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30 storytelling shorts from ‘Driftwood’ series join Comcast gay collection

Videos feature diverse LGBT people sharing tales from their own lives, experiences

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Xfinity LGBTQ Film, gay news, Washington Blade, Nathan Manske

Nathan Manske says everyone has at least one interesting story in them. His work at ā€˜Iā€™m From Driftwoodā€™ involves teasing those tales out of various LGBT subjects. (Photo courtesy Manske)

Everybody who invests heavily in a passion project wants the work to reach as wide an audience as possible so naturally Nathan Manske, the visionary behind the ā€œIā€™m From Driftwoodā€ series of short films depicting LGBT subjects telling first-person stories, was thrilled when Comcastā€™s Xfinity LGBTQ Film & TV Collection approached him.

Xfinity, a community-driven library of about 800 TV shows and movies with LGBT characters and storylines, is always looking for meaty as opposed to token LGBT representation in its selections. Representatives say their customers want gay and trans characters with ā€œfully developed backstories including life and love interests.ā€ Hollywood tropes of yore like gays whose orientations are only hinted at or those who are out but have curiously nonexistent sex lives are anachronisms in the Xfinity collection.

The 30 ā€œDriftwoodā€ selections chosen for Xfinity were driven by geography and diversity. Manske says Xfinity curators were interested in having subjects from all over the country so young gays in rural areas will feel less isolated. They launch today (Friday, April 28) and are available here.

Comcast customers can access them both On Demand and online. X1 users can search and discover the entire Xfinity LGBTQ Colleection by speaking ā€œLGBTā€ into the X1 voice remote.

Manske started the ā€œDriftwoodā€ series eight years ago inspired by a vintage photo he saw of the late Harvey Milk. There are now about 430 short films in his library ranging from two-10 minutes each (most are three-four minutes). Named after Manskeā€™s home town in Texas, the series is here.

His New York-based company is a non-profit 501(c)(3) and collectively on YouTube alone (the films are sometimes viewed on other platforms) theyā€™ve logged about 8 million views. Manske started the series after getting laid off from his advertising job. He makes the films as his full-time work and has one other full-time staff person. Heā€™s working to expand the format into other mediums.

ā€œLots of people donā€™t think they have a story or think their story is boring but I know thatā€™s not true,ā€ Manske, 36, says. ā€œThe whole point of it is helping LGBT youth in small towns realize theyā€™re not alone.ā€

Manske says his shorts accomplish several things from increasing empathy in viewers to driving social change to preserving LGBT history. After he collects and shares the stories, theyā€™re saved in the library at New York University for posterity.

ā€œThese first-person accounts provide an open, honest and genuine look at what itā€™s like to be LGBT throughout the country and world,ā€ Xfinity representatives said in a press release. ā€œ(They) remind people that theyā€™re part of a larger community and are never truly alone.ā€

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A writer finds his voice through sex work in ā€˜Sebastianā€™

An engaging, sexy, and thought-provoking ride

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Ruaridh Mollica in ā€˜Sebastian.ā€™ (Photo courtesy of Kino Lorber)

When Finnish-British filmmaker Mikko MƤkelƤā€™s film ā€œSebastianā€ premiered at the 2024 Sundance Festival, he told Variety he wanted his movie to provide a ā€œfrank and honest portrayal of queer sexuality.ā€ Thatā€™s surely enough to lure queer audiences ā€“ particularly gay male audiences, thanks to its gay male protagonist ā€“ with the promise of steamy onscreen sex, and his movie, now available on VOD platforms after a limited theatrical release, certainly delivers on it.Ā 

That, however, is only half (perhaps less) of what itā€™s all about, because, like its title character, it lives in two worlds at once.

In fact, ā€œSebastianā€ isnā€™t even his real name. Heā€™s actually Max (Ruaridh Mollica), an aspiring writer who works a ā€œsurvival jobā€ at a literary magazine while working on his first novel ā€“ a ā€œpseudo-memoirā€ chronicling a gay sex workerā€™s encounters with various clients. Itā€™s not exactly ā€œpseudo,ā€ though; the experiences he writes about are real, gained by advertising himself on a website for gay escorts to obtain ā€œresearchā€ for his book. The results are getting him noticed, and a publisher (Leanne Best) is interested in the completed manuscript ā€“ but he finds his focus being pulled away from his ā€œrealā€ life and deeper into the anonymous thrill of exploring his own sexuality in the safety of an assumed identity.

Itā€™s not just his work thatā€™s affected; among the other things that begin to suffer from his growing obsession are his relationships: with his co-worker and bestie, fellow aspiring writer Amna (Hiftu Quasem); with his conservative mother back in Edinburgh, who already disapproves of his lifestyle in faraway, hedonistic London; and to a much older client (Jonathan Hyde) with whom ā€œSebastianā€ has developed an unexpected emotional attachment. Most of all, itā€™s his own sense of identity that is caught in the conflict, as he tries to keep both sides of his double life together while preventing his whole world from falling apart.

Itā€™s a story with a lot of irons on the fire ā€“ a quality it seems to share with the novel its protagonist is writing, much to the irritation of his would-be publisher. What begins as the saga of a fledgling male escort ā€“ we first meet Max during his first booking as ā€œSebastian,ā€ after all, suggesting almost from the start that it is this persona that is our true protagonist ā€“ soon shifts into that of an ambitious-but-frustrated young author attempting to fuel his creativity through lived experience, laced with the ongoing thread of his own sexual awakening and self-acceptance. It even makes overtures toward an unexpected (and unorthodox) love story, before venturing down a darker path to become something of a cautionary tale, a warning against the dangers of leading a compartmentalized existence and allowing the gratification of oneā€™s personal appetites to overshadow all the other facets of our lives. Along the way, it throws in some commentary about the tense dynamic between creative expression and commercialism in the arts, not to mention the reinforcement of stigma and negative attitudes around sex workers ā€“ and sex in general ā€“ through the perceptions and representations created by social traditions and popular culture.

This latter perspective might be the key to what is really at the heart of ā€œSebastianā€ all along, toward which MƤkelƤā€™s screenplay hints with a description of Maxā€™s work-in-progress as being about ā€œthe shame of being ashamed.ā€ From the beginning, it is his own fear of being found out that becomes his greatest obstacle; far more than his reluctance to cross lines heā€™s been raised to respect, itā€™s the dread of having his reputation and his prospects shattered that causes him to waver in his path ā€“ and that feeling is not unfounded, which is in itself a telling indicator that the power of social judgment is a very real force when it comes to living our authentic lives. Indeed, his personal taboos are quick to fall away as he pursues his undercover ā€œresearchā€, but the guilt he feels about being caught in a social position perceived as ā€œbeneathā€ his own is something he cannot shrug off so easily. With so many generations of religious and societal dogma behind them, such imperatives are hard to ignore.

Yet, thereā€™s yet another aspect of ā€œSebastianā€ to discuss, that, while it is self-evident in the very premise of MƤkelƤā€™s movie, might be easy to overlook in the midst of all these other themes. A story about someone pretending to be someone else is inherently about deception, and Max, regardless of his motives, is a deceiver. He deceives his clients to obtain the material for his writing, and he deceives his employers and his publisher about where he gets it; he deceives the people closest to him, he deceives potential romantic partners ā€“ but more than anyone else, he deceives himself.

Itā€™s only by becoming honest with oneself, of course, that one can truly find a way to reconcile the opposing sides of our own nature, and that is the challenge ā€œSebastianā€ sets up for its protagonist, no matter which name he is going by in the moment. Whether or not he meets it is something we wonā€™t spoil, but weā€™ll go as far as saying that a breakthrough comes only when Max is forced by circumstance to follow his instincts and ā€œget honestā€ with someone ā€“ though we wonā€™t tell you who.

In the end, ā€œSebastianā€ satisfies as a character study, and as a journey of self-acceptance, largely thanks to a charismatic, layered, thoroughly authentic performance from Mollica, a Scots-Italian actor of tremendous range who convincingly captures both sides of Maxā€™s persona and transcends them to create a character that incorporates each into a relatable ā€“ if not always entirely likable ā€“ whole. MƤkelƤā€™s steady, clear-eyed direction helps, as does the equally dignified and vulnerable performance from veteran character actor Hyde, whose chemistry with Mollica is as surprising as the relationship they portray in the film.

Even so, ā€œSebastianā€ suffers from the many balls it attempts to keep in the air. Though it aims for sex-positive messaging and an empathetic view of sex work, it often devolves into the kind of dramatic tropes that perpetuate an opposite view, sending mixed messages about whether itā€™s trying to diffuse old stereotypes or simply reinvent them for a modern age of ā€œdigital hustlers.ā€ Further, in its effort to offer an unfiltered presentation of queer sexuality, it spends perhaps a bit more screen time than necessary showing it to us as explicitly as possible while omitting all but a glimpse of full-frontal nudity, but just enough to conjure the word ā€œgratuitous.ā€

Donā€™t get us wrong, though; MƤkelƤā€™s movie ā€“ only his second feature film effort to date ā€“ is an engaging, sexy, and ultimately thought-provoking ride, even if its tangled ambitions sometimes get the better of its narrative thrust, and it comes with our recommendation.

Itā€™s just that, one of these days, weā€™d really like to see a movie where sex work is honestly portrayed as a job, just like any other ā€“ but I guess weā€™ll have to wait until society is ready for it before we get that one.

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A rising filmmaker triumphs with sassy and sublime ā€˜Anoraā€™

Itā€™s the best film of the year so far

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Mark Eydelshteyn and Sean Baker in ā€˜Anora.ā€™ (Image courtesy of NEON)

When filmmaker Sean Baker chose to shoot an entire feature film ā€“ ā€œTangerineā€ (2015) ā€“ using only iPhones, he caught the attention of film enthusiasts and turned it into his breakthrough. For LGBTQ audiences, however, what felt much more groundbreaking was that Baker had made a film about trans sex workers on the ā€œmean streetsā€ of Hollywood, cast real trans women to play them, and depicted them with as much humanity as the cis/het protagonists in any mainstream movie.

It really wasnā€™t much of a bold leap for Baker, who had from the beginning centered his movies around people from marginalized, largely stigmatized or disregarded communities. A story about transgender sex workers was a logical next step, and the years since have seen him continue in the same vein; he has publicly advocated for decriminalization and respect for sex workers and repeatedly offered up compassionate treatment of their stories in his work ā€“ such as 2017ā€™s ā€œThe Florida Project,ā€ arguably his most visible success so far.

In his latest film ā€“ ā€œAnora,ā€ now in limited release after a premiere at Cannes 2024 and a win of the festivalā€™s prestigious Palm dā€™Or prize ā€“ that undercurrent in his creative identity may have manifested its most fully realized bloom.

The title character, who goes by the more American-sounding ā€œAniā€ (Mikey Madison), is an in-demand erotic dancer at a popular Brooklyn club, and sheā€™s the walking definition of a seasoned ā€œpro.ā€ Even so, when Ivan (Mark Eydelshteyn) ā€“ a wealthy Russian oligarchā€™s son in America on a student visa ā€“ shows up at the club, she finds herself in uncharted territory. Smitten, he whisks her into a world of endless parties and unthinkable wealth ā€“ and when he impetuously proposes to her during an impromptu trip to Las Vegas, she embraces the chance for a ā€œCinderella storyā€ and accepts.

Their wedded bliss proves short-lived when the tabloid gossip reaches Ivanā€™s parents in Russia. No sooner has the couple returned to Brooklyn than a trio of family ā€œoperativesā€ (Karren Karagulian, Vache Tovmasyan, Yura Borisov) stages a clumsy home invasion to take control of the situation, with orders from the top to have the marriage annulled immediately. The young groom, fearing his father will pull the plug on his free-wheeling American lifestyle and force him to return to Russia, flees the scene ā€“ leaving Ani to fend for herself, and ultimately leading her into an unlikely (and volatile) alliance with her supposed ā€œkidnappersā€ as they attempt to track him down in the wilds of Brooklyn.

According to press notes, ā€œAnoraā€ began as an effort by Baker to produce a vehicle for Karagulian, a respected indie actor of Russian-Armenian heritage who has appeared in every one of his movies to date. He developed the story with the idea of the ā€œhome invasionā€ sequence as a centerpiece that transforms the narrative from edgy romance to character-driven ā€œchaseā€ adventure ā€“ and after casting Madison (previously best known for her regular role in TVā€™s ā€œBetter Thingsā€) as Ani, decided to craft the story around her emotional journey. 

It was a fortuitous choice, supplemented by the filmmakerā€™s talent for making all his characters ā€“ even the antagonists ā€“ into relatable figures with whom we cannot help but empathize. No one is presented as a one-dimensional menace, but rather just another struggling human caught up in thankless circumstances and trying to rise to the occasion; this is hardly a surprising approach from Baker, oft-praised for the humanism reflected in his work, but in ā€œAnora,ā€ that egalitarian perspective makes for a dynamic that both heightens and undercuts the inherent tension. While the threat of violence may hover over the filmā€™s second half like a patiently circling vulture, we recognize that none of the involved players desires such an outcome, and their resultant ineffectiveness adds a winning layer of comedic irony. It also helps his movie to deepen as it goes, and by the time he brings ā€œAnoraā€ home, it has transcended the genres from which it samples to leave us with a bittersweet satisfaction that feels infinitely more authentic than the ā€œPretty Womanā€ fantasy toward which it hints in the beginning.

It would be an affront to reveal much about how things play out, except to say that its final scene delivers a profoundly resonant impact which we understand without having to hear a word of dialogue; itā€™s the payoff earned by two hours of flawless performances from a cast palpably attuned to each other, guided by a cinematic master whose gift for bringing out the best in his collaborators has helped to make him one of the most unequivocally acclaimed American filmmakers of our era.

As seamless a group effort as it is, Madisonā€™s Ani ā€“ fierce, determined, and unwilling to give up any agency over her life ā€“ is the lynch-pin, so much a force to be reckoned with that we somehow never doubt she will come out on top of this harrowing crisis, yet at the same time navigates around a layer of vulnerability that reminds us just how much like the rest of us she is. While neither she nor any of the filmā€™s characters is queer, there is something about her ā€“ her refusal to be defined or stigmatized for who she is, perhaps, or her outsider status in a culture where conformity to traditional rules and class hierarchies is the prime directive ā€“ which makes her feel like ā€œone of us,ā€ an outcast thumbing her nose at those who would dismiss or decry her over how she lives her life. Itā€™s a tour-de-force performance, and ā€œAnoraā€ hinges on its power.

Sheā€™s supported by a universally superb ensemble. Special mention goes to Eydelshteyn, whose Ivan has an irresistible charm that helps us believe Aniā€™s decision to trust him and keeps us from judging him too harshly for his inevitable callowness; Karagulian and Tovmasyan, as the chief and second banana (respectively) of the hapless henchmen who attempt to intimidate the young newlyweds into submission, both embody decidedly ordinary men trying to stay in control despite being hopelessly out of their depth, a source for both much-needed humor and unexpected empathy; but itā€™s Borisovā€s Igor who becomes the filmā€™ most compelling figure ā€“ the ā€œmuscleā€ of the home invasion crew whose outward thuggishness hides a much more thoughtful approach to life than anyone around him might be capable of seeing, and who establishes himself in the third act as the filmā€™s grounding emotional force.

Of course, Bakerā€™s knack for creating a ā€œwild rideā€ of a film (populated by people we probably wouldnā€™t want to hang out with in real life) plays a big part in making this one a sexy (often explicitly) and entertaining movie as well as a deeply engaging, challenging piece of cinema, and the gritty, ā€˜70s-evocative cinematography from Drew Daniels only heightens the experience. Itā€™s one of those rare films that, even though it is crafted with excellence from every contributor, somehow manages still to be greater than the sum of its parts. 

Itā€™s our pick for the best film of the year so far, and while it might be too soon for us to proclaim ā€œAnoraā€ as Sean Bakerā€™s masterpiece, itā€™s certainly tempting to do so.

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ā€˜Beauty, beauty, look at you!ā€: 50 years of ā€˜Female Troubleā€™

Celebrating John Watersā€™s lovably grotesque black comedy

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The iconic Divine (right) in ā€˜Female Trouble.ā€™ (Image courtesy of Warner Brothers)

Itā€™s funny ā€“ and by funny, we mean ironic ā€“ how things that were once on the fringes of our culture, experienced by few and appreciated by even fewer, become respectable after theyā€™ve been around for half a century or more. The Blade herself can probably attest to that.

Cheap, self-deprecating one-liners aside, thereā€™s something to celebrate about the ability to survive and thrive for decades despite being mostly ignored by the mainstream ā€œtastemakersā€ of our society ā€“ which is why, in honor of the 50th anniversary of its release, we canā€™t help but take an appreciative look back at John Watersā€™s arguable masterpiece, ā€œFemale Trouble,ā€ which debuted in movie theaters on Oct. 11, 1974 and was promptly dismissed and forgotten by most of American society. 

Waters had already made his breakthrough with 1972ā€™s ā€œPink Flamingos,ā€ which more or less helped the ā€œMidnight Movieā€ become a counterculture touchstone of the seventies and eighties while making his star (and muse) Glenn Milstead ā€“ aka Divine ā€“ into an underground sensation. Naturally, expectations for this follow-up were high among his already growing cult following, who were hungry for more of his gleefully transgressive anarchy. But while it certainly delivered what they craved, it would have been hard for any movie to surpass the sensation caused by the latter, which had already broken perhaps the ultimate onscreen taboo by ending with a scene of Divineā€™s character eating a freshly deposited dollop of dog feces. Though ā€œFemale Troubleā€ offered plenty of its own hilariously shocking (and occasionally revolting) thrills, it had no standout ā€œWTFā€ moment of its own to ā€œtopā€ that one. Subsequently, the curious mainstream, who were never going to be Waters fans anyway, lost interest.

For his true audience, however, it was anything but a let-down. After all, it featured most of the same outrageous cast members and doubled down on the ferociously radical camp that had made ā€œFlamingosā€ notorious even among the ā€œstraightā€ (as in ā€œsquareā€) crowd; and while it maintained the bargain basement ā€œguerillaā€ style the director had perfected throughout his early years of DIY filmmaking in Baltimore, it nevertheless displayed a savvy for cinematic craft that allowed Waters to both subvert and pay homage to the old-school Hollywood movies his (mostly) queer fans had grown up loving ā€“ and making fun of ā€“ just like him. It was quickly embraced, joining ā€œFlamingosā€ on art house double bills across the U.S. and helping the Waters cult to grow until he finally won the favor of the masses with his more socially palatable ā€œHairsprayā€ in 1988.

Fifty years later, there is little doubt that ā€œFemale Troubleā€ has displaced ā€œFlamingosā€ as Watersā€™s quintessential work. Riding high on the heels of the latter, the director had both a bolstered self-confidence and an assured audience awaiting his next movie, and he outdid himself by creating an ambitious and breathtakingly grotesque black comedy that frequently feels like weā€™re watching an actual crime being committed on film. Ostensibly framed as a ā€œcautionary taleā€ of ā€œjuvenile delinquency,ā€ it follows the life story of Dawn Davenport (Divine), who abandons social conformity once and for all when her parents fail to give her the black cha-cha heeled shoes she wanted for Christmas. Running away from home, she quickly becomes an unwed mother, leading her to a life of crime as she tries to support her unruly and ungrateful daughter Taffy (Hilary Taylor, later Waters stalwart Mink Stole). Things seem to turn around when she is accepted as a client at the exclusive ā€œLe Lipstiqueā€ beauty salon, where owners Donald and Donna Dasher (David Lochery and Mary Vivian Pearce) take a particular interest in her, and she marries star hairdresser Gater (Michael Potter) despite the objections of his doting Aunt Ida (Edith Massey), who wants him to ā€œturn Nellyā€ and avoid the ā€œsick and boring lifeā€ of a heterosexual.  

From there, Watersā€™s absurdly melodramatic saga enters the realm of pure lunacy. Dawnā€™s marriage inevitably fails, and she falls under the influence of the Dashers, who use her as an experiment to prove their theory that ā€œCrime equals Beautyā€ and get her hooked on shooting up liquid eyeliner; Gater leaves for Detroit to pursue a career in the ā€œauto in-DUS-tryā€, and his doting Aunt Ida (Edith Massey) disfigures Dawnā€™s face by dousing it with acid; Taffy goes on a quest to find her deadbeat dad and ends up stabbing him to death before joining the Hare Krishna movement; and things culminate in a murderous nightclub performance by the now-thoroughly deranged Dawn, which earns her a date with the electric chair for the filmā€™s literally ā€œshockingā€ finale.

It would be easy to rhapsodize over the many now-iconic highlights of ā€œFemale Troubleā€ ā€“ some of our favorites are its hilarious early scenes of Dawnā€™s life as a high school delinquent, the Christmas morning rampage in which she destroys her parentsā€™ living room like Godzilla on a bender in Tokyo, ā€œBad Seedā€-ish Taffyā€™s torment of her mother via jump rope rhymes and car crash re-enactments on the living room furniture, Aunt Idaā€™s persistent attempts to set up Gater on a ā€œboy date,ā€ and the master stroke of double-casting Divine as the low-life mechanic who fathers Taffy and thereby allows him to literally fuck himself onscreen ā€“ but every Waters fan has a list of their own.

Likewise, we could take a scholarly approach, and point out the ā€œmethodā€ in the madness by highlighting themes or cultural commentaries that might be observed, such as the filmā€™s way of ridiculing the straight worldā€™s view of queer existence by presenting it to them in an over-the-top caricature of their own narrative tropes, or its seeming prescience in spoofing pop cultureā€™s obsession with glamour, beauty, and toxic-behavior-as-entertainment decades before the advent and domination of ā€œrealityā€ TV ā€“ but those things have been said many times already, and none of them really have anything to do with why we love it so much.

What we love is the freakishness of it. Waters revealed years after the fact that Divineā€™s ā€œlookā€ as Dawn Davenport was inspired by a photo from Diane Arbus, whose work served as a testament to the anonymous fringe figures of American culture, but it could be said that all of his characters, in this and in all his early films, might also be drawn from one of her images. Itā€™s that, perhaps, that is the key to its appeal: itā€™s a movie about ā€œfreaks,ā€ made for freaks by someone who is a freak themself. It makes us laugh at all of its excesses simply because they are funny ā€“ and the fact that the NON-freaks donā€™t ā€œget itā€ just makes them all the funnier.

As Aunt Ida says, ā€œQueers are just betterā€ ā€“ and in this case, we mean ā€œqueerā€ as in ā€œdifferent than the boring norm.ā€

In any case, queer or otherwise, celebrate your freakishness by watching ā€œFemale Troubleā€ in honor of its anniversary this weekend. Whether itā€™s your umpteenth time or your first, it will be 97 minutes you wonā€™t regret.

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