Stranger(s) Things: Love, Loss and the Gay Gen Xer in All of Us Strangers
There are movies, there are films, and then there are pieces of cinematic art. Andrew Haigh’s hauntingly beautiful (or beautifully haunting), All of Us Strangers easily falls in the cinematic-art category. (For the purposes of this review/analysis, however, I’ll use the word, film.) Focusing on (queer) loneliness, familial (re)connection and the promise of new love, Strangers is somber and surreal, dreamy and devastating. Andrew Scott inhabits the character of Adam, a screenwriter who spends much of his time alone in his London high-rise apartment building. One night, Harry (Paul Mescal), seemingly the only other resident of the building, appears at Adam’s door, drunk, chatty and certainly flirty. During this brief exchange in the doorframe, Haigh sets up the dichotomy between the two men: outside/inside; younger/older; inebriated/sober; forward/reserved. Cue the phrase: opposites attract. Adam cordially declines Harry’s advances, and shuts the door… for now.
Making Peace with the Past
Later after Adam stares at his blank laptop screen, waiting for the creativity muses to pay him a visit instead, he discovers a photo of his childhood home. He decides to leave the confines of his apartment, and the city, to venture out into the suburbs to revisit his old haunts… and haunt it does. He meets two unlikely inhabitants, to put it simply, ghosts from his past, the meeting serving as inspiration for Adam to invite Harry, his potential future, into his home and into his heart.
As mentioned earlier, Adam’s reserved nature and initial reluctance toward letting Harry in (on varying levels) is representative, perhaps, in part, of his upbringing in the 1980s, at the start of the AIDS epidemic. (The film suggests that Adam was around 11 years old in 1987.) With so much uncertainty and fear surrounding the virus during the decade, these were, perhaps, additional factors that contributed to a future Adam, a gay Gen Xer, to choose abstinence (and self-isolation) over physical intimacy. The younger Harry, likely born in the mid-1990s, is part of the next generation, and seems to have a different, freer approach to sexual experiences. When Adam and Harry begin an intimate relationship, Adam is out of practice, even laughing awkwardly during their first kiss because he has to remind himself to breathe. Later, while Adam is in a bathtub, he is literally and figuratively naked, choosing to share a moment of vulnerability with Harry, who is sitting outside of the tub. Adam admits that for a long time the idea of being with someone physically meant death. These types of honest, heartbreaking disclosures permeate Haigh’s screenplay.
Holding Space
Haigh also chose to shoot parts of the film in his own childhood home. This is a writer and director dedicated to authenticity. One of the many poignant moments finds Adam walking into his childhood bedroom, which has been frozen in time: a boombox sits on his desk; he looks through a few vinyl records that encapsulate English pop music of the mid-‘80s: Erasure’s The Circus (1987) and Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Welcome to the Pleasuredome (1984). The room looks like a fairly common kid’s bedroom in the ‘80s, but the inclusion of the albums from (and posters of) gay-fronted music groups suggest that a young Adam may have already begun gravitating toward these forms of gay iconography. The room was where 11-year-old Adam could be himself: it was a safe haven from school bullies; his own private quarters for crying; it’s where his musical and artistic interests hopefully brought him moments of joy. Haigh brilliantly incorporates other songs from the decade into the story: Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Power of Love” (1984); Alison Moyet’s “Is this Love?” (1986); Pet Shop Boys’ “Always On My Mind” (1987), which you’ll never hear the same way again. The latter, with its theme of regret, expressed from one lover to another, becomes repurposed as an apology from a parent to a child, during the film’s heartwarming Christmas scene.
For All of Us (Strangers)
The story is sure to resonate with many in the queer community, particularly gay Gen Xers, yet the film still allows for something universal, regardless of sexual orientation. Themes of love, loss, and second chances will likely confirm how much we all have in common, particularly after the third and final act, which is emotionally heavy. Ironically, for a story that deals with the importance of closure in order to move forward, its conclusion may, in fact, present more questions than answers, but it almost doesn’t matter with something this beautiful, for All of Us Strangers is a masterpiece that opens the heart, and the mind.
From Fosse to Ari: The Origin of Ariana Grande’s “yes, and?” Video
As long as there have been artists, it’s pretty safe to say there have been critics. The relationship between the two is a complicated one, for it’s the artist who, in an act of vulnerability, steps into the arena (often literally) to present the creation, and with that, comes the (welcome or unwelcome, hopefully at least constructive) critique from the sideline.
An artist who recently commented about this relationship is Ariana Grande, via her latest music video for “yes, and?” from her seventh studio album, Eternal Sunshine, which saw the light of day on March 8. The track’s sound evokes classic piano and hi-hat ‘90s dance music, while the video treatment harkens back to a stylish ‘80s music video and even further back to an iconic ‘70s movie musical, so therefore, Ari’s video is an homage to an homage. Let’s put on our dancing shoes and retrace our steps:
One of the best depictions of this artist-critic exchange was featured in Bob Fosse’s 1979 semi-autobiographical musical-drama, All That Jazz. Broadway director and choreographer, Joe Gideon (Roy Scheider essentially portraying Bob Fosse) is burning the candle (and many cigarettes) at both ends, trying to cast and create a new show, plus complete the editing of a film, all while barely co-raising his young daughter, and popping a lot of pills.
The new show that Gideon is working on entitled, NY/LA, a loose reference to Fosse’s very own, Chicago, features a musical number about airline travel called “Take Off With Us” (a cheeky title already filled with foreshadowing). Gideon invites a few suit-wearing financial backers to preview the song and dance, which starts out with the character of a purser (Sandahl Bergman), along with her crew of dancing flight attendants, touting the exceptional service they will bestow up their passengers (“They only live to service you...”). The first half of the performance is bubbly, which garners smiles, even a round of applause midway through from the straight-laced observers, but unbeknownst to them, there’s a second half that suddenly turns steamy (literally), with one of the dancers welcoming all aboard “Airotica,” Gideon’s ode to the “Mile-High Club.”
The studio goes dim, now lit only via a few flashlights, with the dancers peeling off their clothes (the “take off with us” double entendre now realized), and pairing up to perform a sensual, then overtly sexual, albeit artistic, number, much to the confusion and disappointment of the backers, the realization sinking in about the limited monetary and sponsorship potential that the addition of “Airotica” will bring. “There goes the family audience,” the head backer whispers to his colleague. At the end, Gideon asks what they think, only for the head backer to feign acceptance and approval with a nervous smile.
Ten years later, the dancer and choreographer, Paula Abdul used Fosse’s “Take Off With Us” as the basis for her “Cold Hearted” music video, directed by a then relatively unknown, David Fincher. The video starts out with a group of record-company executives arriving at a rehearsal space, seemingly uninterested in what they’re there to preview. One says it’s a “Bob Fosse kind of thing; it’s gonna be really, really hot,” to which another executive nervously replies, “Yeah, but tastefully, it’s tastefully hot.”
The first two verses and choruses find Abdul and her crew dancing much to the toe-tapping approval of the executives, but by the bridge, a couple of the dancers begin lowering the window shades, thus beginning Abdul’s (understandably much tamer) version of “Airotica.”
A couple of the executives are turned off, a couple of them turned on. Similar to Gideon asking his backers, Abdul asks her audience, “Well, what do you think?,” to which a conservative executive reluctantly replies, “It’s very nice.”
In January 2024, Grande released “yes, and?” as a self-empowerment reminder amid a social-media culture of click-and-critique. The video came at a time when Grande, once again, became the subject of chatter surrounding her personal life, specifically her short-lived marriage, and quick subsequent kindling of a new relationship with a co-star from the film adaptation of Wicked. For the Christian Breslauer-directed video for “yes, and?,” which starts similarly to Abdul’s, a group of jaded critics reluctantly arrive at an industrial space, yet ironically can’t seem to talk about anything but Grande and her signature ponytail, with some of the critics even rehashing, and reacting to, internet-sourced gossip.
As these critics enter the space, an elated group exits. The new batch take their seats in front of a series of stone statues, one of which is in the form of Grande with her hands covering her eyes in a see-no-evil posture. As the song’s beat drops in, the statues crumble into piles of rubble. Grande is released to tell her story, with the bridge reserved for commentary to those who deliver just that about her (“Don’t comment on my body/do not reply/your business is yours/and mine is mine”).
Through confident lyrics and cohesive choreography, Grande and her dancers persuade the critics to drop their metaphorical stone exteriors as well. Yet just as this is achieved, she and her dancers within a flash assume their statuesque personas once again, perhaps symbolic of the thick shell needed to navigate the current, all-too-easy, drop-a-comment culture. As the newly elated converts leave, yet another cluster of critics enter, they too soon to be shook.
In summary, the common threads between the three depictions are as follows:
The critics arrive.
Principal female character with a group of dancers.
Principal character dressed in black, and wearing a black hat with brim.
Stripped-down, industrial-looking rehearsal space featuring scaffolding structures.
Principal character on top of the scaffolding structure.
The controlled critics sitting on chairs as the audience, as opposed to the creative artists “in the arena.”
There’s always a moment when the critics are enjoying what is presented to them.
The rehearsal space goes from light to dark for a version of “Airotica.”
When it comes to Ariana Grande’s “yes, and?” video, there’s no place like homage.
Photos 1, 8, 9, 10: Ariana Grande in the music video for “yes, and?,” directed by Christian Breslauer; Photos 2, 3, 4: All That Jazz, directed by Bob Fosse, cinematography by Giuseppe Rotunno; Photos 5, 6, 7: Paula Abdul in the music video for “Cold Hearted,” directed by David Fincher.
Gotta Have Fate
The Netflix documentary, Wham! is as much about destiny, as it is about one of the biggest pop acts of the 1980s and its global impact over a mere five years. The story of how Georgios “George Michael” Panayiotou and Andrew Ridgeley became the legendary pop group is told mostly through archival footage and audio soundbites.
Meeting at school as pre-teens, Andrew and Yog, Andrew’s nickname for Georgios, became friends with a mutual interest in music. By their late-teens, the pair began writing catchy tunes laced with social commentary, plus ones that embraced the frivolity of youth culture (“Club Tropicana”), as well as others that appeared on their 1983 debut album, Fantastic. “Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do),” “Bad Boys” and “Young Guns (Go For It),” positioned Yog, professionally known as George Michael, as the rebellious protagonist, hell- (or heck-) bent on avoiding the 9 to 5 and “death by matrimony,” and set on saving Andrew Ridgeley’s character from a “straight-laced” life (one without George). Besides the (not-so) underlying homoerotic subtext, gay subculture iconography played heavily: leather jackets; tight jeans; aviator glasses—a look that solo George would don again for the Faith era. The musical and visual appeal of Wham! was far-reaching.
Co-crafting the sax-drenched power ballad, “Careless Whisper,” continuing into the Make It Big album (“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”; “Everything She Wants”; “Freedom”) and their final, Music from the Edge of Heaven (“Last Christmas”; “I’m Your Man”; “Where Did Your Heart Go?”), both traveled down the same creative pop-music path, only for them to hit the proverbial fork in the road, with personal goals and professional roles shifting as they achieved international success. Watching the documentary through the lens of loss, and letting go in life, adds further emotional resonance to what is essentially a story of unconditional love between friends, with one who must selflessly accept what is, so the other can become who he was destined to be.
Go-go watch it if you haven’t.