Femme (2024)

Score: 5 / 5

Possibly the most frustrating and challenging movie of the year (technically it was released in Britain in late 2023, but it wasn't available in the US until 2024), Femme has haunted my waking mind since entering my unsuspecting eyeballs. I've watched it three times already and still it plays hard-to-get, like a peripatetic snowflake in a warm updraft. With erotic thrillers, sometimes we get what we expect and want: satisfying sex that turns into a domestic or romantic nightmare. Sometimes we get what we need out of what we expect: taboo sex that doesn't punish its participants beyond what they can handle and they (and we) grow from it (see Babygirl, also out in 2024). And then there are those complex little puzzle boxes that break open several taboo seals while offering insight that refuses to moralize or condemn, forcing us to engage in a wholly different way. This is Femme. 

Opening with what could be a less glamorous spin-off of Pose across the pond, Femme refers to entertainer Jules, a tall, thin, Black man who performs as a beautiful drag queen in East London. One night, after performing, he goes out to the alley for a smoke and notices a rather butch white guy checking him out, who quickly flees. Going down the block for a new pack, Jules encounters this stranger again in the midst of a small gang of ruffians, crudely mocking and threatening Jules in the store. Jules responds to their homophobic slurs by mentioning the one who checked him out, which leads to him violently and brutally assaulting Jules in the alley while one of his friends records it online. It would seem that this fag has been roundly smoked.

The film skips ahead three months, as Jules recovers in ways that are surely not healthy but that are distinctly recognizable in a post-Covid world. He's become reclusive, rarely leaving his apartment, much to the concern and consternation of his beloved friends Toby and Alicia; he wears baggy, more "masc" clothes, uses no makeup, leaves his hair in a messy updo, and acts more stereotypically masculine even in the privacy of his own home while playing video games to no end. But, prompted by his friends to go out and try living, Jules takes a venture to a bathhouse. It's worth noting here that someone outside of the queer community may not understand or appreciate Jules's actions for the early parts of this film, which doesn't waste its time on explanations or exposition; you really just have to take it for what it is and, if something doesn't quite make sense to you, ask a queer person about it later. Bathhouses (or any queer spaces) are not innately threatening or scary places, so let's do away with those judgment calls, okay?

Lo and behold, Jules encounters, quite by chance, the same man who attacked him. In the bathhouse. He's still clearly a live wire, swinging more slurs until he leaves. Jules follows him into the locker room, where they make eyes at each other. Then the man orders Jules to continue following him outside. It's a riveting sequence, a bizarre roulette game of body language and tumultuous emotional charges, especially for Jules, who seems to think that this man doesn't recognize him from three months prior, but still isn't sure if he's going to attack again or on what grounds. But Jules also sees an opportunity here, unclear at first if it's for an adrenaline rush or proof of self-reliance or something more sinister; it doesn't take long before we see Jules plotting his revenge.

Written and directed by Sam H. Freeman and Ng Choon Ping, Femme takes most of its time exploring the fraught dynamics between Jules and his attacker, Preston, because indeed the white boy gets hooked by Jules's savvy demeanor, submissive bent, and of course his beauty. Their dynamic is innately perilous, as Preston's gang of criminal young men are about as toxically masculine imaginable and the closeted Preston is terrified of anyone discovering his proclivities. Unfortunately, that means Preston tends to lash out at anyone questioning his social dominance or implying any fruit in his cake, so to speak. But, in developing a relationship with Jules, Preston begins to change. It scares him. It should scare Jules, too, who moves rather quickly to force certain plot points to happen before Preston is fully aware of himself.

It's all a delicate and dangerous dance, so thankfully these filmmakers have two incredible actors to feature. Nathan Stewart-Jarrett carries the film with remarkably deft technique, naturalizing the mannerisms of his character in endlessly believable ways to the extent that I occasionally forgot this wasn't a documentary and Jules isn't a real person. George MacKay, on the other hand, is more recognizable to me, but his characterization of Preston is brave and insightful to the extent that, while watching, I started getting flashbacks to people who have bullied me because of the ways they bully themselves. The film is a character case study, and these actors deserve accolades for their performances.

But the filmmakers deserve them, too, and rarely are films with such topical and specific content this beautifully crafted or this challenging to experience. Slick and grungy at the same time, stylish and tense, the lighting and cinematography (James Rhodes) push us into realms of a somewhat surreal demimonde, awash in vibrant club colors and the intimacy of a warm candlelit bath, always visually representing Jules's emotional and spiritual state. Femme takes a fresh, hard look at violence against queer folks and boldly imagines a fantasy in which vengeance is not only possible but almost too easy. But this isn't quite Promising Young Woman, and I don't think Jules's characterization in particular allows us to view any character as a stock type, especially not an avenging angel. Can two wrongs make a right? This film sidesteps such moralizing, preferring to pose more questions about how hatred and violence and passion and love and sex combine into a heady cocktail of moral ambivalence and dangerous liaisons. If I had a complaint about the movie, it would be that the film only concerns itself with queer pain rather than queer joy, but that assessment says more about me than the film as it also ignores the elements of the film that are, in some ways, joyful and affirming. And, in case you're confused by my meandering, be aware that the conclusion of this film is so unexpected and raw that it will also upset your ability to glean easy meaning.