QUEER: Guadagnino Delivers Once Again [REVIEW]

Love, though often beautiful, selfless, and noble, can also be a wretched and humiliating experience—especially when it remains unrequited. William Lee (brilliantly played by Daniel Craig) unfortunately finds himself entangled in the latter kind. Hopelessly in love with a young man whose features and physique resemble a modern-day Adonis, he aimlessly wanders the sandy streets of Mexico City. Dressed in a white linen suit and an elegant hat, Lee projects the image of a hyper-masculine intellectual-gentleman—but the moment he turns his back on his conversation partners, they immediately start mocking him and his pathetic attempts at seduction. Everyone sees through his poorly disguised desperation: beneath the façade of a relaxed macho figure lurks an insecure, neurotic man tormented by an insatiable longing. “The hardest part is convincing someone else that they are truly a part of your life,” Lee confesses to his best friend. Nevertheless, he decides to try. When William S. Burroughs, the author of the literary source material Queer, crossed the Mexican border in 1950, he was in a mental state not unlike that of his protagonist. Resigned and embittered, he was fleeing the prison sentence awaiting him in the U.S. for drug possession. His time in Mexico turned out to be a series of misfortunes—arguments, betrayals, and fleeting affairs—culminating in what was perhaps the greatest tragedy of his life: the accidental killing of his wife, Joan Vollmer. During a heavily intoxicated party, the couple decided to reenact the famous William Tell trick, substituting a gun and a glass for the traditional bow and apple. Suffice it to say, things did not go as planned—Joan died instantly. While awaiting trial, Burroughs began writing his quasi-autobiographical novel, channeling into its pages the tragic emotions that consumed him at the time.

Guadagnino’s film is steeped in those emotions—Queer exudes an atmosphere of despair and overwhelming Weltschmerz. The protagonist tries to drown it out with hedonistic indulgences, losing himself each night in opium haze and streams of alcohol. But substances, by their nature, offer only a temporary solution—ultimately self-destructive and painfully ineffective. Lee must seek relief elsewhere: perhaps in love. The first, and arguably the best, part of the film (Queer is clearly divided into three chapters) is essentially a chronicle of awkward courtship. There’s a perverse pleasure in watching Lee unknowingly make a fool of himself—how he loses control over his gestures, turning a theatrical bow into a clumsy, buffoonish curtsy, or how a public declaration of love ends with a dramatic fainting spell. For the first several minutes, Queer plays like Call Me by Your Name in reverse. Everything is flipped: instead of a teenage boy’s perspective, we see the world through the eyes of an aging Casanova. Instead of the lush landscapes of Italy, there’s the arid barrenness of Mexico. Instead of a vibrant story of sexual awakening, we get a melancholic tale of resignation from life. And so on. Even sex is portrayed as an antonym to Elio and Oliver’s romance: instead of sensual, peach-scented insinuations, Guadagnino opts for blunt realism, emphasizing the fleshy tangibility of limbs and the uncomfortable presence of bodily fluids (after all, the protagonists’ first kiss is preceded by a spectacular vomit session caused by excessive drinking).

In terms of atmosphere, Queer aligns surprisingly closely with the Italian cinema classic Death in Venice. And it’s not just about the portrayal of a middle-aged man hopelessly in love with someone much younger. It’s also, and perhaps most importantly, about the pervasive sense of physical and psychological decay that permeates both films and finds its reflection in the depicted worlds. In Visconti’s Venice, a real, deadly plague mirrors the festering soul of the protagonist. In Guadagnino’s Mexico City, the setting resembles a purgatory: everyone seems to be there only temporarily, as if against their will, each person either waiting for something or running from something (it’s no coincidence that most of the action unfolds in transitory spaces like cafés and hotels). The suffocating climate of perpetual impermanence becomes unbearable—so Lee decides to leave, taking his young lover along, lured by the promise of a free trip. The destination? South America.

The film’s second act unexpectedly shifts into a slow-burning road movie, chronicling the steadily deteriorating relationship between the two men. The third act morphs into a drug-induced fever dream in the Ecuadorian jungle, where Lee searches for a mysterious substance rumored to enable telepathy.

That Queer doesn’t collapse stylistically under the weight of these tonal shifts is solely thanks to Guadagnino’s directorial prowess. The Italian filmmaker goes to great lengths to keep the audience engaged, delivering surreal dream sequences reminiscent of Lynch or Cocteau (incidentally, the characters even go to see Cocteau’s Orpheus at a cinema), double exposures visually echoing Lee’s consuming desire, slow-motion shots set to Nirvana tracks and the lyrical score by Ross and Reznor. Nothing here seems to match, yet somehow, everything fits together. While another Italian master, Paolo Sorrentino, entrenches himself in his own aesthetic, pushing it to the brink of self-parody, the I Am Love director continues to experiment, engaging with new conventions and searching for fresh staging techniques. How is it possible that the same filmmaker is responsible for such vastly different films as Call Me by Your Name and Suspiria, Bones and All and A Bigger Splash, Challengers and Queer? The most beautiful aspect of Guadagnino’s work is precisely this unrelenting need for evolution. It ensures that, sooner or later, everyone finds “their” Guadagnino—some, I am certain, will discover him through Queer.