Gay forced scene

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In this joyless update of Belle de Jour and Mademoiselle, even a gynecological examination becomes a kind of debauch, a group of interns each taking a turn to thrust a hand into the supine institutrice. Breillat, who played the un-Bressonian Mouchette in Last Tango in Paris, has made a career of erotic provocation, her specialty being adolescent female sexuality (A Real Young Girl [1976], 36 Fillette [1988], Fat Girl [2001]).

The debut novel features neither Ilya nor Shane — its characters are Scott, a pro hockey player, and Kip, a barista and grad student (they’re introduced in the show’s third episode).

“It was getting a lot of promo, so I was like, ‘I’ll check it out. This one was awful because I was in my teens while Glee was on, and at that time, I was also questioning my sexuality, and that was the first time I saw someone say, 'Hey, I like boys AND girls.' It was something I could immediately relate to, only to be shut down instantly by someone else saying it was a lie..."

—Anonymous

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Noé’s noxious style and his primal theme of man as id or animal get a philosophical gloss in the work of Philippe Grandrieux.

A scraggly 46-year-old former child actor (he lived in L.A. as a kid and shared an agent with Ryan Phillippe, occasionally booking roles on shows like Touched by an Angel), the Montrealer in the horn-rimmed glasses and the five-o’clock shadow looks like a tortured screenwriter, not a wine mom.

An auteurist case can be made for Dumont’s foray into buggery and Humvees, horror-movie mutilation and panting Showgirls pool sex; but where the extremity of Dumont’s previous films was incorporated into both a moral vision and a coherent mise-en-scène, in Twentynine Palms it is imposed and escalated, the product of Dumont’s slack, manufactured sense of American imbecility—Jerry Springer, artificial soft ice cream, oversize vehicles and ominous marines, rednecks snarling at strangers from their trucks, desert hillbillies with a taste for cornhole battery.

“The males in these books are reconfigured,” says Guy Mark Foster, a professor of 20th century American literature at Maine’s Bowdoin College who has studied the genre.

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“It was my first stab at any kind of writing,” says author Reid. It goes all the way back to the 1970s, and half a world away, to when female manga artists in Japan began experimenting with stories centered on romantic relationships between men.

Images and subjects once the provenance of splatter films, exploitation flicks, and porn—gang rapes, bashings and slashings and blindings, hard-ons and vulvas, cannibalism, sadomasochism and incest, fucking and fisting, sluices of cum and gore—proliferate in the high-art environs of a national cinema whose provocations have historically been formal, political, or philosophical (Godard, Clouzot, Debord) or, at their most immoderate (Franju, Buñuel, Walerian Borowczyk, Andrzej Zulawski), at least assimilable as emanations of an artistic movement (Surrealism mostly).

“One of the big ones is homophobia.

“You’d never think it,” Tierney says. (The actress, Katia Golubeva, should be used to the ambience, having starred as the incestuous half-sister in Leos Carax’s mopily hard-core Pola X [1999].)

Like Noé and Grandrieux, Dumont has succumbed to the elemental—and to the elementary.

Whether Palms’ paroxysm of violation and death signals that Dumont is borrowing the codes of Hollywood horror films to further his exploration of body and landscape or whether it merely marks a natural intensification of the raw, dauntless corporeality of his previous films, it nevertheless elicits an unintentional anxiety: that Dumont, once imperiously impervious to fashion, has succumbed to the growing vogue for shock tactics in French cinema over the past decade.

Both projects performed well enough to prove the genre could not only find a mainstream audience but also mint stars (RoyalBlue’s Nicholas Galitzine will be starring next year as He-Man).

Still, both were relatively mild portrayals of gay romance — more PG than hard R.

Enter Heated Rivalry, the most balls-to-the-wall erotic programming to hit screens since Skinemax.

I kept thinking about how difficult it would be to be a closeted NHL player. They’re excitedly planning a viewing party (husbands and boyfriends are welcome to join but probably won’t) for the first-season finale, which airs the day after Christmas — Boxing Day in Canada.

“I just need to get through the holiday season,” she says.

Dumont’s treatment of the flat Flemish landscape—muddy and rucked, with an imprisoning horizon—reminds us that the natural world is sublimely indifferent to humanité. In Twentynine Palms, Dumont’s unerring eye similarly transforms the desert around California’s Joshua Tree territory into a craggy, postlapsarian Eden in which to disport his New World Adam and Eve: an unhinged neurotic called Katia and her photographer boyfriend David.

“They’re not toxic men. Their every atavistic grunt and howl is exaggerated by a sound track that makes the breaking of a Chinese cracker resound like a rupture in the San Andreas Fault.

Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point and The Passenger are unavoidable references in Twentynine Palms, but the violence of the film’s last half hour erupts with signifiers from such American movies as Deliverance and Psycho, as if to emphasize that the very terrain and culture are born of and imbued with maiming and death.