In the preface to the 1985 edition of his semi-autobiographical novel *Queer*, William S. Burroughs revealed that the book's core lay in an event "never mentioned, indeed, carefully avoided." This novel was written 30 years prior but was not published until then, highlighting the weight of the suppressed event.
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02-06, 2025He was referring to the 1951 incident in which he allegedly accidentally shot and killed his wife, Joan Vollmer, supposedly while they were performing a William Tell act gone wrong. He wrote that Joan's death influenced not only *Queer* but his entire career (his debut novel, *Junkie*, was published in 1953): "I am forced to the appalling conclusion that I never would have become a writer but for Joan's death," marking a pivotal and tragic turning point in his life.
This admission is hardly new, but it forms the inescapable weight that burdens Lee, the protagonist of *Queer* (and Burroughs's stand-in), as he cannot speak of it, even as he attempts self-destruction and distraction in Mexico City. The novel ends abruptly, without release or much resolution. It is also not a love story between him and Allerton, a similarly aimless young man recently discharged from the U.S. Navy. Instead, it is a high-pitched howl of despair, loneliness, and self-loathing that chills to the bone, even if we cannot always hear it directly, creating a pervasive sense of unease.
Thus, *Queer* provides compelling material for Italian director Luca Guadagnino, a filmmaker known for transformative, all-consuming desires. The throbbing Italian summer romances of *Call Me by Your Name* or *I Am Love* are the most direct examples. But irresistible desires also run through the supernatural awakenings of Guadagnino's *Suspiria* remake, the bloody cannibalism of *Bones and All*, and the feverish love triangle that propels the tennis players of *Challengers* to glory, showcasing the director's exploration of intense human drives.
Unlike Guadagnino's previous films, *Queer* tells of a failed transformation—as Lee's alcoholism, heroin use, and unspeakable feelings about Vollmer's death form an insurmountable barrier. Here, Guadagnino's ability to create gorgeous, intoxicating worlds of vibrant color and passion instead highlights Lee's emptiness, emphasizing the stark contrast between outward beauty and inner desolation.
Daniel Craig's Lee, the film's central figure, is a far cry from Peter Weller's hollow-eyed version in the 1991 film *Naked Lunch* (a psychedelic adaptation of Burroughs's novel of the same name). Craig's Lee is pathetic: a man trying to cover his wounds, but the wounds become all the more apparent. He is restless, always searching for the next point of attention, holding court late at night in bars in a linen suit, spouting history and gossip, revealing a desperate need for connection.
His need for attention makes him a white-linen-suited clown, but there is genius lurking in Craig's lightning-bolt blue eyes. He embodies the charm and cruelty of an addict—that intense, flattering focus that wanes the moment you realize you could be anyone. (See also: Ryan Murphy's *Feud* about Truman Capote, another queer midcentury writer, talker, and addict.)
Nonetheless, Lee soon becomes infatuated with Allerton—played by Drew Starkey, previously best known for the Netflix teen drama *Outer Banks*. Starkey plays Allerton with a frigid detachment, both repulsed and drawn to Lee's affectations and blatant ramblings—but not necessarily attracted. The two eventually travel to the jungles of Ecuador in search of yagé, which is used to make ayahuasca. (Lesley Manville shows up here as a white shaman in a brief and utterly terrifying role worthy of a Best Supporting Actress nomination.)
It's unclear why Allerton humors Lee, but where the humidity leaves Lee looking disheveled, Allerton's sweat is crystalline; he practically glistens in the humid air and under Lee's sheer attention. This is either a very coordinated, low-key performance or one that skates by on Starkey's good looks. Either way, it works, as Allerton seems more of an object than an equal. When they are together at a dinner, sounds echo and flicker: what they say doesn't matter so much as the contact. During a gaze, a ghostly apparition of Lee—a superimposed shot—pushes out from his body to caress Allerton's face. It's a simple but effective visual representation of desire constrained by fear or shame, and it's used repeatedly. But it builds to a late-act choreographed dance between Lee and Allerton that is both tender and horrific, rife with body horror. Unforgettable, tragic, and revolting, it will haunt you.
But *Queer* is not all phantom connections. There are plenty of explicit gay sex scenes—one in particular to shut up those who were frustrated by *Call Me by Your Name*'s PG-13-rated from-the-bed-to-the-window pan. Lee's moments of indulgence, through sex and drugs, are few and far between, even as midcentury Mexico City is intentionally rendered with a sense of unreality.
The film uses miniatures and hand-painted backdrops, and the colors are oversaturated, soft, and sun-drenched. CGI is used to heighten the artificiality of the colors, and the pristine midcentury costumes designed by Loewe's Jonathan Anderson make everything too pretty, even with sweat stains on the collars.
All told, *Queer* gives the sense that Mexico City is merely a dreamlike playground for Lee—and other queer American men—to while away their time, sexual outlaws. The exploitative, colonial elements of their hedonism linger, echoed by the creepy score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross—uneasy piano, strings, and deep, dark synths.
*Queer* retains many of the core collaborators from Guadagnino's previous film, *Challengers*—including Anderson, Reznor, and Ross, as well as cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom and screenwriter Justin Kuritzkes. They are clearly in their groove, working to create *Queer*'s irresistible beauty, as well as a growing sense that something is deeply wrong.
Slow motion turns grotesque, colors flood, and suits become muddied. A repeating needle drop of Nirvana's "Come as You Are" punctures the film's romanticized rendition of the 1950s. The drug-induced surrealism of Burroughs's consciousness seeps in, blurring the lines between reality and perception.
Of course, something is wrong, and not just Lee's shame about his queer identity or his struggle to kick his addiction—even if that is perhaps what audiences will find relatable or heartbreaking, creating a complex emotional landscape.
As Burroughs wrote in his introduction, Lee is "inexorably driven" to Vollmer's death. Because *Queer* does not name it, he wrote, "a miasma of menace and evil rises from the page, an evil that Lee knows but does not know, that he tries to escape by frantic flights of fantasy," highlighting the pervasive sense of dread and the protagonist's desperate attempts to evade a dark truth.
*Queer* sits in that evil with great unease. It may be Guadagnino's most accomplished film to date, but it is too unsettling to become his most beloved, offering plenty of beauty but little release. *Queer* is now playing in theaters, leaving audiences to grapple with its challenging themes and unresolved tensions.
