One of the many beauties of Femme is its radical unpretentiousness. Part of this unassuming nature is the film’s context: the movie is not afraid of coming off as “low culture” to anyone. The movie interacts with media and settings that are almost never deemed worthy of portrayal in cinema: drag shows; WhatsApp sexting; gay saunas and pornography; and Street Fighter. These elements are all treated with dramatic weight. They are all necessary to the plot, and they support the film’s ambitious exploration of a myriad of themes. Femme may not be pretentious, but it takes itself seriously with a compassion that creates a harrowing and moving experience for the viewer.
Femme is about a drag queen (Jules, played by Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) who, after a show, is viciously attacked by Preston (George MacKay) while Preston’s friends film the assault. Months later, Jules, who has spiraled into a trauma-induced despondent haze, visits a gay sauna and runs into Preston, who does not recognize Jules out of drag. Preston invites Jules to get into his car, and Jules obliges. Taking advantage of this confusion of identities, Jules plots to begin an affair with Preston, record them having sex, and leak the video to out him. (The idea is revealed to the audience by Jules scrolling PornHub videos with the same premise.)
Drag is a clear performance of gender, and the persona of a drag queen is different, but not entirely separate from the performer’s identity.
Drag is an ingenious element of the film. By incorporating drag, a literal manifestation of the central question of the film is given the most literal manifestation possible: Where does performance stop and identity begin, particularly in terms of the performance of gender? Drag is a clear performance of gender, and the persona of a drag queen is different, but not entirely separate from the performer’s identity. Jules’ drag is also the catalyst for the events of the film. Jules’ recognizable gender nonconformity as a result of drag is the cause of the harassment that escalates into Preston’s assault. The drag also allows Jules to take revenge on Preston and differentiate himself from the victim of Preston’s attack.
The ambiguity of what is performance and what is “real” follows the entire relationship between Jules and Preston. Even the assault is a performance: Preston wants to show his friends that he isn’t (as Jules insinuates publicly) queer, and this is amplified by the presence of a camera while he beats Jules. Jules ostensibly enters into the affair with the intention of revenge, but the line between feigned and real care between them is never totally clear, especially as the pair move from impersonal hookups to a more conventional romance involving candlelit dinner dates. At points in the film, one could almost forget that the man sleeping over in Jules’ bed, eating breakfast with his roommate, and bringing him a birthday present is the same man who committed the nauseating assault at the beginning of the film. Something real emerges from the performative, creating intimacy as unlikely as it is touching.
Performed intimacy is still intimacy, just as performed violence is still violence.
The sexual dynamic between Jules and Preston — Preston playing (or perhaps being) a hyper-dominant and rough gangster type — blurs the line between an imminent threat and Preston simply playing the role he feels he must perform, and the role he believes Jules wants him to play. When Preston gets particularly rough or angry during their sex scenes, it is frightening because the audience and Jules both know that he is capable of real and brutal violence, but it’s often unclear how much of this is Preston playing a character. Preston takes a submissive role with Jules later in their relationship, and this seems to bring them closer — is this what he wanted all along? However, because we understand that even during the assault Preston is performing, we grow to understand that performance is real. It has real consequences. Performed intimacy is still intimacy, just as performed violence is still violence. The mere act of performing changes us. Femme is a movie about queerness, but it also is a movie about humanity. We all perform, it says, and we all create ourselves.
The acting performances don’t just provide a voice for this story; they elevate it greatly. Stewart-Jarrett and MacKay portray the ambiguity of their situations gorgeously. Stewart-Jarrett perfectly captures the simultaneous rage, desire, pain, and vulnerability that Jules’ character encompasses at all moments of the film, often in remarkably subtle ways. His acting is understated in many scenes, but there is enough captured in his eyes alone that the audience feels emotionally anchored and close to him. MacKay’s performance in the film is marvelously nerve-wracking — he comes off as legitimately unhinged and unpredictable. We are never truly able to relax as long as he is on screen. Even more impressive, he at times evokes conflicted compassion in the audience. We see a man whose identity is fractured, who is afraid, and who appears to be changing in the course of his relationship with Jules. The monster we meet at the beginning of the film begins to make us pity him.
Every aspect of this film, really, is just about perfect. It looks beautiful. It sounds perfect. Each element of the film that is set up pays off perfectly. It offers compelling answers to impossible questions. It is equal parts intelligent and viscerally effective. It is a perfectly balanced masterpiece, making it my pick for the best movie of the year.
I watched Femme at the Image + Nation Festival’s Screening in November 2023.
