Hard as it is to believe for those who were around when it happened, “Thelma and Louise” celebrates the 35th anniversary of its release this year. 

Deeply popular with both critics and audiences at the time, its reputation continues to ride high; it’s a movie that manages to exist within a nexus of intersecting genres – the “buddy picture”, the “crime thriller,” the “action adventure,” the” “western,” the “neo-noir” – by blending them seamlessly into a crowd-pleasing wild ride of a story, all while delivering a powerful feminist message of outrage, defiance, and empowerment.

And no, “Thelma and Louise” is not a “queer movie” – but it feels like one.

That’s partly because It exists within another genre, too: “lesbian noir,” which blossomed in its wake with films like “Bound” (1996) and has re-emerged in recent films like “Love Lies Bleeding” (2024) and “Honey, Don’t” (2025) – but that also stretches back across decades into the days of old Hollywood, when coded queer characters were a regular fixture in the seedy film noir classics of their time, never overtly identified as such but obvious to spot for anyone savvy enough to read the subtext. That’s why “Thelma and Louise” resonated (and continues to resonate) with lesbian and bisexual audiences who see themselves reflected in its two lead characters, even if there is nothing queer about their relationship — on the surface at least.

Of course, that can be a sore subject; subtext might seem like a “cop-out” for those who long for more open representation for LGBTQ people on the screen – but it’s everything when it comes to recognizing the queerness of older movies (and a lot of newer ones, too), and just because something is not explicitly stated, that doesn’t mean it’s being hidden. After all, most good stories rely on the transcendent power of nuance, which always relies on subtext to shine through. And if any movie relies upon subtext, “Thelma and Louise” is certainly one of them. In its masterfully crafted narrative of a weekend “girl’s trip” that goes horribly wrong, a lot of the most important information is left unspoken.

Take Thelma (Geena Davis), to start with: a naive young housewife whose husband Darryl (Christopher McDonald) treats her like a possession, she blithely ignores his mediocrity and disregards – or at least, pretends to – his repressive tactics to control her, choosing instead to live in a tenuous illusion of “traditional” marriage dynamics; yet when her bestie Louise (Susan Sarandon) offers her a chance to escape for a weekend, she jumps at it – even if she has to skip the part where she asks his permission.

Louise (Susan Sarandon), a bit older and a lot more worldly, is a waitress who spends her days fending off the insults and advances of her male customers at the diner where she works; she sees Thelma’s situation clearly, and hopes that a temporary respite from Darryl will help her recognize the dead-end reality of her marriage. We understand this immediately, even though a direct word is never said about it, and she’s right, of course. They’ve barely even gotten on the road before Thelma’s longing for attention from someone other than her inadequate husband – a honky-tonk Lothario (Timothy Carhart) she meets in a roadhouse where they stop for drinks on the way out of town – leads to an attempted rape that is only prevented when Louise shoots the predator dead in the parking lot.

That killing is the catalyst that turns them into fugitives; as Louise rightly understands, there’s no evidence of sexual assault, just a dead body and a pair of runaway women, and the letter of the law is not on their side. But in truth, that fatal shot is fired not to save Thelma, who has already been freed from her would-be rapist’s clutches when it happens, but because Louise has traumatic memories – and a chip on her shoulder – over something that “happened in Texas,” years before. We never find out what it was that happened, and we don’t need to; our imaginations tell us all we need to know, just as we know that the killing, while it may have been cold-blooded murder, is a justifiable homicide all the same.

There’s more of that subtextual nuance throughout, from the perversely inspiring motivations of hitchhiking hustler J.D. (Brad Pitt, in the sex-on-a-stick performance that launched him on his trajectory to stardom), who takes advantage of Thelma’s gullibility to rob the heroines even as he teaches her the tactics that will soon launch them on their fateful ride-or-die fugitive adventure; to the self-serving “chivalry” of Louise’s erstwhile boyfriend (Michael Madsen) as he casts himself as the “martyr” in letting her go. And yes, even to the benignly sublimated patriarchal programming that drives police investigator Hal Slocumb (Harvey Keitel in an uncharacteristically empathetic role) to act as the would-be savior of these two “fallen” women, though they want no part of his well-meaning attempts to “rescue” them from the consequences of their choices. And when the two fugitives terrorize a piggish trucker (Marco St. John) before blowing up his big-rig tanker, nobody says – or needs to say – why it feels to them like the right thing to do; it simply IS the right thing, and we, as the audience, know it. What we have seen up to that point has placed us firmly on Thelma and Louise’s side already, and we’re as ready to watch the puerile patriarchy burn as they are.

None of this is spoken aloud, nor is it even alluded to, but it comes through, nonetheless. Chalk it up, if you like, to the power of cinema, especially in the hands of a versatile, stylish, and seasoned director like Ridley Scott, to communicate what is inherently beyond the power of words. 

Thelma and Louise may not be “a couple,” but we can’t help but notice as their clothing evolves from frilly-femme to “butch” utilitarianism along the way, or how their connection to the men in their lives easily dissolves without fanfare. And by the time we reach the movie’s thrilling denouement, when all they have left is their commitment to simply stand up against all the things that have kept them feeling incomplete, unfulfilled, and unacceptable, it’s an achingly familiar feeling for any queer viewer who has experienced the same.

We all know what happens, so it’s no spoiler to say that, when they drive off into oblivion in the Grand Canyon, they choose freedom over life itself – and when they head over that cliff, fully embracing their fate as a feminist iteration of the Bonnie and Clyde brand of “noble” outlaws, they seal their fate with a kiss. 

At that point, no explanation is needed. Their love for each other transcends anything they’ve felt with the inadequate men in their lives; and in that final freeze-frame moment, when they drive off the cliff and sail into oblivion, we like to think that their car – like Danny Zuko’s at the end of “Grease” – simply flies away into the bliss of an endless summer, and you can’t get any queerer than that. 

There are a lot of queer coming-of-age movies about how hard coming of age can be when you’re queer – and that’s because, for far too many queer young people, coming of age is a very difficult experience.

Yet as difficult as it may be, imagine how much more so it is for queer kids who are also struggling with other factors that make them a potential target for bullying and social stigma. When your awakening sexuality is complicated by fears and self-esteem issues that can cause you to feel ostracized even by the other queer kids, it’s pretty hard to find a place where you fit in. Unfortunately, there are far fewer movies that address that kind of “double whammy” scenario, and even fewer whose leading characters don’t look like model-perfect “influencers,” complete with chiseled abs, perfect hair, and flawless skin – which makes it all the more welcome when a movie like that actually does come along.

That’s why the arrival on Netflix of “Here the Whole Time” – a Brazilian teen romcom from director Daniel Lieff – feels a bit like a surprise gift.

Its central character – Felipe (Miguel Lallo), a teenager who lives with his single mom Rita (Débora Falabella) – is already out as gay, but that’s not the only reason that his life at school is torturous; as he informs us through his own narration, he’s always been the butt of cruel jokes and public bullying because he’s always been (in his own words) “fat.” He’s teased in the classroom, humiliated in the hallways, and victimized at dodgeball in his gym class; so when his eagerly awaited summer break arrives, he’s looking forward to weeks of freedom in which he never has to interact with anyone except his mother.

His blissful dreams of isolating himself in his room are shattered, however, by a rude awakening in the form of Caio (Diego Lira), a neighbor boy and former childhood friend, whose mother and father have left him to stay with Rita while they are away on a trip. Athletic, handsome, and popular, he’s everything Felipe is not, and despite any previous bond of companionship they may have had, Felipe has no intention of playing the gracious host.

Yet as the days go by, the two boys begin to resuscitate their friendship; rather than being the bully Felipe expects, Caio is mostly respectful and exceedingly polite in trying to negotiate their temporary co-habitation. Forced to spend time together, the two gradually warm to each other, opening the door to a renewed friendship; they begin to “hang out” together, expanding the usually isolated Felipe’s social circle to include Caio’s BFF Beca (Mika Soiero) and her girlfriend Melissa (Bel Moreira) — leading to a revelation that turns his newfound friendly feelings for Caio into something more of a crush.

Is the feeling mutual? Can Felipe set aside his insecurities enough to even find out? We did describe the movie as a “romcom, so you can draw your own conclusions from that, but it’s a wild ride of a story, and half the fun is watching it unfold through each new development, so we won’t give any of those surprises away.

It won’t be a spoiler, however, to discuss the way “Here the Whole Time” undercuts the sentiment of its predictably “sweet” formula with its presentation of Felipe as something of an anti-hero, a strident “rebel with a cause” who disdains and distrusts everyone around him except for his mother and sees his therapy (or at least pretends to) as just an extension of school — complete with the unwanted inconvenience of homework. 

He’s also, ironically, something of a bully himself, initially responding to the presence of Caio — who is no happier about their temporary living arrangement than he is — with willful and deliberate contempt, and levying his position as host (or as son of the hostess, at least) to assert his circumstantial power and dominance over an unwanted guest. Of course, we can see all along where it comes from, the habitual offense-as-defense tactic that has helped him survive and gain what little self-confidence he has, but that doesn’t make it any less rude.

Still, we don’t dislike him for it; a lifetime of body-shaming can do that to a person. Besides, it makes the transformation that comes in him — after learning to stand up for others like he stands up for himself, and other valuable life lessons he undergoes along the way — feel much more like an uplift. And if his insecurities win out once in a while (as they do, to dramatic effect, in the film’s penultimate chapters), who can blame him?

Caio, too, is portrayed against expectation. His self-assured swagger, like Felipe’s misanthropic hostility, comes from a young lifetime of self-protective compensation, but it’s just as easy for us to see through, and as the tenderness inside is revealed, he’s a far cry from “popular jock” stereotype that Felipe — and the audience — assume him to be,

It’s the dynamic between these two eminently likable characters that makes the film work, granting each of them their own dovetailing journeys toward self-discovery and allowing the feel-good sentiment of the story to emerge as something authentic, rather than just another trope-driven fantasy.

Much of this is thanks to the two young leads, who fully commit to their roles and strike a winning chemistry that makes us want them both to find their way through the amusing — but no less traumatic — growing pains they experience, both together and apart. They succeed in building an onscreen world in which we can believe, with them, in the possibility of rising above the obstacles thrown in their path, and it leaves us feeling not just uplifted, but maybe even a little joyful. 

Kudos also go out to Falabella, whose performance as the quintessential “cool mom” makes her stand out as the film’s adult MVP; likewise, director Leiff handles the material with a superb sense of balance between over-the-top absurdity and quietly joyful moments of truth.  In the end, though, it’s screenwriters Ray Tavares and Victor Brandt — adapting from a book by Vitor Martins — that’s truly responsible for crafting a charming coming-of-age story that allows itself to reach for the unlikely happy ending instead of sticking with the tried-and-true bittersweetness that usually arrives to provide an extra dash of unrequited yearning.

Of course, more jaded viewers — especially if they’re adults — might find the overall effect of “Here the Whole Time” less of than convincing. But for most of us — and hopefully it’s target audience, especially — it’s a charming reminder that “coming of age” isn’t just about sex or compromising with disillusionment. More than anything else, it’s about learning to let go of our disappointed assumptions to blossom into the life we truly deserve. 

As a refreshingly upbeat entry into a genre that somehow holds a key position in our compromised adult lives, it’s definitely a ride worth taking,

If any movie title can be said to describe exactly what it is going to show us, “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” would have to be it – and yet, it doesn’t communicate anything to prepare us for what we are going to see.

For that, you’d have to already be a fan of the creator behind it – transfeminine, non-binary filmmaker Jane Schoenbrun – and the surreal, dysphoric, and meta-formal nature of their previous work.

A horror fan since childhood, Schoenbrun spent their teen years frequenting online message boards for popular horror shows, writing fan fiction, and going to see punk bands in basements; a bachelor’s degree in film from Boston University paved their way into the world of “indie” cinema, and their first directorial effort was an online documentary about the phenomenon of “Slender Man” (look it up), which explored the way media and reality can blend together in the cultural imagination.

That blending has continued to permeate their films: their first feature, “We’re All Going to the World’s Fair,” about a lonely teen who is drawn into a creepy online challenge, tells its story entirely through video clips she and the other participants share online; their second, “I Saw the TV Glow,” is an eerie and devastating tale of two teen friends who form a bond over their shared obsession with a paranormal television show and drift apart when it is cancelled, only to be drawn together again when buried memories of it begin to infiltrate their “real” lives. Both are driven by themes of gender identity, social isolation, queer awakening, and transformation – the stuff that resonates deeply with queer and trans audiences – and Schoenbrun didn’t bury the subtext in the story; instead, the subtext was the story.

With “Camp Miasma,” their third and (thanks to its win of the “Queer Palm” at Cannes) highest profile feature film to date, they carry their creative obsessions forward into a surreal narrative that exists around the border between reality and media-manufactured fantasy, and brings them into the the world of queer adulthood. Even more boldly, perhaps, it’s a comedy (albeit a dark and grisly one), a satire of the movie industry itself – which gives the director plenty of cheekily self-referential opportunities to make this their most “meta” film yet. After all, it’s about a young non-binary director working on a horror film, and you can’t get much more “meta” than that.

The onscreen director who serves as Schoenbrun’s semi-autobiographical avatar is Kris Williams (Hannah Einbinder), who has been tasked by a studio with remaking its classic slasher movie from the 1980s (“Camp Miasma”), in hope of generating an updated reboot of the once-lucrative franchise it spawned. Kris, who loves the original film, hopes to coax the actress who starred as its “final girl” – Billy Presley (Gillian Anderson) – into returning to the screen for the new one, though she has been retired from acting and living as a recluse ever since. Managing to get a meeting with her at her secluded home in the Pacific Northwest, Kris arrives in a snowstorm to discover that Billy now lives in the same abandoned campground where “Camp Miasma” was filmed four decades ago. She also has seemingly developed the unsettling eccentricities of an aging once-famous scream queen who has faded into obscurity and spent decades dwelling in memories of the past.

Despite some initial misgivings (on both sides), the two hit it off, and Billy agrees to help Kris develop her ideas for the reboot. As they work, their shared obsessions around the original film and its horrifying mythos draws them closer together into a more intimate kind of relationship – even as Billy’s unconvincingly “tongue-in-cheek” insistence that the franchise’s iconic killer is a real entity, waiting to be reawakened for the next massacre, begins to creep into Kris’s own psyche.

Ingeniously mixing fan nostalgia for vintage “Friday the 13th”-style slasher films with the Lynchian surrealism of modern horror cinema and the campy-but-transgressive absurdity of a movie that wants us to be “in” on the joke, “Camp Miasma” takes Schoenbrun’s broodingly ironic Gen-Z sensibilities and spins them into something that works on multiple levels. As a horror film, it relies on the familiarity of its tropes and gleefully manipulates our reactions, yet undercuts its own formula to turn it into a blend of parody and homage that somehow elevates the genre by way of its own deconstruction. As a piece of postmodern cinema, it precludes attempts at analysis by transparently analyzing itself as it goes as part of its own self-aware scenario, turning intellectual interpretation into just another trope of its own. As a queer allegory, it nullifies the standard critical interpretations by wearing them jokingly on its sleeve. As a love-letter to cinema, it brims with callbacks to iconic masterworks like “Sunset Boulevard” and “Psycho.” It uses the irresistible darkness of its milieu as a vehicle through which to express a liberating, sex-positive celebration of queer joy, unencumbered at last by a confrontation with the fear, shame, and insecurity forged by social constructs that are so often used to suppress it. It even works as a romance, turning the age gap between its two leads into a bridge that overpasses any notions of conformity and eliminates false sentiment by framing it as a sexy kind of cross-generational mentoring.

At the center of it all is the powerhouse pairing of Einbinder and Anderson, whose dynamic together works so well we never bat an eye over that age gap; they sink their teeth into the material and deliver it with a fearlessness that feels a bit like pure glee, and they give what might just be the two best screen performances of the year.

There are also some winking cameos, like “Kids in the Hall” alumnus Kevin MacDonald as a local hotel clerk who was once enlisted as a supporting player in the “Camp Miasma” franchise, and veteran character actor Dylan Baker as the facile-minded studio exec who simply wants Kris to create something commercial enough to turn the franchise into a cash cow again. Jack Haven (the trans co-star of “I Saw the TV Glow” opposite Justice Smith) commands our attention as Camp Miasma’s weirdly air-duct-masked slasher – named “Little Death,” a phrase which, translated into the French “La petite morte,” is a euphemism for orgasm, just in case it wasn’t already clear that the movie operates as a psychosexual drama, on top of everything else.

Ultimately, though, it’s Shoenbrun who is the real star; much in the way that Alfred Hitchcock turned his own unique milieu into a kind of star power that eclipsed even the draw of the big name actors who populated his films. They come into their own with “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, creating one of the best films of the year so far and cementing their reputation as one of the most excitingly visionary filmmakers of the post-Millennial era.

In other words, come for the blood, gore, and jump scares, but stay for the sublimely entertaining — and entertainingly original — tour-de-force filmmaking that raises this one to the level of pop culture masterpiece.