Be Happy! (Spain) — My honest thoughts When I went to see“Be Happy!” I thought to myself: “Okay, this is a musical, maybe a bit quirky, but surely there’s some kind of storyline tying it together.” Oh, I was wrong. This is not some flimsy plot — it’s like trying to hold water in your hands. You think you’ve got it, and thenpoof, the water’s gone. The film drops us into a jumble of chaotic characters: Peter, a Freudian psychiatrist married to a Finnish actor; David, a young Brit living in Banyoles addicted to Grindr; Coco Lamour, a French actress with a Parisian vibe; Maria, another psychiatrist; Betsy, David’s mother in Cadaqués; and a whole crowd of others — Albert, Gilda, Daniel, Usha… It’s as if the director invited every quirky friend they’d ever had and told them, “Sing something, anything!” And sing they do. My god, do they sing. About eighty percent of the film is people bursting into song without warning, as if possessed by the spirit of karaoke night. The rest? A few scattered lines of dialogue that feel like they were scribbled on the back of a napkin at lunch. I kept waiting for an “aha” moment, a scene that made me go, “Ah, now I get it!” Instead, I saw repeated lyrics, seemingly illogical odd camera angles, and dizzying edits. Yes, there’s a main thread — David and Daniel’s rocky romance — but calling it a “gay film” feels a stretch. Maybe only 10% of it touches on queer themes; the rest… well, I don’t…

When I first heard about “Shoshana Halutz Merkazi” (or “Kicking Out Shoshana” as it’s known in English), I admit, my curiosity was piqued mostly because Gal Gadot stars in it. You know how it is—her presence alone often shoots up your expectations, right? But boy, was I in for a letdown. Watching this sports comedy felt like biting into a flashy-looking candy that turns out to be stale inside. The film traces the strange journey of Shushan, a superstar soccer player for a Jerusalem team, who’s suddenly coerced into faking being gay to escape the wrath of a menacing gangster. Sounds like the setup for an insightful or at least funny story, but instead, it fizzles into a confusing mess that neither tickles your funny bone nor offers a genuine take on the heavy subject of homophobia. Let me paint you a picture: Shushan’s world flips upside down after a clumsy flirtation gone awry with Mirit, a girl tangled in her own nightmare involving a ruthless figure named Mr. Black. To keep Shushan alive, Mr. Black forces him into an impossible public lie—claiming he’s gay. And this is where the chaos begins. Instead of solidarity, Shushan faces venom from his teammates, apathy from his management, and the cruel jeers of fans who mockingly rename him “Shoshana.” It’s downright painful watching how quickly admiration turns to scorn, revealing a harsh, unsympathetic world cloaked in the guise of sportsmanship. What followed felt like a carousel stuck on a slow, dreary spin. In an attempt to capitalize on the situation, Shushan’s agent ropes…

Sexual abuse within the Catholic Church has been a dark shadow haunting countless stories and screens worldwide, and “Le Silence des églises” plunges headfirst into this unsettling abyss. I’ve seen my share of films tackling this painful topic—some full-length dramas, others raw documentaries—but each time, a knot tightens in my throat. It’s that gut-wrenching mix of betrayal and helplessness that lingers long after the credits roll. Even though I’ve wrestled with whether to highlight such brutal realities on my blog, this film demanded that I do so. The story spins around Gabriel, a man haunted by the ghosts of his childhood, stirred anew when he hears the echoing innocence of a Catholic school choir’s famous CD. Suddenly, memories flood back—the cold corridors, the seemingly kind smile of Father Vincey, and the sinister undercurrents beneath the sacred walls. Picture a young boy enraptured by praise and trust, only to be ensnared by the vampire-like manipulation of a priest who cloaks his cruelty in God’s name. What chills me most is how systematically the abuser works, cleverly wrapping twisted control with threats of divine wrath, shredding innocence while shrouded by religious devotion. Even more heartbreaking is the blindfold worn by parents, oblivious or unwilling to see the nightmare unfurling beneath their feet. How many times have I heard whispers of such silence, how often has faith become the cruel barricade against truth? And then, fast-forward fifteen years—Gabriel, battle-weary and brimming with rage, arms himself with a gun, torn between vengeance and justice. When he finally confronts Vincey, the flood of memories hits…

Set against the gritty, rain-slicked streets of Limerick, Cowboys & Angels unfolds like a bittersweet coming-of-age diary, giving us a peek into the tangled lives of two very different young men navigating the chaos of youth in a modern city. Though it first hit cinemas over two decades ago, and the visuals now feel a tad stuck in the fashion of the late ’90s, there’s still a raw, electric pulse that courses through the film—capturing the heady cocktail of sexual freedom, frenetic energy, friendship, and the darker shadows of drugs and crime that peppered that era. Watching it, I couldn’t help but feel like I was stepping into a time capsule, one where innocence and danger danced hand-in-hand beneath the city’s dim lights. Shane, fresh-faced and stuck in the dull hum of a government job, lands Vincent as his brand-new roommate—an outspoken, flamboyant fashion student whose energy is nothing short of contagious. It’s the classic tale of opposites attracting, but with a twist: Vincent is a whirlwind gently coaxing Shane out of his protective shell. There’s something almost poetic about how Vincent drags the shy Shane into the pulsating nightlife, pushing him to taste the vivid colors of freedom that the city’s nights offer. I found myself rooting for Shane’s fumbling attempts to connect with a barista girl who, sadly, isn’t quite on the same page—a reminder of how tender and heartbreaking first loves often are. Then there’s the twist of fate—drugs creeping into their lives as Shane inadvertently gets pulled into a risky world just to scrape together enough…

Introduction I still remember the first time I stumbled across the name Mel Daluzyan. It was a headline about an Armenian weightlifter breaking records, a story that seemed almost mythic in its simplicity—until I learned about the storm that followed. In Inna Sahakyan’s documentary Mel, we’re invited into the whirlwind life of a champion whose journey from national hero to outcast is as raw as it is heartbreaking. This isn’t just a sports documentary; it’s a deeply personal tale about identity, love, and the price of authenticity. Watching Mel’s story unfold, I found myself both inspired and unsettled, wondering: how much must one person give up just to be themselves? Review Mel Daluzyan’s story is the kind that sticks with you, lingering in the mind long after the credits roll. Once hailed as Armenia’s pride—the first woman from the country to snag a medal at the World Weightlifting Championships in 2006—Mel’s rise was meteoric. But fame, as we know, can be a double-edged sword. When Mel’s transgender identity became public, the applause faded, replaced by whispers and, eventually, outright hostility. It’s gut-wrenching to watch a nation’s darling become its scapegoat overnight. The film doesn’t shy away from the tough stuff. Mel’s journey isn’t just about lifting weights; it’s about shouldering the crushing burden of societal expectations. There’s a scene where Mel, now living in the Netherlands, finally sees the possibility of gender transition within reach. The relief on his face is palpable, but so is the exhaustion. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of every sacrifice—leaving behind family, friends,…

Introduction: “Bashtaalak sa’at (Shall I Compare You To A Summer’s Day?)” isn’t your typical film—it’s a fever dream, a kaleidoscope of queer Arab love, and a defiant celebration of stories rarely told on screen. Directed by Mohammad Shawky Hassan, this experimental musical documentary weaves together myth, memory, and desire, drawing inspiration from the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. Imagine Shakespeare’s poetry colliding with the pulse of Cairo’s underground, all set to a soundtrack that swings between Egyptian pop and the raw confessions of lovers. It’s bold, it’s messy, and it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. Review: From the very first frame, I could tell this film wasn’t going to play by the rules. The screen bursts with color—almost like someone spilled a box of crayons across the set—and the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur until you’re not sure what’s real and what’s just wishful thinking. It’s dizzying, honestly, but in a way that makes you want to lean in closer, not look away. At its heart, “Bashtaalak sa’at” is a love story—or maybe a tangle of love stories. The film follows a group of men navigating the tricky waters of a polyamorous relationship in today’s Arab world. There’s no neat beginning, middle, and end here. Instead, we get a patchwork of moments: a glance that lingers a second too long, a smile that sparks something electric, a rendezvous that could be the start of everything or nothing at all. The film is a bit like eavesdropping on a party where everyone’s talking at once—sometimes you catch a…

“Sweetheart Service,” a Korean series that fluttered onto my screen like a soft breeze on a warm spring day, had me hooked from the very first frame. With its bite-sized episodes, each clocking in under twenty minutes, it promised a delightful escape into a world where lighthearted charm met the sweet awkwardness of young love. The story blossoms around Yuha, a scrappy young guy who hustles through odd jobs—some downright quirky, like posing as a nude model or faking a romance—to carve out his independence. Sharing a home (and a deep, almost brotherly bond) with Taeha, a bar owner who’s carried the weight of their shared past, Yuha’s life is anything but dull. When Min U steps in, an IT guy ensnared by family expectations and office gossip, and hires Yuha to pose as his boyfriend, the stage is set for a tender, often hilarious dance of pretend affection that feels surprisingly genuine. Watching Yuha and Min U navigate their fake relationship, blending awkward moments with unexpected sparks, is like watching a delicate flower slowly bloom in a bustling garden. Taeha’s quietly aching heart, silently tethered to Yuha, adds a bittersweet undercurrent—like the whisper of rain on a sunny day. Meanwhile, Jaemin’s unspoken feelings swirling around Taeha paint a poignant backdrop of love waiting in the wings. Yet, as the plot thickens, the series takes an unexpected tumble. The entrance of a seemingly sweet but cunning CEO friend who throws a wrench into their fragile balance felt jarring—like a sudden thunderclap breaking an otherwise calm afternoon. Honestly, I felt this…

“The Scandalous Four (UK)” plunges viewers into the tangled web of 1930s England, where societal norms tighten their grip and secrets dwell in shadowy corners of grand estates. This period drama sets itself apart by daring to riff on themes seldom voiced in such historical settings: hidden desires, forbidden love, and the suffocating rules that bind its characters. At the heart of the story is Penelope, a young woman caught between duty and longing, whose life is reshaped by the quiet storms brewing in her marriage and those around her. From the moment Penelope is paired with her introverted husband Jonathan, it’s clear that this isn’t your typical romance. Jonathan’s aversion to social gatherings and their unconsummated union cast an oppressive hush over their grand but empty estate — a place where silence screams louder than words. When Penelope uncovers the tender liaison between Jonathan and the ever-present butler, George, the household’s intricate balance begins to shift. In a twist that feels equal parts surprising and inevitable, Penelope finds an unexpected ally and lover in her now-gardener and former piano teacher, Richard. What unfolds is a fragile ménage that dances precariously on the edges of secrecy and societal judgment. Watching their story unfold, I couldn’t help but think of this group as ships trying to navigate a storm without anchor — their camaraderie as delicate as glass, yet paradoxically enduring. The constant fear of exposure hovers like a dark cloud, especially with nosy maids and a rigid, religious family looming in the background. The question that kept gnawing at me…

From the very first frame, "Bixa Travesty" slams you into the vivid, pulsating world of Linn da Quebrada—a fierce Brazilian transsexual singer carving her path through the gritty edges of São Paulo’s favelas. This documentary isn’t just a biography; it feels like a raw, unedited scream against the suffocating weight of racism, transphobia, and poverty. Listening to her funk beats, you almost feel the power of a blazing gunshot shattering the glass ceilings of machismo. Linn bursts through stereotypes not with timid steps but with a rebellious dance, challenging society’s narrow cages with every lyric and gesture. What struck me most is how the film peels back layers beyond Linn’s glittering persona on stage. You catch glimpses of her intimate moments—laughing with friends, sharing heated debates with her mother over that romanticized myth of poverty clinging to their community like stubborn shadows. It’s in these candid exchanges that her humanity shines brightest, reminding me how often we paint resilience with simplistic brushes, missing the messy, unfiltered truth underneath. The documentary doesn't follow a neat storyline or a polished narrative arc; instead, it feels like peeling an onion—sometimes tear-inducing, sometimes overwhelming, but always authentically raw. You come away understanding that Linn’s fight is not only about gender identity but also the brutal crossroads where class, race, and societal expectations collide. I won’t lie—at times, the repetitive cycle of musical performances tested my patience. While her onstage energy is undeniably electrifying, sitting through back-to-back numbers felt like being stuck in a loop that dulled the emotional crescendo I was craving. And those…

Introduction “Eban and Charley” isn’t your run-of-the-mill love story—it’s the kind of film that tiptoes along the edge of controversy, daring you to look away but making it nearly impossible. Directed by James Bolton and released in 2000, this indie drama stirred up plenty of debate when it first hit the festival circuit. The story zeroes in on a relationship between a 29-year-old man and a 15-year-old boy, set against the rainy, introspective backdrop of the Pacific Northwest. If you’re expecting melodrama or heavy-handed moralizing, think again. Bolton’s approach is subdued, almost detached, letting the audience wrestle with their own feelings about what unfolds on screen. I remember stumbling across the DVD cover, which oddly features only Charley—almost as if the film itself is inviting us to focus on innocence, or perhaps to question whose story this really is. Review Tackling a subject as fraught as this is like walking a tightrope in a windstorm. The filmmakers here don’t preach, nor do they sensationalize; instead, they present Eban and Charley’s relationship in a matter-of-fact way, leaving us to stew in our own discomfort. There’s a muted quality to the storytelling, as if the camera itself is unsure how close it should get. Personally, I found myself torn—my heart tugged in one direction, my mind yanking me back in another. Is this forbidden love, or something much darker? The film doesn’t spoon-feed us an answer. Eban, played with a sort of gentle ambiguity, returns to his hometown from Seattle for Christmas. His reasons are hazy, like fog rolling in off the…

“Transaction,” a British sitcom that flips the script on the usual portrayal of trans characters, feels like stepping into a supermarket that’s trapped in a bubble of chaos—only, no customers ever show up. Instead, what you get is a quirky, bizarre workplace where the staff are more caught up in their own dramas than any real retail hustle. The lead, Olivia, a trans woman who’s anything but your typical role model, drifts through the show like a hurricane of laziness and mischief, turning every interaction into a volatile mix of charm and frustration. Honestly, it’s refreshing—and, at times, downright hilarious—to see a trans character who’s selfish, easily bored, and unapologetically self-serving. I couldn’t help but chuckle at how she manipulates those around her, especially when her excuses for dodging work revolve around a surgery she isn’t even sure she wants. Talk about complicated! At the heart of the story is Simon, the supermarket manager whose well-meaning but blundering attempts at inclusivity lead to some true comedy gold, especially when he launches an ad campaign that accidentally comes off as transphobic. His cringe-worthy efforts to “fix” things—like looking up “transgenders in the area”—highlight how good intentions can sometimes backfire spectacularly. Simon’s earnestness is oddly endearing, making him one of the few characters you can root for amid the utter ridiculousness. Then there’s Millie, the tiny but tenacious dwarf employee, whose sweet but exploited kindness adds a subtle layer of warmth to the show’s offbeat humor. I found myself rooting for her despite how often Liv steamrolls over her good nature. What…

“Knock Out,” a Thai BL series with boxing at its core, immediately hooked me with its fresh setting—because let’s be real, how often do you see a love story draped in boxing gloves and sweat? It’s bold, no doubt, stepping into a world usually reserved for gritty sports dramas rather than tender romances. But as I sank deeper into the episodes, that initial spark started to flicker beneath a weight of repetitiveness and a bustling cast that felt more like a crowded ring than a tight-knit group. The story kicks off with Keen, a young man suddenly thrust into survival mode after his cop father’s mysterious death. His refuge? A boxing club run by his father’s friend, piling on tension as loan sharks relentlessly chase him. Enter Thun—the camp’s star boxer who’s mysteriously hung up his gloves. What follows is a patchwork of fights, plans, and villains popping up like unwelcome shadows, throwing blow after blow at our heroes. Keen’s clever schemes push the plot forward, but sometimes I found myself wondering—really, how does this kid pull off miracle after miracle without breaking a sweat? There’s something raw about the heart of the show—a fragile dance of healing through pain, two bruised souls sparring with their pasts as love slowly ignites between Keen and Thun. Their connection simmers with tension and trauma, a bit like a slow-building storm that promises rain but sometimes just drizzles. Meanwhile, another couple—less spotlighted but intense—brings a grounded, more palpable tenderness that caught me off guard in a good way. That said, the narrative sometimes…