Kitchen Alchemy

During my recent stay to White Plains, I taught my nephew, who is a serious foodie and a great cook, how to make the rice pudding that my grandmother's family has been making for generations. My grandmother only made this pudding at Christmas time, when she made a massive batch because she not only had to make sure there was enough for all the relatives who'd drop by on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Years Eve, but neighborhood people often placed orders for the stuff, giving her a few bucks to prepare it. I remember the shelves in her fridge would be filled with platters, plates and bowls of the stuff - so much so that she'd often have to store some in my mother's fridge.


This stuff is not like any rice pudding I've ever encountered anywhere, including in the kitchens of other Puerto Ricans. It's not a white pudding, but deep, dark brown, from lots of cinnamon and ginger, and other stuff. It's not runny, but has a consistency closer to polenta - it can be sliced. I've never seen anything even close to it in any cookbook, Caribbean or otherwise. When my grandmother died, she took the recipe with her. There were lots of us who'd helped her with bits and pieces of it, but no one who knew all the ingredients or all the steps. My mother collected as much information as she could from anyone who'd ever been there when Abuela made the pudding, and she tapped into her own memory. One person would remember this ingredient, a second person would remember another. After several attempts, like some sort of rice pudding alchemist, my mother cracked the code and made a batch of rice pudding that was exactly like her mother's in every way. She wrote down the method, and sent it to me. I say "method," because there are no exact amounts listed, no measurements of anything, no exact cooking times...it's most definitely a method driven, in large part, by instincts. This part is done when the kitchen starts to smell good, that part is done when it becomes difficult to stir, you've added enough of this when the color is just right, the amount of butter needed is a couple of pats, or whatever feels right. That's how this rice pudding is made.


I've made this pudding many, many times and fed it to many, many friends. They all say it sure doesn't *look* like rice pudding. They all go crazy over it, once they've tasted it. When I've served it at dinner parties, there are always people asking if they can take some home with them. There are never any leftovers. Ever.


I've shared the method with people in writing, but that doesn't seem to work. At least for the first go-round, someone who knows what it should look like and smell like at every stage needs to be there to say, "Ok, you need more cinnamon," or "Lower the flame!," or, "No - keep stirring, even though that seems crazy."


This is why I wanted to teach Steven how to make this when I was right in the kitchen with him. When we were done, we drove all the way out to Brooklyn to deliver some pudding to my uncle, Frank. He grew up eating this pudding. Frank does not mince words. If he hadn't liked it, he would have said so. He would have asked, "What the hell is this supposed to be?" Instead, he sent a text message reading, "You guys NAILED it." This made me feel so proud.


The funny thing is, I'm the only person I know of who has tried this pudding and doesn't like it. I'm not a big rice person. I'm not crazy about cinnamon. Sweetness, in general, isn't my jam, and this is a sweet dessert. I don't really care for it - something my family has always thought was nuts - but I love making it. I love making it because it reminds me of my grandmother, who put so much energy into it every year, and took such pride in it. It reminds me of my mother, who set about to rediscover this lost secret and make sure she could pass it down to me. When I make it again, it will remind me, too, of Steven. He is, at the very least, the 5th generation of our family to make it. I'm sure it's been in the family much longer than that, but I can only trace it back definitively to my great grandmother, Jacobina, who was born in 1872.

One day, maybe Alex and Lily will learn how to make this from their dad, by watching him, and taking note of how brown "brown" is, how the kitchen should smell before they stop cooking down the ginger, when to stop stirring. 

Quarantine

 The Superhero Lunchbox is under quarantine. 

The Care and Feeding Of Friendship : A How-To Guide For A Boy Of Nineteen

Spend an evening at a redneck bar in rural Vermont with your good friend. Play darts. Shoot pool.  Put quarters in the juke box and sing along to both Hank Williams and Bob Marley. Drink Puerto Rican screwdrivers - one part Bacardi, two parts grapefruit juice. Do this until the gravelly-voiced bartender runs out of bad jokes to tell, and says it’s been a trip, but he needs to close up for the night, and you both need to get the hell out.

Drive home - very slowly - through the snow, in your Olds 98. It's only half a mile, and there's no one else on this rural road, but know that you shouldn't be driving, at all. This is not a great time to provide your friend with her first driving lesson, but you give it a shot. You're both going to live forever, anyhow.

Back at home, wash down two Tylenols and a B12 capsule with a Mason jar full of cold water. Make sure your friend does the same, promising her she'll thank you in the morning. Fill that jar, again, and set it on the table next to your bed, along with an additional dosage of B12, more Tylenol, and a Drum cigarette your friend has rolled for you. She doesn't smoke, but she’s fidgety, and you've taught her how to roll the perfect cigarette, to keep her hands busy.

In the morning, wake up and immediately reach for the jar of water, the Tylenol, the vitamin. Light up the Drum and go to the kitchen, where your friend, who is an early riser, has a pot of coffee waiting.

Sit on the couch together.

Talk.

Laugh.

Drink lots of strong, black coffee.

Smoke.

Marvel at how good you both feel.

Sit with the unspoken truth that life will never be much sweeter than it is at this moment.

National Coming Out Day - The Big Lie

Today is National Coming Out Day. This probably won't win me many friends, but this day bothers me. A lot. It's right up there with the whole It Gets Better movement. They're both fairy tales, as far as I can tell. 

People who aren’t gay have this idea that coming out is something a person does and gets over with, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no getting it over with. Coming out is something most of us have to do over and over again, during our lives. We come out to parents. To friends. To neighbors. To nosy people who get it into their heads to fix us up with nice guys they know. To nice guys (and not so nice guys) who have other ideas. The worst part is that it never gets easier. Coming out over and over again is like pulling off a scab before a cut has fully healed.

The whole National Coming Out Day thing boils down the act of identifying as queer to an episode. You come out, and then the world knows you're gay, and everything is ok, and you move on, and tell the world your coming out story. 

Bullshit. 

Unless you're a celebrity who comes out in front of the whole world, any queer person in the world will spend a lifetime coming out. Worse, still: being queer also means having to decide when to lay low, and not call attention to one's self. I'd put money down that every ordinary queer person who has come out to friends and relatives has been faced with at least one situation where he or she has had to decide if doing the opposite wouldn't serve them better. Maybe they've had a beard accompany them to a work function, or just gone along with heterocentric conversation while in the company of a large group of straight people who are clearly less than queer-friendly. Maybe they've introduced their same-sex partner as a cousin, out of safety, or to get an apartment, or keep a job. 

A few days ago, I had to fly to Orange County. A few minutes before leaving for the airport, I realized I was wearing my "Make America Gay, Again" tshirt. This shirt always gets me smiles in SF, and perfect strangers yelling from across the street, "Cool shirt!" Before leaving for my trip, I realized it might not be a safe piece of clothing to have on when landing at John Wayne Airport (even the NAME of that airport gives me the willies.) I realized that, where I was going, outside of the queer-friendly enclave where I spend most of my time, my shirt might be problematic. I realized that I might not get great service, if I checked in wearing that shirt. I realized that, at a family-friendly resort, that tshirt might be considered offensive or obscene. I changed my shirt. 

When I changed my shirt, it was the same as deciding that coming out in Orange County was not something I wanted or needed to do. Because coming out in Orange County might actually mean trouble.

I have to come out ALL THE TIME, over and over again. All queer people do. 

The whole thing is tedious and demoralizing.  So, no - I'm not big on National Coming Out Day. It makes as much sense to me as Black History Month, which is basically an excuse for schools to just IGNORE the rich history of black people for 11 months of the school year. 

We Never Left

When people have nothing left to lose, they are more likely to fight for what they believe in. This is a thread which runs through every successful rebellion, revolution, or civil rights battle. It's one of life's great ironies: the more we strip a person of his or her freedoms, the less they have to weigh them down and stop them from revolting. I don't in any way mean to make light of the abomination of slavery but, if you enslave a people long enough, it's almost inevitable that a brand of emotional spiritual, and political freedom will emerge. In so many ways, the so-called "first world" is soft. We have so much STUFF, and no one wants to risk losing that stuff. By "stuff," I don't just mean material possessions and wealth, but also status, political power, comfort, convenience, safety, etc.

All the same "stuff" that The Haves love to deprive The Have-Nots of.

Puerto Rico has been colonized since the late 15th century. That's a long time for a people to have everything taken away from them. That's a long, long time for a people to build up their anger. It's a long time for a people to build their strength. It's a long time for a people to claim the brand of freedom that can only come with being oppressed. The people of Puerto Rico have been deprived of so much, for so long, that there is not a damned thing to be lost by rising up.

In telling a Puerto Rican from NYC to go back to where she came from, Trump makes it clear he understands nothing about what it means to be Puerto Rican. I don't just mean that he doesn't understand that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a US citizen (as are ALL Puerto Ricans) and that she was born and raised in NYC.

He has no idea what it means to actually be connected to one's origins.
He has no idea what it means to have love in one's heart for the birthplace of one's parents.
He has no idea what it means to have been raised to love and honor one's culture.
He has no idea what it means to be held high on the shoulders of one's ancestors and be both humbled and empowered by their examples of strength and perseverance.
He has no idea what it means to have pride in anything that is unrelated to making a quick buck.

There's no point telling a Puerto Rican who was born and raised in NYC to "go back." Not a one of us ever really left. Not really. This is true for me. It's true for AOC.

The beautiful thing about the concept of the USA is that we don't have to turn our backs on where we came from. It's why there is no official language in this country.

The actions on the part of the people of Puerto Rico in the last week serve as a humbling reminder of where I truly come from, and what my people are made of. I'm soft - I'm the first to admit it. I've lived a life of relative ease and convenience. I've certainly been afforded benefits and comforts having been born in NYC and living Stateside that my relatives in Guayanilla have not enjoyed. I'm connected to them, though. By blood. By history. By culture. I'm connected to every, single Puerto Rican living on the island. And that's an honor - an honor FOR ME.

Donald Trump - who is completely devoid of honor - can never understand this.

Living Well

The big slogan for Stonewall's 50th anniversary merch is "The first Pride was a riot." McMann and Tate couldn't have done better - it's a nice piece of marketing. Of course, since that first year of the Stonewall riots, Pride has become more and more of a party. Even during the worst of times, when AIDS was killing off a generation of beautiful young men who hadn't even had a chance to really live, yet, Pride events always left lots of room for a party. I was thinking about this, last night, as I was wrestling with really severe pain, and convincing myself to just take all the damned painkillers in the morning, push past it, and get my ass to Pride. Because showing the fuck up for life can be a show of power.

We've all heard the saying, "living well is the best revenge." That saying has been lingering in the back of my mind, lately. It strikes me as the perfect slogan for Pride. I looked up the origin of that saying, expecting to find that someone like Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde had first said it. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the phrase is much older than that, and can be traced back as far as 1640, when it first appeared in print.

The concept of enjoying life in the face of adversity has been with us for a long, long time.

We see it in the African American community where an entire people who have had so much stolen from them not only survive, but thrive. The laundry list of what the institution of slavery took from Africa is too long to even start documenting in a little blog post but, while African Americans still struggle for all kinds of justice and equity, the truth cannot be denied: those enslaved in North America and the Caribbean found ways to achieve the truly audacious. They created - and their descendants continue to create - music, dance, literature, art, and food that looks adversity in the eye and says, "Fuck you, I'm here."

We see it in so many stories of immigrants and the colonized who land on the US mainland, work hard, contribute to society, face discrimination of all kinds, stand little chance of ever making it out of poverty, yet never let go of their ethnic pride or devotion to children and family, and hold on to their mother-tongues with all their might. "Fuck you: they're here."

While the first Pride was a riot, more recent Pride events are celebrations. And that's as it should be. Because the best way to respond to anyone who tells you that you have no right to exist, to express yourself, to feel good about who and what you are and how you live your life is to show the fuck up for life and dare to find joy. "Fuck you: I'm here."

Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, who we have to thank for the Stonewall riots, weren't just queers. Marsha was African American. Sylvia was Puerto Rican/Venezuelan. They were descended from slaves, colonized people, and immigrants. The business of living well as the best form of revenge was in their DNA. I never met these pioneers, but I know this about them: they knew how to have a good time. They knew that living well was the best revenge. They showed the fuck up for life.

Fuck you: they were here.

WE WERE HERE

Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake lived together for over 40 years in a relationship that was, for all intents and purposes, a marriage. Their community recognized it. Their relatives recognized it. They did not live in the shadows, have relationships with men to throw off the scent, or cower from public duty. They were considered to be good neighbors, trusted friends to members of the community, and a couple in whom local families placed a great deal of trust, when it came to educating young women in the seamstress/tailor trade. While they died years apart, they are buried in the same plot, and share a tombstone.

None of this sounds all that shocking: this could be a story about two women living in Park Slope, in 2019. It isn't. Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake lived in rural Vermont, in the first half of the 19th century.

Until very recently, erasure of gay lives has been the norm (and still is, in many places). The well-documented lives Charity and Sylvia led as a loving, devoted couple, however, makes me think of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We don't - we CAN'T - know the names of all of those who have been erased over the centuries, but we do know the names Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake. More than 200 years after they first got together, their names scream out:

 "WE WERE HERE, AND WE STILL ARE"

Rich White Men, No Accessible Parking, Either

Make no mistake: the stuff going on in Alabama and Georgia is not just about misogyny, but about classism, racism, and ableism.


Wealth = Choice

It's a timeless concept: the richer you are, the more choices you have. If you live in Alabama or Georgia, you're just a little more than comfortable, financially, and you decide you want an abortion, you might discretely hop over a state or two. If you're doing well, financially, you might fly to NYC and make a vacation out of it. If money is no object, you can fly off to the Caribbean or Bermuda for your procedure. 

The poorer a woman is, the fewer choices she has. If a woman cannot afford to circumvent the law in Alabama or Georgia, she's screwed. This is by design.

The greatest impact these laws will have will specifically be on poor women.

Who Are These Poor Women?

21.2% of all African Americans in the USA live at or below the poverty level.
18.3% of Hispanics in this country live at or below the poverty level.
Only 8.7% of the white population in this country are at or below the poverty level.
(Kayla R. Fontenot, Jessica L. Semega, and Melissa A. Kollar for the U.S. Census Bureau, “Income and Poverty in the United States: 2017," United States Department of Commerce, 2018)

One cannot attack the poor in this country, without attacking ethnic minorities.

Ableist? Isn't That A Stretch? 

20.9% of American adults who identify as having one or more disability live at or below the poverty level, as opposed to 13.1% of the population who do not have disabilities.
( Disability Statistics Annual Report 2017, Institute on Disability, University of New Hampshire, 2018.)

As is the case with minorities, one cannot attack the poor in this country without attacking the disability community.

Its plain to see that Alabama and Georgia deliberately set out to keep in bondage women, the poor, people of color, and "able-bodied" people. Who do you think that leaves to be in charge?

To Be Fair....You're Part of the Problem

I've now encountered several people online who point out that HBO's series, Gentleman Jack, reminds them of Sarah Waters' novels, specifically Tipping the Velvet. I take serious issue with this comparison, as it is nothing more than an example of the fact that we live in a heteronormative society which demands - sometimes loudly, but sometimes very quietly - that queer people remain content with the status quo.

One person who noted the similarities between Gentleman Jack and Waters' novels even prefaced her impression with the phrase, "To be fair" As in, "To be fair, Sarah Waters books are what came to mind...."

To be fair? Fair about what? About heteronormative society's ongoing insistence that one narrative or aesthetic which doesn't conform to the status quo is exactly like any other?

Gentleman Jack is based on the diaries of a very real woman, named Anne Lister. Lister lived in the late 18th and first half of the 19th century. She was a wealthy landowner and businesswoman. She traveled the world. She often wore what were considered to be manly clothes because they suited her. She did this openly, without subterfuge. I do not believe there is a single account of Lister impersonating a man. If there is, the HBO show has not at all touched on it, and I see no indication that it will ever be the case. Gentleman Jack is a story about a homosexual, arguably cross-dressing woman who was wealthy enough to live life on her own terms, as early as 1820 or so. It is set in rural Halifax, England, where Lister's significant holdings  - including coal mines - were.

Sarah Waters has written several novels - most of them very, very good. Read them. They're worth the time. But they have nothing to do with Anne Lister, and they bear no resemblance to Gentleman Jack, except for the fact that most of them revolve around protagonists who are lesbians, or women who fall in love with other women (there IS a difference.) There are few enough of them that going over them is pretty simple.

Tipping the Velvet is a picaresque novel set in the 1890s, and revolves around a young, working class woman from, I believe, Cornwall. She becomes enamored of a celebrated singer/dancer whose schtick is performing in male garb, and impersonating a man. The protagonist, Nan, eventually ends up having a steamy love affair with this actress, and herself taking to the stage as a male impersonator. While the the two women perform in male garb, their act is NOT a lesbian act, per se. It is mainstream, family-friendly entertainment where the very idea of two pretty women dressed up as men is all a bit of a joke. The real joke, of course, is on the mainstream audience, who have no idea that the two women are lovers off stage. This is only a small portion of the novel. The bulk of the novel takes place in seedy London, where Nan has a series of adventures - and misadventures - which include: leading a secret life as rough trade: impersonating a young man and providing sexual favors to older men, in exchange for money...living in the lap of luxury, but also complete servitude, as the sex slave of a very wealthy lesbian...ending up homeless and starving...finding true love with a woman from her past...and finding a real home and family in the burgeoning socialist movement.

Fingersmith is a heist/double-cross novel set in 1800s England - no specific year is given, but I'd hazard to guess mid-century. Its plot revolves around a hardscrabble group of pickpockets and conmen and women, and a plan to carry out a major heist, in the way of cheating an heiress out of her fortune. There are two protagonists: Sue and Maud. Sue is an orphan and life-long criminal - a master thief. Maud is a seemingly innocent, naive young woman who has been cloistered in the home of her wealthy, tyrannical uncle. The two women, who each have plans to cheat and swindle the other, end up becoming sexually attracted to one another and, eventually, falling in love. The novel delves into the dark world of 19th century pornographic trade, and the entire story is built upon a series of secrets and lies: secrets and lies about people's identities, their sexual natures, their true intentions, their true feelings about one another.

Affinity is a gothic novel set in Victorian England, and revolves around the spiritualism fad which overtook the nation during this era. It involves an upper-class woman who volunteers her time as a visitor to convicted women who are serving their sentences at a local prison. Margaret is taken in by not only the sexual charms of one of the female inmates, but also by an elaborate plot which relies on her gullibility regarding the spiritualist movement, and messages from beyond. Like Fingersmith, it's a multi-layered story about a con job.

The Night Watch is a sweeping historical novel which chronicles the interconnected lives of a group of characters in London - including two lesbians - before, during and after WWII.

The Little Stranger is an old-fashioned, spooky yarn, set in the late 1940s. The backdrop is a once-grand country estate which is falling to ruin, and seems to be suffering from a sort of curse or haunting. This novel is best described as a ghost story where the real ghost is the past, itself. The main characters are  Dr. Faraday,  a country doctor, and Caroline Ayres, the spinster who runs the crumbling estate and tries to keep order for her rapidly deteriorating family. Themes in this novel include: post-war reconstruction, socialism, class distinction, and shell shock/PTSD. There is not a gay person in sight.

The Paying Guests is a sort of literary noir set in post WWI England which revolves around a boarding house, two women engaged in a lesbian affair, and a murder. Themes include class, post-war reconstruction and economic change, abortion, and the nature of love.

The ONLY thing Anne Lister's life and Gentleman Jack have in common with Sarah Waters' novels is that almost all of Waters' pieces revolve around women who exhibit romantic love for other women.

Not one of the novels is set in the same place and time as Lister.

Not a one of them has a plot even remotely like the life story of Anne Lister - either in history, or as portrayed thus far on HBO's series.


"To be fair," it's not reasonable or rational for anyone to equate one of these with the other, and such a thing can only happen when a person has it in their mind that one lesbian's story is just like any other lesbian's story. It's like saying that A Raisin in the Sun reminds one of The Wiz, because both involve black characters. It's THAT ridiculous.

If you're still not getting why this bothers me, and bothers me A LOT, and still think it's a perfectly reasonable comparison because, after all, Waters usually writes about lesbians and Anne Lister was a lesbian? Think about someone saying that Sophie's Choice reminds them of The Sting, because Robert Redford and Peter Macnicol both wore caps in their roles. That sounds incredibly stupid, doesn't it? Of course it does. Because it IS incredibly stupid. And, if I were to say, "To be fair, one reminds me of the other because of the caps," you'd think I was a pretty damned shallow person who based my ideas about film on fucking HATS, instead of actual content. And you'd be right.

To be fair: lesbians are pretty much just like other people in most respects, and lesbian stories are as varied as stories about heterosexual people are. If you really think it's ok to ask me to be "fair" and accept your assessment that one lesbian-themed story is just like any other, what you're asking me to do is get in line and accept the heteronormative code of nonsense. If you know me, you know that's just not going to happen.

2018: Ten Movies From The Year That Felt Like Ten Years

Has it REALLY only been one year since I last did this? Why do I feel ten years older? It has been a year of escapism. I saw a lot of movies in 2018. Here are my picks for best, worst, most this, most that. 

Most Unlikely Heartbreak: 

Killmonger's Death, Black Panther

Black Panther was amazing. Most amazing to me was how gutted I was by Killmonger's death. Michael B. Jordan brought the anti-hero I'd been waiting for, made only more great by the grace with which he faced death. 

Most Stunning Career Turn-Around: 

Keira Knightley as Colette

To say I haven't been a fan of Keira Knightly would be putting it mildly. Prior to this film, she never ceased to bore me to pieces. This film was a pleasant surprise. A Keira Knightley performance I enjoyed, from the very opening scene. It's rare for an actor who has established herself in a safe, bankable niche to stretch her wings and try something completely different. Knightly did just that. Brava. 

Movie That Came Closest To Being Ruined By A Creepy Sex Scene: Disobedience

I loved this movie, but I did NOT love that weird thing in the sex scene. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. That weird thing that made every straight person in the theater ask, "Ewww...do lesbians DO that?" No. No, we don't. That was just weird and creepy, and it's a good thing the movie was so damned good, otherwise, because that scene would have killed it for me. If you haven't seen the movie, and want to know what I'm referring to - Google it. The clip is available online. I can't even bring myself to post it, here. This is quite a sweet movie about love, friendship, acceptance, and the complexities of cultural ties and familial duty. The scene I've linked captures all of that. 

You Really Can Go Home, Again: Halloween 

Forget every sequel. Go back to the first movie. Watch it, and then watch this. Those other ones don't count. Not only as good as the original, but better. Better because the thing to be afraid of isn't so much a murderous monster, but something way more dangerous. This is a horror movie where the monster isn't a man, but the past, itself. If you sat in a theater and watched the original as a kid, as I did, this is a must. 

Most Likely To Be Cheated Out of An Oscar Nomination: Toni Collette, Hereditary

No one has done scary as well as this since Rosemary's Baby, case closed. Toni Collette probably won't get nominated for an Oscar, because horror films rarely get taken seriously. It's a shame. She deserves mad props for her performance. Disturbing in ways one could never anticipate. This movie delivers, big time. 

Take The Money And Run: 

Helen Mirren, Winchester

I'm worried about Helen Mirren. She must be in serious debt, if she's accepting roles like this one. Ties with Gotti as the worst movie I saw all year, and might even be worse. I mean, I don't expect anything from John Travolta, except crap. But Helen Mirren? This was more than boring. Watching one of the most charismatic actors alive not even able to fake enthusiasm for a film script this terrible was depressing. 

Most Thought-Provoking Documentary: 

Seeing Allred

I thought I knew about this woman. I was wrong. So wrong. See this documentary, which too few people saw. It may well make you see this woman in a much different light than that which the media has shed on her, over the years. I went in thinking, "Money-grubbing opportunist." I finished thinking, "Feminist freedom fighter and friend of the LGBT community."

Best Old School Scare: The Little Stranger

A slow burn, this movie had me from the word GO. Ruth Wilson is a wonder, and should be a major film star. A good, chilling, old-fashioned ghost story where the ghost isn't who or what you probably think. Loved this movie.

Scarier Than Any Horror Movie of 2018: 

The Kindergarten Teacher

Gives Hereditary a run for its money, in terms of being among the most disturbing films I've ever seen, mostly because it's not at all implausible. This movie upset me, but I could not tear myself away from it. While Hereditary is about the supernatural, and Halloween is essentially about PTSD, The Kindergarten Teacher is about failure, hopelessness, the overwhelming desire to be more than mediocre, and how that desire can become a dark force. 

All-Around Best Film: The Favourite

Funny, wicked, bitchy, suspenseful and, oddly enough, tender, as well as a little sad. This is about as perfect as filmmaking gets. A razor-sharp script, which never takes itself too seriously, sumptuous sets and costumes, and brilliant performances by all three actors. If you have not seen this, yet, see it soon, on a big screen. It's a visual feast, and deserves to be seen in all its glory. Rachel Weisz is quickly becoming one of my top 5 favorite actors. This film only reinforced that. This now ranks a close second to Carol, in terms of my favorite lesbian-themed film.