‘Queer’: A Fever Dream of the Fragility of Love
By Natalie McCarty
Directed with a surrealist’s eye, Luca Guadagnino’s Queer immerses you in a kaleidoscope of color, movement, and emotion from the opening frame. One of the most cinematically shot fever dreams, Queer analyzes and explores the fragility of love.
It’s been decades since a film has used color and movement so masterfully, and I’d even go as far as to say that this is some of the best cinematography since Singin’ in the Rain. Queer’s saturated palette evokes longing, obsession, and the ever-elusive search for identity. Every frame feels deliberate, as if the director composed it with the meticulous care of a painter. Or an architect. It’s really fabulously shot.
Additionally, Queer’s original score envelops you in its dreamlike world, acting as the film’s heartbeat. Composed by the incomparable Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, who reunite with Guadagnino after Challengers, the score is a sweeping, emotional symphony that heightens every moment on screen. Their work is nothing short of phenomenal, with pieces that captivate and linger with haunting beauty. The score is coupled with one of the greatest soundtracks that elevates the film to a whole new level.
And yet, for all its visual and auditory brilliance, the film isn’t without its flaws. The storyline occasionally wavers, struggling to balance its exploration of love, identity, and self-destruction. At times, the narrative feels stretched too thin, leaving certain character arcs frustratingly underdeveloped. However, this narrative looseness could be seen as a deliberate choice, adding to the film’s dreamlike quality. Rooted in an almost inebriated state, Queer prioritizes emotional resonance over rigid storytelling—a decision that, while polarizing, serves to immerse the audience in its visceral, otherworldly atmosphere.
The performances of Daniel Craig (Lee) and Drew Starkey (Eugene Allerton) are unquestionably the heart of this film. Each actor brings an intensity to their role that feels authentic and deeply vulnerable. Even when the script falters, it’s their portrayal that elevates the narrative, carrying the weight of the story with an understated elegance. Their characters radiate a tenderness and sweetness that transcends the written dialogue, relying instead on the subtlety of their craft.
Body language, longing looks, and quiet, understanding glances convey a depth of emotion that feels both lived-in and organic. Craig delivers one of the most nuanced performances of his career, while Starkey firmly establishes himself as a serious talent to watch. It’s an exciting glimpse of what’s to come from the Outer Banks star.
It’s in the final act that Queer transforms from a collection of visual stills to something much more profound and incredibly avant-garde. Using performance art and surreal imagery, the film dives headfirst into the idea of loving someone so intensely that you want to inhabit their very being. The metaphorical and literal interplay of identity and intimacy reaches its zenith here, as the boundaries between self and other dissolve.
It’s haunting, beautiful, and, at times, unsettling (very akin to the Chiara’s Halo reference “My hands never fit into the wounds of your skin”). The film captures this essence of love: the ways we try, often unsuccessfully, to merge ourselves with those we hold dearest, even as it costs us pieces of our individuality.
At its core, Queer is a film about contradictions. It is both comforting and devastating, hopeful and unforgiving, intimate and expansive. It’s about love as a force that creates and destroys. It’s about identity as a puzzle we may never fully solve. About art as the ultimate mirror to our struggles and desires.
Queer is not a perfect film. It doesn’t strive to be. Instead, it is a deeply human work of art–a masterpiece of contradictions, and in those contradictions, it finds its soul.