2023 cinema in review
taking out the trash like a good little girl
I booked my flight to Sundance so that I can spend a week hanging out with my friends. I don’t plan on showing up with tickets to any movies, but I’ll probably bring warmer clothes this year. I don’t really have anything to prove, so to speak, as last year’s nervousness simply illuminated that I’m no imposter. My artistic collaborator for ten year’s running, Dionne Copland, described me as a “networking savant.” My girlfriend Aoife seems annoyed by it.
Around the time when I first got my now-girlfriend on hormones she described some gendered interests to me and I joked about the people involved and my degree of separation from them. It was only a matter of time before those gaps closed, which has always been a natural process for me. I know everyone. My brain is wired in a way that I have an intrinsic understanding of who knows who, which stretches to such an uncanny string of intercepting six degrees that one can mention a name and I can tell you exactly who I could talk to to close that gap.
Cinema is a business made up of interpersonal connections. I understood early on that I wasn’t very good at making movies, however I was amazing at recognizing talent and then making friends with those artists. The reason this can sometimes annoy my girlfriend is because she likes to share art she likes with me and a lot of the time I’ll do my thing and eventually that artist is texting me back “Merry Christmas.” I can see why it’s frustrating for me to take the fun out of liking things, making it weird in the sense that now you can’t form a unique relationship with an artist’s art because now it’s Louise’s friend’s art and one’s opinion must be filtered accordingly. I remember showing Aoife the film Honeycomb, one of my favourite films of last year, and afterwards she told me how much she loved it. “That’s good!” I said, “We’re meeting up with the director for a drink in an hour.”
Earlier today I considered briefly that I could post a casual masterclass on film producing, outlining the steps I take to prepare for festivals and markets, what I do to build relationships online, how I got where I am now. However, I am not particularly interesting. I know a lot of amazing people, but my claim to fame is a 39 minute short film I made ten years ago that nobody saw. I’m only fascinating in terms of who I know and who knows me. At one time Computer Hearts was perhaps the best film ever made by a nineteen-year-old (a record thankfully topped by an actual auteur, the remarkably talented Alice Maio Mackay), which is to say that I tried my best and ended up releasing a somewhat intriguing sicko movie that didn’t play a single festival and was at one time on the page of lowest rated movies on Letterboxd. My other claim to fame is that the “annoying cinephile wearing the Criterion Hausu t-shirt” meme was initially inspired by me posting low resolution photos of myself on student film sets in 4chan’s Letterboxd threads circa 2012-2013. Indeed, my history as a micro-film personality is pretty bleak. The point being: nobody cares to take advice about filmmaking from me in the year 2023.
What I can do, however, is recognize talent and share my thoughts on cinema this year, and oh boy did a lot of people I know make a lot of Great movies. But before talking about my friends (defined as people I’ve drunkenly yell-talked at at film festivals and to whom if you mentioned my name would maybe half-remember my existence), there are some trends that annoy me that I feel are worth wasting time hatching discourse over.
After seeing Poor Things I tweeted about how when you watch a Ken Russell movie you get the sensation that he is pushing boundaries in an attempt to offend himself, and that is where the subversive magic of a sicko movie comes from. A filmmaker depicting blasphemous imagery when he is committed to his belief makes for interesting and actually transgressive work. No respectable filmmakers accomplished making work like that this year. The critical conversation around films such as Poor Things and Saltburn seems to be that they have some fucked up imagery or gross ideas at play, but I never get the impression that these filmmakers are shocking themselves. You feel this general reprehensible quality where Fennell or Lanthimos are rubbing their groins going YES YES as they think about the look on their audience’s faces during certain scenes, but I’m unimpressed. There’s a perverse fun to it, but it’s boring for me to see those sentiments watered down by studio filmmaking when it does little more than offer a nostalgic reminder of Ryan Nicholson and me joking about filming in ye olde rape shack behind his suburban bungalow. It’s quaint at best, especially in a year when even Eli Roth’s return to horror aims more for slick genre thrills than masturbatory shock value. At worst, it’s a waste of my time and a crowbar towards whatever common ground I have with most of the film community, who seem to at the very least be capable of consuming a little bit of entertainment. It takes a lot for me to experience joy.
It really is the year that good became Great. Continuing the trend of last year, movies for adults are back. The spell of arrested development studio drivel seems to be letting up and now I can go to the multiplex to see movies made for an audience other than manchildren and femcels. Because of this trend, we got some solid movies. And for some reason, solid now means masterpiece. Movies I would call pretty good like Oppenheimer, The Holdovers, or Anatomy of a Fall are talked about like they’re Great movies. They’re fine, but we used to get pretty solid movies like those every year and if for only the fact it’s been awhile since the film discourse wasn’t dominated by franchise slop I can understand why some critics are acting like this is the first year we’ve ever had more than two prestige dramas. So good becomes Great. The worst offender in this regard is May December, a perfectly fine Todd Haynes film, but by no means a masterpiece let alone a great movie. To me it’s little more than an elevated Poison Ivy, a solid film in which Haynes formally retools the playful melodrama genre exercise of Far From Heaven from Douglas Sirk to a 90s Lifetime original. And it’s really solid, I liked it, but it’s no masterpiece, nor even a Great Film. I love Todd, I will always fondly remember drinking with him ten years ago after the first week of shooting my debut and how we got into a lengthy conversation about semiotics as I asked him how the fuck I was going to apply that major into actual directing. Todd and I both love film semiotics, and for that reason I will go against the greater consensus in saying that it’s honestly a bit discouraging as a disgusting pig cinephile that a solid filmic exercise by a great filmmaker, the sort of thing we used to get all the time, is elevated as some kind of fucking miracle nowadays. Todd Haynes has already made a lot of Great films. May December is pretty good. At least movies for adults are back to stay, and by this time next year I’m sure we will all be used to it and movies can be just good again.
Two of the more interesting movies for adults this year were made by Martin Scorsese and Ari Aster, one of American cinema’s best filmmakers and an idiot auteur respectively. Killers of the Flower Moon is the best movie about America since Forrest Gump, an equally mean-spirited and cynical coda on the American myth that follows a mentally limited protagonist as he stumbles through horrors he can’t fully grasp, yet trades the satirical tone of the latter’s boomer ironic sentimentality for an attempt at articulating a feeling of complacent guilt and powerlessness as an artist to fully examine or condemn the brutality of genocide. It does all of this while allowing Scorsese the ability to flex his absolute mastery as a filmmaker with total control of image and sound, and almost alchemically recontextualize the canon of recurring ideas, themes, and archetypes in his filmography. It’s the ultimate Scorsese film and truly one of the best works of cinema this year. When I was working with Lily Gladstone at the start of this year on the tv show on which my job was taking out the trash (as mentioned in my 2022 piece on this subject), I was seemingly the only person starstruck by her, so it’s incredibly uplifting that everyone has been celebrating her work in Killers of the Flower Moon which is nothing short of incredible.
I remember sitting in the cinema as the end credits began to roll in Beau is Afraid and the first thought that went through my mind was “Louise, you fucking idiot.” When I was at Sundance at the start of this year I was invited to the premier party for Brandon Cronenberg’s excellent flick Infinity Pool, a feat which was seemingly impossible as it had one of the tightest guest lists at the fest.
And now, a quick aside about being a trans woman, or, things Louise observes and definitely shouldn’t post publicly:
I’ve always been quite friendly and easy to talk to. This is funny to me because before transitioning there was a blanket of dysphoria-depression surrounding me as a dense aura, yet somehow the self-effacing and extroverted nature of my depression made it so I was very easy to talk to. I assume it was a sort of sensation of disarmament, as my candour allowed for an immediate cutting-through of bullshit and instead people would rather quickly be telling me their life story, darkest secrets, and most fucked up fantasies. Since transitioning, the process by which this happens is now far faster and far deeper. Now, my self-effacement is directed towards my transsexuality as an apparent coping mechanism with having chosen to do this to myself, and it’s almost like that awareness makes me appear to be the least judgemental person to talk to on earth. I probably am.
So I’m outside of the Infinity Pool party signing something as I’m offered a complementary ticket to the sold out premier screening, and my producing partner Heather Buckley taps me on the shoulder to say that Ari Aster is standing behind me. At the time, I wasn’t a fan of his movies, so I turned around to make eye contact with him, then rolled my eyes and returned to doing what I was doing. As the night went on for some fucking reason I intentionally ignored Ari as if he might care that a random transsexual didn’t find him impressive (I will add that I was a little drunk and also dressed like a crazy person — the Outfest brunch was that morning so I planned my outfit for the day as AGP chic, knee-high socks, sheer cocktail dress, kitty ears — and also Ari was talking a lot about Roadhouse and I didn’t know what I would have added to that conversation… and he was shorter than me) and so instead I yell-talked at Mia Goth about having just found out she was also Canadian.
The point is, when the “Written and Directed by Ari Aster” title card came up at the end of Beau is Afraid, I went “Fucking hell Louise!” I was suddenly a big Ari Aster fan, and all I could think about is how I should have spent that whole night at Sundance trying to fuck him. As Aoife succinctly put it: “This guy is a freak who is clearly good at playing the game but is disgusted by how freakish he is. All of his movies are about how I’m afraid of mommy because I hate being alive, and Beau is Afraid comes right out and is explicit with that. It’s a masterpiece.” I’m always looking for a guy with the vibe that he wouldn’t hesitate to call me a tranny in bed.
During the week I left for Sundance I also started principal photography on my feature debut. I spent a few months shooting it and pouring all of the money I made as a production assistant into it, then the writer’s strike happened and I was like Oh fuck, I am going to starve to death if I don’t resort to desperate measures. So I ran a crowdfunding campaign. The support was nothing short of shocking and I was miraculously able to continue shooting my movie while working on the occasional Hallmark Christmas movie or Amazon commercial. My feature debut is going to be either the best movie of all time or the grandest spectacle of cinematic schadenfreude ever depending on how many brainworms you have, but if you’re in the group who end up liking the movie it’s likely because of the incredible team I surrounded myself with. To make a Great movie one needs great talent, which I have a good eye for. (Alternatively, if you are building a case against Louise Weard, you could say I’m a sucker for wanting to fuck talented hot people and that this year I used my directorial debut as an excuse to go pro, or is this whole writing exercise from the past year an elaborate bit and Louise Weard is simply a character for which you can project your film industry jealousies/fantasies onto, this girl who knows and is loved by everyone and seemingly gets away with everything despite saying all of these controversial things like how she’s a really really bad deplorable tranny with no confidence. Is there a distinction between the real Louise Weard and whatever this is? If that question doesn’t excite you then you’re going to hate my movie, and me by extension.)
The best works of cinema I saw this year were all made by insane people who are not coincidentally also in my movie. There are no fonder memories I have this year than everything to do with discovering The All Golden, a truly spectacular exercise that pushes the boundaries of good taste and film semiotics through the busted lens of soap opera-esque melodrama form. It’s the medium-pushing version of May December that constitutes a Great film in 2023, and as I sat at Joe Swanberg’s feet in a cramped Airbnb bedroom watching this mesmerizing blend of taboo content and form for the first time I knew I would be instant friends with the filmmakers behind it. In the same vein of perfect semiotic exercises executed by Canadian weirdos was Avalon Fast’s Cinephile Complex. Last night I had too many glasses of wine and kept telling Avalon how talented she is but it’s the truth, she’s the most exciting filmmaker working today. Cinephile Complex is the one good shot-on-video horror homage, a movie that completely understands what it’s doing with form while balancing that with a savage lampooning of Letterboxd cinephile culture and its inherently gendered implications. Outside of my friend group of Canadian provocateurs, I must also commend Matt Johnson for exquisitely negotiating the transition from insane Canadian filmmaker to the mainstream with BlackBerry. Aspirational.
The best feature film this year was T Blockers by Alice Maio Mackay. She’s a genius, I love her, and to me this represents her best work so far. When she sent me the screener at the beginning of the year I was speechless. It’s the best claim so far as to what a canon of trans cinema could be, invoking the political and the personal through the context of genre convention. There’s not really traditional trans narrative hooks in this — no coming out, no family bigotry, no dead tranny sex workers, etc — and most brilliantly it engages with the idea that trans history and art exists before the modern era. The setup of a shot-on-video movie made by a trans girl being used as a device of inspiration and hope for the trans woman of today provided me with an immense feeling of self-care I didn’t know films were capable of. There’s a pivotal monologue about what it means to be trans and the suffering that comes with it that is brutally honest in a way that took my breath away; it’s truly messy and angry and honest in a way that all trans art should aspire to be. With each film Alice is not only carving herself out as an auteur deserving of serious consideration, but also giving reason as to why a trans film canon could exist by at least providing a starting point.
Additionally, another artist who built on the work I praised last year and continues to astound me is Salem Anhedonia, who released several cinematic exercises this year to her YouTube channel. All of her work is essential viewing, but LOVE IS… especially blew me away with its lo-fi articulation of complex emotional states through its obsolete consumer-video formalism. She captures intimacy in a way I can only be immensely jealous of as a filmmaker striving towards similar goals. Her short piece NOV19 was also one of my favourite films this year, an essential work of lo-fi horror that alludes to where the horror genre can continue to grow in our post-Skinamarink landscape.
The best work of cinematic art from the year 2023 was Lex Walton’s self-directed music video for “Preteen on Omegle Blues,” which was the most exciting five minutes I had with a work of art this year. Lex fearlessly places herself into a cyber-nightmare which says more about identity, eroticism, coming of age, gender, desire, and the grotesque than anything else this year. It’s a truly transgressive and difficult work of art that was so Great that you can’t even watch it now, as it’s been banned from every possible online distribution service. It’s actually subversive, reckless, no holds barred filmmaking from an artist who’s effectively trying to articulate something raw and genuinely flawed. A self-destructive act of creation that is at times evil while also sublime, miraculously transcendental in a way that could only be pulled off by someone genuinely talented to such a degree as to be insane. There was nothing else like it this year, but if we continue to have artists like Lex pushing the boundaries of what cinematic art can be then I think that the future of this medium is gonna be okay.
Which is good, because I had a bleak outlook when I wrote this piece last year. But the Louise Weard of December 2022 was a much different Louise Weard than the one heading into 2024. I’m not taking out the garbage on the set of a bad tv show, for starters. Thanks to the wonderful friends I’ve made over the last year, the extremely talented people whose work I strived to support and uplift so that I didn’t have to feel so bad about this medium I love so much, I somehow got to where I always wanted to be. Over the next few months I’ll be finishing my eight-hour feature debut which includes the contributions of many of the amazing artists I highlighted in my articles over the past year. By the time I’ve finished my indulgent debut I’ll be on set producing a $1.5 million movie directed by one of my favourite people in the world, all the while getting ready for my directorial follow-up, an adaptation of my favourite novel that I’ll be shooting in 2025.
I guess that what I’m saying is, I have a path forward to go legit. The sentiments I held as I wrote this piece last year, feeling like some sort of joke after years of facing abject failure, are gone now. I went to Sundance at the start of 2023 and I discovered that I wasn’t a clown anymore, in fact I was being taken sort of seriously. It was a weird adjustment as I waited for the pig’s blood to drop on me, but that never happened. One of my happiest moments this year was chainsmoking cigarettes with Sepi Mashiahof at the Outfest opening night and sharing a moment of recognition with another fucked up filmmaker who feels incredibly out of place being embraced by the establishment. How fucked up am I for real though? Is this all constructed so that film industry daddy would notice me? Like, you’re telling me that I don’t have to act like this anymore, that is, if it is in fact an act. Sincerity is terrifying. Now I’m worried everyone is going to find the seams that separate Louise Weard the artist and Louise Weard the really fucked up person. I am genuinely anxious about actually releasing my epic feature debut and need to be talked down by my friends constantly because it is a genuinely upsetting work of art made in a way that any element removed of its context is going to look… not great for me. It’s an exceptional film and I am immensely proud of it, but I get to go legit now and as unsexy as it sounds I have done everything in my career incredibly strategically. What can I say? I want to direct that studio movie someday, which means I probably shouldn’t make movies where I [redacted] or post long-winded and hyper-confessional works of autobiography in which I ironically blur the line between the girl sitting in her pyjamas writing this and the golem of my public figure. Whatever, this is Louise from six months from now’s problem.
In the meantime, I can’t wait to head to Park City in a couple weeks so that I can hang out with my friends and support their movies. A perfect way to start my year. There’s truly no better feeling.
My favourite films of the year (in alphabetical order)
The All Golden (dir. Nate Wilson)
Beau is Afraid (dir. Ari Aster)
BlackBerry (dir. Matt Johnson)
Castration Movie i. incel superman (dir. Louise Weard)
Cinephile Complex (dir. Avalon Fast)
Cuddly Toys (dir. Kansas Bowling)
Do Not Expect Too Much from the End of the World (dir. Radu Jude)
The Fantastic Golem Affairs (dirs. Burnin’ Percebes)
The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something Has Passed (dir. Joanna Arnow)
Hippo (dir. Mark H. Rapaport)
Infinity Pool (dir. Brandon Cronenberg)
Killers of the Flower Moon (dir. Martin Scorsese)
Kokomo City (dir. D. Smith)
LOVE IS… (dir. Salem Anhedonia)
My Animal (dir. Jacqueline Castel)
NOV19 (dir. Salem Anhedonia)
“Preteen On Omegle Blues” (dir. Lex Walton)
Smooth (dir. Sepand Mashiahof)
T Blockers (dir. Alice Maio Mackay)
Where the Devil Roams (dirs. The Adams Family)