queer, the tone abruptly shifts from the moody, contemplative first chapter. This jarring transition appears intentional, mirroring Lee’s obsessions and desires with the intensity of an addict. By the third act, we’re in a jungle, where Leslie Manville portrays a character resembling a blend of Col. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now and Alfred Molina’s role in Boogie Nights. Her mission in the Ecuadorian jungle is to find ayahuasca, rumored to have telepathic properties. Even in his most unhinged moments, Lee remains focused on one goal: connection. During Lee and Eugene’s ayahuasca trip, the audience is treated to one of the most bizarrely beautiful choreographed sequences in recent cinema—a haunting and sensual scene that feels distinctly Guadagnino, evoking the unique vision behind Call Me By Your Name and Suspiria (2018).
4 out of 5 stars.
Queer is a captivating film that brings Luca Guadagnino’s 2024 record to 2-0. Though it may not be as crowd-pleasing as Challengers, it delivers a provocative character study likely to be enriched by multiple viewings. Daniel Craig gives an all-in performance in a role that feels fresh for him.
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