Carol (2015)

Every fuckin’ frame. Every. Fuckin’. Frame. EVERY. FUCKIN’. FRAME. Every fuckin’ frame of this is so good that it gives a kind of romantic, delicious texture to the various sadnesses of my life, great and small, even the most meaningless jags of brain chemistry, because it’s like, yeah man, life is sometimes balanced on the tip of a knife, the whole world sharp and painful, every decision one has ahead of them all but guaranteed to draw blood and leave scars, but Carol leaves that bitch-ass Harge anyhow because anything less would make her half a person. One of the great statements in any medium about that particular point in life many queer people reach, and the fact that this came out and I saw it, awe-struck, at least a dozen times during one of my own, when everyone in my life who I had to turn to with my own wriggling, terrifying vulnerabilities either didn’t believe me or thought it would be best if I swallowed it down has blunted the razor’s edge of later movies that’ve grappled with the same crisis of identity in one way or another.