For someone who’s been dead for 160 years, Abraham Lincoln is still hot.

No, we don’t mean it that way, though if we were talking about the Lincoln of “Lavender Men” – a new movie starring and co-written by queer playwright Roger Q. Mason, who also wrote the acclaimed play from which it is adapted – we certainly could be. We’re really just making the observation that the 16th POTUS continues to occupy a central place in America’s national imagination. And in an age when our America is torn by nearly as much division (over many of the same core values) as the one he presided over, it’s impossible not to compare the ideals he has come to stand for with the ones currently holding sway over the country’s political identity, and wonder at how short we have fallen from the mark.

Yet there has always been a gap between the historical reality of Lincoln’s “Great Emancipator” reputation and the romanticized pedestal upon which he has been placed; and if he looms large as an influence over American identity, it’s as much for his enigmatic nature as for the values he represents. Was he a true believer in the principals of “liberty and justice for all” or a political pragmatist who recognized that preserving the nation – and its growing power in the larger arena of world affairs – required the abolition of an increasingly unsustainable system that had divided it? Your answer to that rhetorical question will likely depend on which version of “American Identity” aligns most closely with your own.

It’s also a question that’s further complicated in the context of Lincoln’s private life, something that has itself been the subject of debate as modern historians and scholars consider the questions about his sexuality unavoidably implied in his well-documented biographical record, which reveals not only a pattern of closely bonded male “friendship” with various companions throughout his life but plentiful evidence that the romantic nature of these relationships was something of an “open secret” in his lifetime, as explored in last year’s brash but scrupulously documented “Lover of Men.” If Lincoln was himself an “other,” a queer man who had risen to position and power in a world that despised and shunned people like him, what new light would that cast on his legacy?

That’s the crux of the premise behind “Lavender Men,” which builds a “fantasia” around one of Lincoln’s most intense male relationships – with Colonel Elmer Ellsworth, a young family friend who helped him carry out his 1860 campaign for president and would later become the first “notable” casualty of the Civil War when he was shot while removing a Confederate flag from the window of an inn facing the White House. The film, however, doesn’t take place in a period setting; instead, it happens in an empty modern-day theater – an apropos allusion to the location of Lincoln’s ultimate fate – where the overworked and underappreciated Taffeta (Mason) oversees the production of a play about the romance between Lincoln and Ellsworth (Pete Ploszek and Alex Esola). After a particularly demoralizing performance, the put-upon stage manager ponders alone about their own life – as a queer, plus-sized, Black Filipinx TGNC person trying to find connection and community in a world where they feel invisible – through an imagined retelling of Lincoln’s doomed love story in which the narrative is projected through the lens of their own struggle to be seen, loved, and accepted,

Expanded from the play and directed by co-screenwriter Lovell Holder, a lifelong friend of Mason who helped develop the project and oversaw the original 2022 stage production at Los Angeles’s Skylight Theater Company, the film was in his own words “shot over 10 days on a shoestring budget” – and it admittedly shows. However, it leans into its limitations, letting the spare, isolated atmosphere of the empty theater exert its own influence over the material. In this framing, Taffeta becomes something like a reverse ghost, a spirit from the present haunting a past in which their own unfulfilled longings – and resentments – are reflected through the rumored romance of a president and his “little” man, and their exploration of the narrative, with all its inherent observations about the dynamics of power, gender, status, and physical attraction, ultimately becomes a meditation on the importance of redefining personal identity free from the shaping influence of other people’s experience or expectations.

Needless to say, it’s not the kind of movie that will appeal to every taste; highly conceptual in nature, with a nonlinear storytelling pattern that frequently calls attention to its own artificiality, it might prove perplexing to audiences used to a more traditional approach. Even so, it’s refreshingly unpretentious, acknowledging its own campiness without undercutting the authenticity of the voice which drives it – which is, of course, Mason’s.

Delivering an entirely charismatic, commandingly fabulous, and palpably honest tour de force, the playwright/actor is at the center of “Lavender Men” at every level, evoking our delight, laughter, tears, discomfort, and myriad other shades of response as they take us on their historically themed tour of queer identity, which involves its own collection of repressive and/or demeaning social expectations about “fitting in” – and illuminate this hidden chapter of queer history along the way. Indeed, capturing their performance – which Mason reprises, along with fellow original co-stars Ploszek and Esola, from the stage production – is arguably the film’s most significant accomplishment. It’s a powerful example of the kind of fierce, spirited expression that is rarely seen outside the half-empty houses of underground theaters, well worthy of several repeated viewings.

For Mason, however, the thing that matters most is not their performance, nor even their brilliantly conceived script. Discussing the movie, he describes it as something much bigger than that: “I hope this film serves as a rally cry, a fountain of joy and a grounding of purpose for the LGBTQIA+ movement in the U.S. and abroad at a time when we need stories which affirm, empower and embolden us more than ever.”

“Lavender Men” is showing in limited theaters now. Watch for information on streaming/VOD availability.

You might not know it from the publicity campaign, but the latest big-screen project for breakout “Euphoria” actor and sex symbol Jacob Elordi is 100% a gay love story.

Alright, perhaps that’s not entirely accurate. “On Swift Horses” – adapted from the novel by Shannon Pufahl and directed by Daniel Minahan from a screenplay by Bryce Kass – actually splits its focus between two characters, the other of which is played by “Normal People” star Daisy Edgar-Jones; but since that story arc is centered around her own journey toward lesbian self-acceptance, it’s unequivocally a “Queer Movie” anyway.

Set in 1950s America, at the end of the Korean War, it’s an unmistakably allegorical saga that stems from the marriage between Muriel (Edgar-Jones) and Lee (Will Poulter), a newly discharged serviceman with dreams of building a new life in California. His plans for the future include his brother Julius (Elordi), a fellow war vet whose restlessly adventurous spirit sparks a kindred connection and friendship with his sister-in-law despite a nebulously strained dynamic with Lee. Though the newlyweds follow through with the plan, Julius opts out in favor of the thrill of a hustler’s life in Las Vegas, where his skills as a card shark gain him employment in a casino. Nevertheless, he and Muriel maintain their friendship through correspondence, as he meets and falls in love with co-worker Henry (Diego Calva) and struggles to embrace the sexual identity he has long kept secret. Meanwhile, Muriel embarks on a secret life of her own, amassing a secret fortune by gambling on horse races and exploring a parallel path of self-acceptance with her boldly butch new neighbor, Sandra (Sasha Calle), as Lee clings obliviously to his dreams of building a suburban family life in the golden era of all-American post-war prosperity.

Leisurely, pensive, and deeply infused with a sense of impossible yearning, it’s the kind of movie that might easily, on the surface, be viewed as a nostalgia-tinged romantic triangle – albeit one with a distinctively queer twist. While it certainly functions on that level, one can’t help but be aware of a larger scope, a metaphoric conceit in which its three central characters serve as representatives of three conflicting experiences of the mid-century “American Dream” that still looms large in our national identity. With steadfast, good-hearted Lee as an anchor, sold on a vision of creating a better life for himself and his family than the one he grew up with, and the divergent threads of unfulfilled longing that thwart his fantasy with their irresistible pull on the wife and brother with whom he hoped to share it, it becomes a clear commentary on the bitter reality behind a past that doesn’t quite gel with the rose-colored memories still fetishized in the imagination of so many Americans.

Fortunately, it counterbalances that candidly expressed disharmony with an empathetic perspective in which none of its characters is framed as an antagonist; rather, each of them are presented in a way with which we can readily identify, each following a still-unsatisfied longing that draws them all inexorably apart despite the bonds – tenuous but emotionally genuine – they have formed with each other. To put it in a more politically-centered way, the staunch-but-naive conformity of Lee, in all his patriarchal tunnel vision, does not make him a villainous oppressor any more than the repressed queerness of Muriel and Julius make them idealized champions of freedom; all of them are simply following an inner call, and each can be forgiven – if not entirely excused – for the missteps they take in response to it

That’s not to say that Minahan’s movie doesn’t play into a tried-and-true formula; there’s a kind of “stock character” familiarity around those in the orbit of the three main players, leading to an inevitably trope-ish feel to their involvement – despite the finely layered performances of Calva and Calle, which elevate their roles as lovers to the film’s two queer explorers and allow them both to contribute their own emotional textures – and occasionally pulls the movie into the territory of melodrama.

Yet that larger-than-life treatment, far from cheapening “On Swift Horses,” is a big part of its stylish appeal. Unapologetically lush in its gloriously photographed recreation of saturated 1950s cinema (courtesy of Director of Photography Luc Montpellier), it takes us willingly into its dream landscape of mid-century America – be it through the golden suburbs of still-uncrowded Southern California or the neon-lit flash of high-rolling Las Vegas, or even the macabre (but historically accurate) depiction of nuclear-age thrill-seekers convening for a party in the Nevada desert to watch an atom bomb detonate just a few short miles away. It’s a world remembered by most of us now only through the memories and artifacts of a former generation, rendered with an artful blend of romance and irony, and inhabited by people in whom we can see ourselves reflected while marveling at their beauty and charisma.

As lovely as the movie is to look at, and as effective as it is in evoking the mix of idealism and disillusionment that defines the America of our grandparents for many of us at the start of the second quarter of the 21st century, it’s that last factor that gives Minahan’s film the true “Hollywood” touch. His camera lovingly embraces the beauty of his stars. Edgar-Jones burns with an intelligence and self-determination that underscores the feminist struggle of the era, and the director makes sure to capture the journey she charts with full commitment; Poulter, who could have come off as something of a dumb brute, is allowed to emphasize the character’s nobility over his emotional cluelessness; Calle is a fiery presence, and Minahan lets her burn in a way that feels radical even today; Calva is both alluring and compelling, providing an unexpected depth of emotion that the film embraces as a chord of hope.

But it is Elordi who emerges to truly light up the screen. Handsome, charismatic, and palpably self-confident, he’s an actor who frankly needs to do little more than walk into the scene to grab our attention – but here he is given, perhaps for the first time, the chance to reveal an even greater depth of sensitivity and truth, making his Julius into the film’s beating heart and undisputed star. It’s an authenticity he brings into his much-touted love scenes with Calva, lighting up a chemistry that is ultimately as joyously queer-affirming as they are steamy.

Which is why Sony Pictures’ promotions for the film – which avoid directly referencing the sexuality of its two main characters, instead hinting at “secret desires” and implying a romantic connection between Elordi and Edgar-Jones – feels not just like a miscalculation, but a slap in the face. Though it’s an eloquent, quietly insightful look back at American cultural history, it incorporates those observations into a wistful, bittersweet, but somehow impossibly hopeful story that emphasizes the validity of queer love.

That’s something to be celebrated, not buried – which makes “On Swift Horses” a sure bet for your must-see movie list.

If you’ve ever wondered why so many queer movies are are coming-of-age stories, it might be that you were lucky enough to go through the transition into young adulthood without having to worry about your sexual alignment or gender identity being acceptable to your family or your friends or the world at large – and if that’s the case, we are truly happy for you. That’s the way it should be for everyone.

Unfortunately, it’s not. For many millions of queer kids, growing up is still an experience fraught with fear, shame, and very real peril, and this was true even before the current era of government-sanctioned homophobia and bigotry. It’s never been easy to become who you are when you’re surrounded by a family or community that refuses to accept who you are. It’s as near a “universal” queer experience as one can imagine in a demographic as diverse as ours, and it reinvents itself with each new generation – so there will always be an appeal for queer audiences in stories which express that often painful odyssey in a way that makes us feel “seen.”

That’s why “Egghead & Twinkie” – a 2023 film fest fave only now getting a VOD release (on April 29) – is such a welcome and refreshing addition to the genre. A passion project from Asian American filmmaker Sarah Kambe Holland, who expanded it into a feature from a “proof-of-concept” short she made in 2019, it brings a Gen Z perspective, which makes it as unique and contemporary as it is recognizable and relatable.

Set in suburban Florida, Holland’s movie centers on the relationship of its two title characters. “Egghead” (Louis Tomeo) and “Twinkie” (Sabrina Jie-A-Fa), childhood friends with a deep bond from growing up across the street from each other, face a crossroads as the cute-but-nerdy Egghead prepares to depart for college, leaving behind Twinkie – an Asian-American adoptee raised by socially conservative white parents who is one year his junior – just as she is beginning to come to terms with her long-hidden lesbian identity. Planning to connect with her social media crush (Ayden Lee) at a nightclub event in Texas, she enlists Egghead to accompany her as she “runs away” from her restrictive parents into the arms of a girlfriend she has never actually met in person, at a bar she’s too young to get into. Needless to say, it’s not a great plan – especially since the straight Egghead has long-hidden feelings of his own for his BFF – but it leads to a shared adventure in which they each must redefine both their feelings and their commitment toward each other, while staying one step ahead of her frantic family and dealing with the mishaps inherent in taking an impromptu cross-country road trip in a car you stole from your father.

There’s a youthful verve to the whole affair, punctuated with the inevitable irony that comes from watching it unfold through the eyes of age and experience – something that younger viewers may appreciate less than its spirit of boldness and (admittedly comedic) rebellion – and embellished with a visual aesthetic that reflects both Holland’s background as a YouTube “content creator” and the lead characters’ shared love of comics and animé; but what gives the film that extra “oomph” and makes it feel more significant than many of the other youth-oriented queer entertainments of recent years is not so much about the style of its storytelling as it is the nature of the relationship at its core.

Though “Egghead & Twinkie” is unequivocally a queer coming-of-age movie – which certainly deals with its teen lesbian protagonist’s journey to self-acceptance and includes an unexpected but irresistible connection with a fellow queer Asian American teen (Asahi Hirano) she meets along the way – it is ultimately a film less about queer identity than it is about friendship. While it allows ample opportunity for Twinkie to refine her values and learn from the mistakes of her rebellious quest for self-acceptance, it never loses sight of the fact that her long-term relationship with Egghead is one of mutual support and unconditional love. More than a romance, this YA-ish story of love beyond sexuality is a tale of true allyship, in which the unconditional understanding between friends – between fellow living beings – becomes more important than the romantic fantasies usually highlighted within more naive conceptions of queer existence. It’s a love story, to be sure, but the love it lifts up is the kind which ultimately has little to do with questions of sexual identity; instead, it’s the kind that transcends biology and sexuality to express something arguably more essential – the genuine emotional bond between two kindred souls that grows from shared experience and mutual acceptance. It’s that rarest of movies which celebrates the value of platonic love, and ultimately reinforces the connections of our shared humanity as being just as significant as those forged through our sexual makeup. It’s a love story between friends, not a romance between strangers, and the fact that its platonic protagonists are able to find the value of their connection beyond juvenile assumptions and impulses makes it arguably a more mature and insightful experience than even the most idealistically rendered young-love fantasy could ever hope to be.

Of course, its success in achieving that goal hinges on the chemistry between its two young stars, and both Jie-A-Fa and Tomeo capture that alchemical magic with natural ease; both performers originated their roles in the short that inspired the feature, and the familiarity of their dynamic together goes a long way toward making it work. Additionally, the performances of both Hirano and Lee – indeed, even of Kelley Mauro and J. Scott Browning as Twinkie’s clueless but ultimately loving adoptive parents – avoid the kind of judgement and clichéd convention that might otherwise make them predictable stock caricatures.

In the end, though, it’s the hopeful, humanistic vision of Holland – who also wrote the screenplay – that informs “Egghead & Twinkie” and helps it resonate beyond the typical. In crafting a queer coming-of-age story that has less to do with sexual wiring than the need for the grounding, life-affirming power of unconditional love, she has managed to craft a vibrant, hopeful, and heartfelt testament to the power of real humanity to overcome and transcend the prejudices and boundaries imposed by a social order that hinges on conformity over individual fulfillment.

That’s not just a queer issue, it’s a human issue – which is why this sweet, charming, and genuinely funny teen “non-romcom” captures us so willingly and so completely.