by Louie Pelingen | Feb 20, 2026
Written by Louis Pelingen
Spoiler warning
When she was 14, Emerald Fennell got her hands on reading her very first book – Emily Brontë’s classic novel, Wuthering Heights. It tells the story of Catherine and Heathcliff, the two main leads, who have fallen in love throughout the novel as it unfolds across heavy themes of abuse, race, fractured social class, and other crushing emotions that spurred a thorny conversation surrounding the plot that these two characters are heavily involved in. Of course, given the enthralled stasis of impressionable teenagers, the overarching sternness is not what captivated her. To her, the gratuitously romantic and sexual appetite that Catherine and Heathcliff have shown is an important emotional becoming for her entire life. It’s a life-changing moment for the young Emerald Fennell, and how that ragged emotionality eventually sprinkles over the way she processes her films later down the line. Messy and tangled, for better and for worse.
Given such a moment in her life, she’s not about to deny the chance of adapting that classic novel… Only if she makes it her own. Throughout the entire process, she’d immediately acknowledge the difficulty of adapting the novel alongside the fact that she won’t end up with the definitive version of it, a state of self-awareness that reflects in her creative ethos. Hence, instead of leaning towards the novel’s accuracy, which explains the decisions she made later on, she essentially looked at her initial experience of first going through the novel and made it the basis of how she leans into her adaptation.
Now, all of this has led to her version of “Wuthering Heights” – double quotations intentionally included – as this is her overall reading of the story, satiating a personal indulgence where her emotions imagine Wuthering Heights as a power fantasy, full of ornate stylism and overtly romantic hubris. Going so far as to the revered pop mind of Charli XCX, the immense star power of Jacob Elordi, Margot Robbie, and Hong Chau, then transforming all of it based on that starry-eyed view of her younger self.
For her, the love between Catherine and Heathcliff is what makes the novel a sticking point, and she emphasizes such pathos across tasteful camera frameworks, decorated costumes, and impassioned color palettes as the plot unfolds. Deliberately painting away Catherine’s wild expressionistic spirit whose love becomes sweeping, yet becomes a testing point when it now revolves around the poor servant Heathcliff and the rich elite Edgar – her husband, whom she swoons over in the beginning. Such love becomes the connective tissue that embroils the talking points of class, sex, and intensity. All of which has tangled into the layers of jealousy between Isabella, the betrayal with Nelly, and the conflicted yearning with Heathcliff that tumbles down later across the film.
As it develops, for a tale of class divide, sexual appetites, and impassioned romanticism, those potent ideas gets tossed in the air as the film starts shedding away its grandeur to present something less evocative, not because of Fennell leaning hard onto those romantic affectations that drastically cuts away the deep-seated thorniness of the novel, but how all this stylism simultaneously pops and deflates. This approach becomes distractingly baffling, as the set design and cinematography become garish, boorish, and lackluster overall. Splitting hairs between emphasizing her pompous vision and reminding of the weight that the plot ultimately carries, a creative choice that creates a push-and-pull conflict throughout the film. It’s saturated, but also understated. The lighting plays into chiaroscuro techniques, but it doesn’t evoke immense highlights as it gets subsumed by the frequent gloomy mist. Additionally, the pacing spends the entirety of its runtime frequently dragging to a dull slow burn, mostly due to plenty of lousy structural moments where Charli XCX’s original songs are placed on top of these mostly fleeting montage sequences, letting these songs tell what is being felt, rather than developing these scenes to speak more.
The problems only deepen, mostly coming through two things. The first one is the performances. For as heavy-hitter as she is, Margot Robbie’s portrayal of Catherine only works wonders when her character gets emotionally intricate; yet throughout, her stately expressiveness does not really play over the initially wild, giddy spirit of Catherine, nor the eventual winding timidness when she starts to starve herself. It becomes a confounding factor as the rest of her main cast performances – notably Hong Chau, and Alison Oliver – completely outshine her, and surprisingly so.
Her fellow lead, Jacob Elordi, also falls weirdly short as Heathcliff. He portrays him tastefully as one-note, an eyebrow-raising moment as his character develops more with spite and terror, expressions that Elordi didn’t fully capture. He does play Heathcliff’s alluring beauty and mystique, but not exactly much when he is in a state of pent-up anger or desperation, essential characteristics that are somehow emphasized as the story progresses.
Yet the main issue here is that Fennell’s personal objectives in her version of “Wuthering Heights” just do not translate as a whole. The aspect of sexual pleasure and sadomasochism becomes a tame gesture, with the former frolicking across close-ups of snail trails, egg yolks, and sweaty backs that would timidly expose montages of healthy and unhealthy pleasures, and the latter minutely utilized as a fragile plot device for Heathcliff to turn into a darker side of himself. Both of which also plaster an underwhelming portrayal of the class divide, where the poor are seen as sexual deviants and the rich consider themselves to be pure. Its intrigue only had its transgressive development when Heathcliff manages to forcibly marry Isabella Linton, both of which tries to one-up each other through sexual domination amidst extremely vanilla kinks.
This leads to Isabella seeing him as a monster. A creature. A devil in disguise. All descriptors that expose who Heathcliff has become from his life experiences: a man who has dealt with physical abuse, emotionally ruined by how he is perceived for his status as a servant, and gets to have his heart broken further due to his clashes with Catherine despite the heartfelt revelations that they’ve gone through. Yet such means to evoke empathy for his tragic experiences didn’t stick the landing. Without further sharpening the connection of the class divide with the sensual desires, this puts a sour note on Heathcliff as a whole. It devolves the intent of seeing him as a romantic who felt like desire is the only tool he has; instead, he is seen as nothing but a studded brute who is aimlessly careless with his desires, and it just makes him less interesting as a character.
The build-up of his heel turn from the last 45 to 30 minutes led to the adaptation getting close to working. The emotional stakes are now in full view when Catherine clutches her fallible emotions upon the return of Heathcliff, leading to sequences of power dynamics, tempting infidelity, and evocative dramatics that only ensnare the tension across the main cast of characters. It’s the only moment where Fennell’s overall vision hits its stride, as it finally plays into the evocatively raving emotions where the tension fully erupts, a much-needed shift from the willowy romantic ploys that diffuse the deeper character dynamics of Catherine and Heathcliff. It results in an observation of their relationship that is emotionally empty, and only grips towards the very end. It’s a tragic attempt at crystallizing their recklessly tangible love.
While it needs to be said that her way of adapting Wuthering Heights into “Wuthering Heights” is no means a bad idea – at the end of the day, she does get what she wanted out of this – the implementations of stylistic flair only trickles down to concepts executed with shallow chains of passion, wearing pop decadence that underscores its exorbitant flaws. It is tasteful as it is airy, memorable as it is forgetful, and elegant as it is hollow. An attempt to turn the novel through the eyes of her romantically impassioned young self, but it becomes less desirable than what Fennell initially imagined. It may have stayed with you through all its fancy decorations, yet it only reaches its height when it is about to shed its glamour, and leaves you with an empty void that can’t be satiated.
by Louie Pelingen | Feb 18, 2026
Written by Bernard James N. Lopez
RPG Metanoia is one of those films that you would watch on a weekend after playing outside, one that brings nostalgia if someone were to watch it in this day and age, with how the film integrates the childhood of most Filipinos such as the casts playing traditional Filipino games, as well as incorporating the computer shops gamers would go to. For an animated film made back in 2010, RPG Metanoia was remarkably well done. While some may argue that the film’s animation was not smooth. The early 3D-computer animation style really works in the film’s favor. With the theme of the film revolving around MMORPG’s, the slightly rigid and early 3d game rendering enhances the immersion rather than straying from it, overall the animation and style really adds another dimension in regards to the world building of the film.
Notably, the voice acting for the characters was entertaining as well. One would be familiar with the voices of the main cast as actors like Zaijian Jaranilla who shared his voice with the main character—Nico, in which he delivered a youthful and energetic performance that captures both his enthusiasm for the game as well as his immaturity when it comes to handling real-life situations. The children characters benefited from the exaggerated tones which set up strong comedic timing, making the group’s interactions more lively and entertaining.
Beyond the film’s visuals and voice acting, RPG Metanoia explores themes of friendship, growing up, and the line between virtual and real identities. Nico’s attachment to the game showcases how he finds a sense of belonging in a space he knows how to navigate—the virtual world. In the game he feels competent and valued, contrary to his actions with the real world, where he is held back by his hesitation. When faced with challenges outside the screen especially when he fails, he withdraws and retreats back to online gaming. This behavior creates tension not only with his family, who only wants him to experience the world outside a screen, but also with his friends, where his reluctance in fear of failure alters how they interact with him.
That said, emotional moments such as Nico’s internal conflict, feel undeveloped as it is resolved somewhat quickly. While the film’s directness makes its message accessible to its main target audience—the kids, it limits the film’s potential to explore the depths of its emotional and thematic exploration. As a result, the film is able to present its meaningful ideas but ultimately limits its idea for a bigger narrative.
Overall, RPG Metanoia is nostalgic and culturally impactful as it is the very first 3d animated feature film. It remains a meaningful piece in local cinema, especially to those who grew up with online games and Filipino pop culture.
by Louie Pelingen | Feb 15, 2026
Written By: Kenzo Funtanares
Spoilers Ahead
A simple but suspenseful and disgustingly slimy fun time. Director Sam Raimi’s return to full-fledged horror and thriller in years does not hold back in his usual styling and recurring themes, and rather shows us that the man has still got it with his well-known bag of visual tricks, creatively energetic camera movement, and his well known love of dumping buckets of blood, vomit, and other gross gunk on his actors, as it could be plucked straight out of a classic 90s collection of horror and thrillers. Such a genre has always throughout the years been used as a form of expressing social commentary of its contemporary culture and issues, and on top of being a gross-fun deserted island survival thriller with very fun performances with its two leads, also explores topics relating to workplace nepotism and misogyny.
The film’s lead, Linda Liddle, played excellently by Rachel McAdams, is shown as the sad, often ignored loser type who gets disregarded and undermined by her peers, although is established early on to have a special interest in nature and wildlife survival. As she is suddenly put upon a business trip she has no business being involved in, the plane fails and crashes through sequences of classic Raimi crash-zooms and sudden jumpscares, and is suddenly washed up to a seemingly deserted island leaving her and her borderline manchild, rich spoiled brat of a boss, also played excellently by Dylan O’Brien, as the only two stranded on said island. Right away, we get to see Linda flexing her clear passion and skill in nature survival as she also tends to the injuries of O’Brien’s Bradley Preston, establishing a clear change in leadership dynamics.
We the audience at first get to enjoy the vindication of seeing the usually disregarded hard worker be put in the position where their importance and strengths get to shine and be seen by their peers (or in this case just one peer), and the usually high positioned irresponsible boss who never truly commits to doing hard work gets humbled, wherein the island is a plot device where such a situation can take place, an escape from the cold, calculating corporate world in favor of the simple, peaceful beach provided by nature.
The film also contains nuance in character with its two leads. Although the way such nuance was depicted can feel like either a strength or a flaw depending on when and where in the plot it happens. As the film goes on, Linda’s sanity begins to slip further and further, dipping into genuinely sinister behavior, although seeing her unfortunate situation and position at the start of the story makes it clear and in some cases understandable where her anger and sudden sadistic behavior is coming from, she starts to enjoy her situation a little too much to the point of actively avoiding and destroying any sign or way of her and Bradley leaving the island, her one place where she gets to feel like the boss, much to the detriment of her actual boss.
At the same time, we are also shown the perspective of Bradley, the rich son of the company CEO, given the aforementioned role after his father’s passing, making his way to the top through nepotism. Throughout his arc, he is given the chance to show his humanistic side, encouraging him to reflect on his rotten behavior and his background as a neglected son growing up, also revealing that he truly does care about certain people, such as his fiance, albeit continuing to lean into his selfish self-centered behavior on more than one occasion, making his true motives and whether he has truly changed for the better most times confusing and unclear. The two opposing personalities would wind up in a visually ecstatic fight to the death by the climax, with moralities as muddy as the ground they battle in, a sequence where Raimi once again gets to bask in his frantic stylisms.
Although the earlier mentioned character progressions and deep study into their psyche is in fact a strength in the film, as well as being very entertaining to see unfold, their arcs end up leaving a sense of tonal disorientation as its final act makes it somewhat tonally unclear which of the two leads to truly root for, and whether the final outcome truly leaves its last person standing as morally good as innocent lives were also taken in the process (although it can be argued that such moral ambiguity makes for an entertaining viewing in an outsider’s perspective). On top of it all, the film overall is still a common survival horror film that doesn’t particularly reach new unique heights, although still does have an edge in its depth in writing being above the average two-dimensional level of complexity other films in the genre are often given, and being a Raimi-directed film, a welcoming return to his humble roots of a familiar genre where he made his first found fame.
by Louie Pelingen | Feb 12, 2026
Written by: Louis Pelingen
The concept of a film made as a love letter to cinema becomes an ambitious take that goes both ways: it succeeds in showcasing cinema’s encapsulating beauty, or it fails to do so, as personal indulgence seeps through the cracks. There is no shortage of such a concept, and for good reason. Film becomes a piece that crafts an experience like no other, demanding all your senses as we pay attention to what is being told and remembered on screen. Yet, to make an engrossing concept land becomes an impassioned effort, where grandeur and scope have to come from its rich past, then make meaning of it all in the present.
Yet, throughout the ebb and flow of Bi Gan’s recently crafted film, ‘Resurrection’, he aims to shake things up a lot more. Crafting a film piece that delves into immense depths, allowing for more layered insights surrounding the essence of cinema and history to erupt in vast fashion. He still showcases the overall decadence of its cinematic power, but he’s also willing to focus more on the fractures and weight that can only be pulled together within the process of filmmaking as a whole.
From beginning to end, you can’t help but be invited to the technical masquerade that spills forth from every seam. In each chapter, there’s a variation towards the colors, camera shots, and visual techniques that contain the stories being told into their own segments. Emphasizing different temperaments and dynamics in every passing turn, where Bi Gan’s creative imprint towards synchronizing the stylistic visuals with meaningful tonal flair is masterful. For the entire three-hour runtime, you can’t keep your eyes away from the marvellous technicolor that’s on display, immersing you into the meaningful thoughts and emotions that are being placed down.
It is all through what the film imparts that becomes its strongest aspect. Putting the focus of the story within a future where dreaming is completely surrendered, and immortality is ever so prioritized. Yet, through the presence of derilients – people who still have the capability to dream – they become a cusp of hope that’s been searched by rogue dreamers known as the other ones / fantasmers. One such derilient (played by Jackson Yee) has been discovered by an other one (played by Shu Qi), and as a way to fulfill her responsibility, she inserts a film within the derilient, letting him go through the lives of individuals in various moments of time and circumstances. It is within this chronological structure, paired with the technical marvel alongside gripping performances, that fuels the sense of place and voice that this film continues to immerse within. Where all the fleeting individuals and their melancholic situations who lived across these set pieces allure the senses, and encourage the derilient to dream further across time and space, with eras that echoes around Chinese history and Buddhist thought.
Yet, as the film continues to unfold these stories, it also leaps into layered statements that become ‘Resurrection’s important centrepiece. There is an emphasis on how film as a whole not just carries stirring beauty, but also an imaginative essence that glows so brightly. A subtle acknowledgement of how the cast and crew become responsible for the heartbeat of the film that keeps on breathing, and provides an immersive feeling that can’t be taken away easily. It all becomes a reminder that allows people to dream amidst their limited lives, wherein, despite witnessing the conclusion of a film, the experiences do not stop there. There is always a resonance that will bubble up every time they remind themselves of what went on in such a cinematic narrative, and remember the moments that stuck with them.
With all that being said, this buoyant thematic scope increases the chances of landing gloriously and falling hard. Yet even with those risks laid down upon Bi Gan, he manages to walk that tightrope of crafting a script that synthesizes the concepts of Chinese history, buddhist philosophy, and the evolving flow of filmmaking and flesh out all their evocative details in full throttle – even with the constraints of developing the last chapter in its best capacity. Such an overwhelmingly breathtaking and reflective concept can only be finetuned by someone who knows what they’re doing and still fleshes everything out with or without such struggles. It might be a bit elusive to get through at spots given its dreamy and maze-like structure, but once given the time to process, it’s where the beauty of Resurrection surfaces. Your consciousness is elated. Your senses are stimulated.
Thus, within Resurrection, Bi Gan lets the cinematic heft become not just an ode to film itself, but also a reflection. One echoed through the historical and emotional depths of China, where its richness magnificently goes hand in hand with the constant evolution and magnetic essence of film as an artistic process and emotional fragment. Pulling all such verbose concepts with an approach that is outwardly vast and curious.
Even if there is such a conclusion, the important matter is to simmer the films that we take in, and engage in conversation with others. Through such acts, we can only find the emotions and passions resurrected once more. Such is the grand escapades of film itself.
by Louie Pelingen | Dec 23, 2025
Written by Louis Pelingen
Note: Spoilers Ahead.
Back in 2023, the lauded praise of Gitling was a sight to behold. The sort of film whose attention is gradually spread around, winning awards and applause from critics and audience alike. Creating so much hype that just by looking at the local film circles shouting for theatrical screenings or digital streaming releases, such demands just never stop, only creating more ripples as time goes on. Thus, 2 years have passed, and now, through Juanflix, Gitling has finally been pushed. The anticipation has finally met with a glowing reward.
The film’s emphasis on language and communication is immediately introduced within the very first seconds, showcasing the multiple languages that will be utilized throughout the film. Their own assigned colors reflect through Mycko David’s grounded cinematography. Still shots always permeate, with color palettes that firmly add tasteful beauty to the conversations between the Filipino translator, Jamie Lazaro (Gabby Padilla), and the Japanese filmmaker, Makoto Kanno (Ken Yamamura), being displayed onscreen. Observing how these two characters slowly bond, adjusting their languages from time to time as a means of knowing one another.
Interactions between Jamie and Makoto are understated; barriers between their conversations are riddled with subtitles, allowing the audience to pay more attention to the experiences these two have gone through in their lives as they remain alone within the hushed fields of Bacolod. The past romance that is crushed through their very circumstances, questions in their lives that they still haven’t answered, and conflicts in their current happenings that they always discuss… Yet brushed aside when it starts to get closer to their purview.
At first glance, there is an intention to this characteristic of silent distance. Even going so far as add meta-text to how it is not just these two characters trying to understand their dilemmas within understanding the conflicts within their past relationships, but it echoes towards the audience and critics that may have more than one interpretation of how they might understand the messaging and framing of the scenes being played out in films, and the intent of the director that can obfuscate or invite them to what they want to exactly reveal. It’s why, on the surface, the blunt subtlety becomes a purpose, especially in terms of making Gitling’s overall messaging become clear-cut to one message that everybody can understand.
Yet, all over the film, there is this constant frustration in how Jopy Arnaldo’s screenplay becomes emotionally and thematically more dull the more time these conversations fly by. Language in this case becomes a device that paradoxically does not serve more of what these characters or the plot try to express. Heavily reliant on the dialogue to the point that the visual storytelling is subsided to a fault, where even if the ‘tell not show’ format becomes an argument to the barrier that comes in Jamie and Makoto understanding each other, it also ends up being a distancing effect to the viewer themselves. Always stationary and grounded, where there’s only so much that this dialogue-heavy approach can offer when there’s not much in the way of imagery or emotion being built up in all the nuance being laid down.
The film also runs into the problem of dropping crumbs of interesting ideas, but never exactly focusing on them. The balancing act between the examination of tension that underscores Jamie and Makoto’s lives and the reasonable yet shallow literary and film reference points to accentuate the meta-text becomes disjointed. The made-up language that gets introduced later in the film as a way for these characters to bond over language never takes over, just placed down as a cute add-on. And the sense of yearning that the film aims to showcase never blooms at all, relying so much on the stale scriptwriting that Gabby Padilla and Ken Yamamura’s potent performances try so hard to uplift, yet when the blunt direction doesn’t allow the emotions to manifest on screen, even their acting just couldn’t inform the yearning being placed on its literal text.
It does not help matters that the film constantly creates nods and references to this specific brand of subtle and dreamlike asian filmmaking sensibilities that others before it have done more effectively (Wong Kar Wai and Hirokazu Kore-Eda come to mind), something that the extremely kitschy score and the overtly tasteful cinematography end up being a flagrant sin. Chamber instrumentation forces itself into the scenes that do not amplify its feelings and ends up becoming infuriatingly needless, and vibrant colors and still shots that may look pretty, but when paired with the script itself, they become headscratchingly tacky. Easily made for creating a moodboard for aesthetic consumption, and never adding impact to the plot itself.
There is a point in the film where Makoto Kanno explains why he let his film become silent on its last leg, explaining how the insertion of subtitles internalizes the thoughts of his characters, the need for exact understanding is there to bear. It’s a moment of needing to have clarity on what his characters express, a reflection of his own identity whose overwhelming thoughts wander and land elsewhere. A moment of meta-text that, while intriguing, becomes underwhelming when applied to Gitling itself. Not just through introducing it late in the film, but also sparingly placing them within scenes that don’t really benefit them.
It’s a headscratcher having to put on those frustrations, because there is no denying that Gitling carries a well of charged potential that comes from its essential ideas. The meta-commentary surrounding mutual understanding is paralleled within its subtitles and silence that’s deliberate in showcasing what Jamie and Makoto really feel. An observation of their reserved reality that is still presented with a semblance of colors, where, despite the muted tension that these characters carry in their relationships, their simple exchanges surrounding their interest in film, literature, and language share more meaning in the world than any sort of visual symbolism that can be placed elsewhere. There is something worth looking for here, a gateway film for those who are still new to this brand of low-key, moody Asian filmmaking that mentions other adjacent films, which can further deepen their appreciation for them. And given that it is streaming on Juanflix, at the very least, that accessibility can lead them to more films worth checking out as well.
But in short, personally, Gitling is a film whose initially fascinating concept runs so long, yet it doesn’t do much to further capitalize on its essence. Language within dialogue is blunt yet also limiting; emphasis on the emotions inhabiting Jamie and Makoto doesn’t come off as enrapturing, and replication of Asian filmmaking aesthetics becomes less effective, more inert. It might sound and look pretty in the distance, but look even closer, and the mood it nurtures unfortunately just falls flat. Its language is completely understood, but it speaks without feeling. That itself hurts more.
by Sami Salazar | Sep 19, 2025
Written by Louis Pelingen
Note: Spoilers Ahead.
‘Some Nights I Feel Like Walking’, the recently screened film by Petersen Vargas, is inhabited by queer street hustlers who’ll do anything to survive. Cruising in whatever establishments are available for them and participating in paid dates to earn their keep, situations rife with ecstasy where drugs are in high supply and naked bodies are vulnerably exposed, a heightened risk that shunned and isolated queer men have to accept. It is the reality that these lost souls undergo within the shadowy place of Manila, always engaging in other men’s lust despite acknowledging how temporary it all is. After all, lust can be easily felt, but intimacy is a gradual process that needs to be earned.
This general setup is tested when one of Uno’s (Jomari Angeles) closest friends, Miguelito (Gold Aceron), dies due to a drug overdose given by a reckless male client. A sudden incident that requires being faced under pressure. Uno, his other friends, and his newfound companion, Zion (Miguel Odron), now have to travel to the province to accomplish Miguelito’s final wish: to take him back to his home.
Across the film, it is within the performances of the main cast that harness the essence of queer bond. From Uno’s deliberate leadership, Bayani’s (Argel Saycon) protective demeanor, Rush’s (Tommy Alejandrino) emotive essence, and Zion’s shy yet methodical assistance are a dynamic that bounces off with another. They are the connective tissues that keep the film together, where moments of trust, disruption, and intimacy amongst one another unfold in insightful ways.
Of course, the technical aspects also add to the film’s overall beauty. Gorgeously lit lighting adds gloss to Russel Morton’s shots of the bodies and the faces sighted under the nocturnal settings of Manila and beyond; bursts of jaunty budots, darkly tinged beats, and shimmering electronica by Aly and Moe Cabral add a spectral flair to the intimate and the emotional; Eddie Huang’s focused sound design can be heard across subtle splashes of water, sharp footsteps, and crackles of fire that simultaneously soothes and snares the relationships between the cast.
Yet, for as much as the film is enraptured by the performances and all that technical detail, it’s diluted by how the film progresses. The road trip to Miguelito’s province becomes a bump to the first half’s gutwrenching grief. Dreamy sequences that are pretty to look at become diffused from the overall structure. The third act’s bold long take finds Zion and Uno in the space of the metaphysical and the physical, yet certain set pieces are engrossing when they tie into the film’s emotional thesis. Parsing through multiple stripes of amorphous backdrops that it never capitalizes on creating stronger connections to the characters themselves. An aspect that’s chained bit by bit, yet only clicks the most with the ending, where finally, the main ensemble lets go of their deceased friend in both the literal and the metaphorical sense. Their bonds become ever closer through the warm hug that they huddle into. Within this moment, their bodies are theirs to cherish, yet still willing to extend their tenderness to the bonds they’ve made with one another.
It is this conflicting dichotomy of the presentation and the structure that leaves ‘Some Nights I Feel Like Walking’ colder than it should be. Carried by eye-capturing performances, alongside scintillating visual and auditory design, but is held back by plot choices that distance the emotional resonance from themes of queer camaraderie and naked embrace of closeness that these queer men have with one another. It’s a flame whose heat should go bigger and brighter, but instead, its warmth only frustratingly stagnates till the very end.
