Late 1990s. Lonely teens Owen (Justice Smith) and Maddie (Brigitte Lundy-Payne) become obsessed with a TV show that allows them to escape.
The stories we encounter when we are young can sometimes speak to us so deeply that they envelop us. These stories can be something we not only experience, but also become. Or maybe they lead us to become ourselves if we are brave enough to let them. In this stunning original film, writer-director Jane Schönbrunn captures the intimacy of this experience while telling her semi-autobiographical story in a way that no one else can.
It’s the late 1990s, Bill Clinton’s America. Twelve-year-old Owen (Ian Foreman) is attracted to fellow outcast Maddy (Brigitte Lundy-Payne). They are both irrevocably drawn to “The Pink Opaque”, a TV show about two teenage girls in a telepathic connection who fight the forces of evil every week. With its purple glow, the screen acts as a window into a world that seems more real than their own, a place to retreat to after their oppressive home life. The film was shot on stunning 35mm screen, but is punctuated by the familiar static hum of a VHS tape.
Two years later, Owen (now played by Judge Smith) faces the loss of his beloved mother (Danielle Deadwyler) to a terminal illness. His father (Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst), a sinister figure lurking in the shadows of their living room, mocks his interest in The Pink Opaque: “Isn’t that a girls’ show?” Meanwhile, Maddie longs to escape her stepfather’s violent abuse, of which we only hear about excruciating kidnappings. She embraces the rebellion that “The Pink Opaque” has sparked within her, while Owen represses what he has revealed within himself.
Like David Lynch, Gene Schönbrunn is forced to rot behind the façade of the American dream.
The boundaries between television and reality begin to collapse, but in this film, the “real” world is more unsettling than the fantasy world they retreat into. Schönbrunn creates an eerie vision of a claustrophobic suburb at twilight, illuminated by screens and strip lighting, reminiscent of David Lynch. Owen and Maddie even attend Void High School (VHS, of course), and later visit a dive bar located right outside of Twin Peaks. Like Lynch, Schönbrunn is compelled by the rot behind the façade of the American dream.
This is not a film interested in coming-of-age narratives, nor in any kind of conventional narrative. Instead, it is a strange allegory that is deeply affecting. An outcast at school, Maddy comes out as a lesbian to Owen, while Owen’s identity begins to seep into The Pink Opaque’s voluptuous heroine, Isabel (Helena Howard). When Maddy asks Owen if he likes boys or girls, Owen answers simply and honestly: “I think I like TV shows.”
Owen, the show’s character with a large sunken eye and an overt symbol of depression, is haunted by Mr. Melancholi (Emma Portner). It’s a ghastly specter that resembles the famous moon face from the silent film A Trip to the Moon, but as if it was captured on a degraded VHS tape. In a truly disturbing sequence, Mr. Melancholi appears to look deep into Owen’s heart and warns that if he does not accept his true self, he will lose all sense of his identity. But Owen’s transgender identity recasts the refraction of his reality not as frightening but as a cry for help to save his life, and his repression is akin to self-annihilation.
Although all this sounds complicated and strange, the film is anchored by amazing performances. Brigitte Lundy-Payne brings a real teenage rage to Maddie, a thin veil that hides her vulnerability, while Judge Smith is a revelation. He is silent throughout most of the film, and when we do hear his voice it is a wavering croak, as if he has been imprisoned forever in adulthood, even though the film spans decades of his life. Somehow, it manages to be intensely human and have an otherworldly presence, and at the climax of I Saw The TV Glow is an unforgettable film, unleashing an unbearable inner turmoil and cutting through the grotesque to arrive at something honest.
Towards the end of the film, Schönbrunn lingers on the phrase “There is still time,” written in chalk on the runway as a sign from a god. It’s a ray of hope in a world that doesn’t care, a strange cry of resistance against those who want to silence you, an outstretched hand waving at you through the screen.
Deep and intensely moving, this feels like something you might come across on TV in the wee hours of the night and never forget. It may herald a new era for queer cinema.
