There is no sport more intimate or erotic than tennis. It is one of the few major sports where two players agree to partake, for hours, in a duel of body, mind, and soul. Naturally, to engage with anyone that intensely, an inescapable relationship is forged— one that intensifies with every stroke, every bead of sweat, every grunt. It may not be as fleshy as boxing, but arguably the lack of is what makes tennis more arousing— is not…
All that money Netflix spent on that embarrassing TUDUM event should have been used to market Lost in Starlight.
Obvious highlight from Cannes, few people can capture an honest tenderness and vulnerability between people like Trier.
That one sequence. You’ll know it when you see it. Magnum opus type scene. Spirit awakening type scene. Inspirational, foundational, monumental.
Charles fucking Melton. I don’t want to reduce a movie that’s clearly crafted with so much skill to create scenes brimming with unease to a single performance, but Melton is so absurdly good that without him, I’m not sure how this movie reaches those insane harrowing levels. His body language, his mannerisms, his delivery— he is the personification of stolen innocence and your heart breaks for him.
Portman, Moore, the campy piano melody that plays after a reveal, the dressing room shot, the Portman letter monologue— all pieces of a sick and tragic puzzle that is May December.
