Twenty films depicting inclusive LGBT portrayals
by A.A. Dowd, Gisella Faggi, Jon Mathias and Kevin Sparrow

12) Y Tu Mamá También (Mexico, 2001) – Long before their platonic bromance blossoms into a sexual romance, forbidden desire joyfully consummated in one alcohol-fueled night of reckless passion, it’s painfully clear that Julio (Gael Garcia Bernal) and Tenoch (Diego Luna) just want to fuck each other. When they’re not having buck-naked towel fights and poolside jerk sessions, these textbook closet cases are screwing each other’s girlfriends and competing for the same way-out-of-their-league señoritas. Raunchy sex farces don’t come much funnier and more honest than this, but Y Tu Mamá También, Alfonso Cuarón’s boisterous and bittersweet ode to accidental self-discovery, aspires to a hell of a lot more than a bi-curious American Pie for the art house set. Attempting, rather transparently, to seduce an older woman, the mysterious Luisa (Maribel Verdú), our idiot-horndog heroes chart a random course to an imaginary utopia, some made-up beach getaway on the Mexican coast. Somehow, this ill-conceived road-trip does get them laid, but that’s merely the prelude to a pricklier and more profound journey: with Maria as their no-bullshit guide, Julio and Tenoch stumble upon a whole world—a history, a culture, and a community—outside of the selfish and insular one they’ve built for themselves. And then they stumble, suddenly and ecstatically, into each other. By Cuarón’s radical estimation, sexual awakening goes hand-in-hand with the emergence of a social conscience—only when we truly know ourselves can we finally feel the pulse of the planet and its people. Of course, retreat is always an option and enlightenment can be fleeting. Tragic, to choose the darkness we know over the blinding, terrifying light we need. – A.D.

11) High Art (U.S., 1998) – A gorgeously realized piece of work from writer-director Lisa Cholodenko, High Art tells the story of Syd (Radha Mitchell, amazing in her first leading role), a working stiff at a photography magazine. Her happenstance encounter with hermit photographer neighbor Lucy Berliner (Ally Sheedy) leads to a tentative and perceptibly sycophantic friendship. But as the women spend more time together, a genuine passion develops. Complications arise as Syd has her sexual awakening as things become more serious with her live-in boyfriend, James (Gabriel Mann). Syd becomes more than a source of work for Lucy; she becomes her art. The photography captured throughout the film is worth looking up alone, and many still frames throughout could be their own pieces. Merit is due not only to the nuanced turns by all the actors, including Patricia Clarkson as Lucy’s drug-addled, German actress girlfriend, but to a refreshingly well-rounded crew with females in most of the key positions, a rarity in a notoriously andro-centric industry. The work shown here pinpoints what makes the medium of film so vital, and transcends its (predictably) tragic ending. – K.S.

10) Boys Don’t Cry (U.S., 1999) – It’s the movie that made an actress, a star, and an Oscar winner out of that scrawny, spunky girl from “90210″ and The Next Karate Kid. But take Hillary Swank and her revelatory tour de force out of the equation, and what’s to be made, in this new era of palatable American indies, of Boys Don’t Cry? Nearly a decade after the awards frenzy and year’s-best hoopla, Kimberly Pierce’s harrowing howl of social outrage is frequently regarded as something of an Important Bummer—in other words, as the type of work you swallow like bad medicine, enduring its horrors out of some sense of noble, civic responsibility and then vowing to never suffer through them again. It’s an understandable reaction. Casting an unflinching eye on the real-life tragedy of Teena Brandon, a young Nebraskan transgender raped and murdered by his friends after they discover his female parts, Boys Don’t Cry is grueling in its stark depiction of hate-crime atrocity. What people often forget is everything leading up to that heart-and-stomach-wrenching finale. Released just one year after the murder of Matthew Shepherd, Pierce’s debut offers both rage and consolation, attempting, in one fell swoop, to both harshly expose and empathetically heal the festering wounds of an ideologically divided nation. And, in the swagger and soul and joy—yes, joy—of Swank’s live-wire performance, the film mourns Teena’s death by celebrating her life, selling her nervy gender deception as an essential journey of self-discovery. As such, the defining moment of Boys Don’t Cry is not its devastating climax, but the scene in which a smirking Swank, her hair-cropped short and her masculine features accentuated, whispers “You’re an asshole” at her own reflection. Teena Brandon has become Brandon Teena. And finally, if only for a brief while, she soars. – A.D.

9) Tropical Malady (Thailand, 2005) – A male soldier openly woos a village boy, and nobody bats an eye or whispers a word—is rural Thailand really this refreshingly progressive, or are we in the realm of fantasy from frame one? Torn between reality and myth, naturalism and allegoric poeticism, Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s strange and wondrous Tropical Malady treats its central gay romance with a matter-of-factness that borders on abstraction: free of societal oppression and disapproval, Keng (Banlop Lomnoi) and Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee) bond on an almost spiritual level, their slowly blossoming love affair born of mysterious, unspoken natural forces. Schizophrenically split right down the middle, Weerasethakul’s film begins simply enough, charting the men’s tentative courtship, their gentle flirtation, their earnest romantic gestures and sweet declarations of affection. Then, after a daytrip to a cavernous mine—the symbolism is clear—Tropical Malady pulls a 180, veering off into the jungle for a bit of beguiling folklore, the wordless tale of a soldier hunting a tiger through the deep, tangled foliage. Contrary to what many have written, the second half is not a metaphoric reflection of the first, but a continuation: hesitant attraction gives way to a full-blown sexual pursuit, with the erotic escalation of Keng and Tong’s relationship suggested through image and motion, mysterious desire painted grand on a mythic canvas. Reconciling the oppositional halves of Weerasethakul’s confounding mood piece is no simple task. Thankfully, the through line connecting them—two souls connecting in an idyllic land where their love is not taboo—couldn’t be clearer. – A.D.