It’s hard to quantify quite what effect Two of Us will have on you. Filippo Meneghetti’s film is not a typical love story, nor is it a typical drama. It doesn’t beat its audience over the head with exposition, nor does it grant them full access to everything occurring within its various set pieces. It is a bleak film filled with sadness, regret, and guilt, and yet also one punctuated by love and passion, and with moments of joy and humor.
Co-written by Menehjetti and Malysone Bovorasmy, Two of Us (★★★★★) follows an older lesbian couple, Nina (Barbara Sukowa) and Madeleine (Martine Chevallier), who have kept their relationship hidden for decades, but now, after the death of Madeleine’s husband, are free to sell their neighboring apartments and leave France for Rome, where they first met. All they need is for Madeleine to break the news to her children — a task halted by insecurity and uncertainty, leading to a tense falling out between her and Nina.
A vicious exchange during that falling out plunges Nina into despair after Madeleine suffers a stroke, her children assigning a caregiver, their truth and life together left unspoken. Forced to watch from across the hall as her lover slowly recuperates, guilt and desperation eat away at Nina as she tries desperately to find reasons to see and spend time with Madeleine.
Two of Us quietly, devastatingly unpicks the ties that bound Nina and Madeleine’s life together, keeping it from view of the outside world. Sukowa delivers a master class performance, switching on the fly between any number of emotions — elation at Madeleine’s progress, anger at being kept from her, deep-rooted love in small moments of tenderness with her life partner.
One particularly notable scene takes place the first night Madeleine returns from hospital, as Nina must remain in her apartment and look at empty cupboards and bare rooms, her entire life clearly lived across the hall with Madeleine. Forced to eavesdrop and peer out of her peephole to figure out what’s going on, Meneghetti keeps the audience in the dark and on edge alongside Nina, as she quietly tiptoes across the hall and into Madeleine’s apartment — her apartment — to sit with her, or share memories with her, or climb into their bed and hold her tightly.
The narrative’s masterstroke is that it continues to unspool, stretching things further as Madeleine’s daughter Anne (Léa Drucker) discovers uncomfortable truths about her mother, and further separates Nina from Madeleine — which in turn only increases Nina’s desperation. The film often descends into dark places, such as Nina’s nightmares while in bed alone. In one deeply unsettling moment, Anne tells Nina that her mother only had one true love, her abusive father, who “tyrannized” Madeleine, while Meneghetti zooms into Madeleine’s open, unblinking eyes, as she sits between Anne and Nina at the table. Credit is also due to Chevallier for her performance as a silent, recovering Madeleine, seeing her life manipulated and maneuvered without her consent, unable to stop her separation from Nina despite evidence of its harm. With a simple glance, Chevallier conveys a thousand unspoken words.
With Two of Us, Meneghetti delivers not only one of the most compelling lesbian films ever made, but does so while also tackling aging, the secret lives many LGBTQ people lead, and the lengths some will go to in order to protect those they love. It is an incredibly moving, richly conveyed, powerfully acted, and beautifully constructed film that everyone should see.
Two of Us opens in theatres on Friday, Feb. 5, and is available on streaming and at virtual cinemas, including The Avalon. Visit www.theavalon.org.
For more than a decade, Annie Baker has been known in the theater world as a prolific author of plays that center the quotidian rhythms of daily life, often in New England. Baker's 2013 play The Flick, about the employees of a decrepit old movie palace, won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, though its length and stylistic quirks proved polarizing. In the New Yorker, Nathan Heller wrote that Baker "has pioneered a style of theatre made to seem as untheatrical as possible."
That quality of ordinary life defines Janet Planet, Baker's quietly remarkable debut as a filmmaker. It's a drama of the everyday, wryly funny and defiantly small -- the sort of movie where not much happens in terms of plot, but a whole lot happens in the inner world of the protagonist, a young girl named Lacy.
The queens are fighting, fucking, partying, and serving fierce performances at the spirited Montréal drag bar centered in Sophie Dupuis' award-winning drama Solo.
At the bar is where Simon (Théodore Pellerin) meets Olivier (Félix Maritaud), and love takes over. Newly arrived from Paris, Olivier performs as La Dragona, a punk-styled genderfuck queen, who makes her debut at the club with an alluringly cocky lip-sync to an ice-cold electro track. Welcomed by his fellow performers with champagne and a night out after the show, Olivier immediately catches Simon's eye.
Rachel Lynett's world, like everybody else's, looked remarkably different in the heated months of 2020 when the Yale Prize-winning playwright found herself writing Letters to Kamala.
"To set the page, we have to remember 2020," Lynett tells Metro Weekly, drawing us back to that protest-filled summer and autumn. "I was living on State Street in Madison, Wisconsin, where the cops were there every single night, tear gassing people."
In that atmosphere of roiling racial tension, Joe Biden had selected Kamala Harris as his running mate, and Lynett, who is queer, Black, and Latinx, was hopeful about this dynamic, Black and South Asian female leader rising to power. Yet, she recalls, as someone from California, she was skeptical of Harris' complicated history as a tough-on-crime prosecutor in the state.
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