I absolutely love shows that take you on a journey, make you fall in love with the characters, and make you want to watch them over and over again. Conversations with Friends, based on the Sally Rooney novel with the same name, does this very well.

Despite the fact that Ben Stiller’s feature film directorial debut “Reality Bites” is a realistic time capsule of the early 90s, the relationships his characters portray work as near-perfect stand-ins for an all too familiar issue many young people have with love, regardless of their generation.

Few things are as comforting to me as ordering takeout from the Thai restaurant down the street, soaking in a hot lavender bath, and throwing on Sex and the City. I’ve watched Carrie and Big fall into the pond three times, groaned with every viewing of “that” episode about bisexuality, and felt pity for Steve more times than I can count.

Despite the focus on Nick’s journey in discovering his sexuality, the show is unique in its exploration of life after you come out as queer. In an interview with GQ, Locke says, “There are a lot of stories about coming out, but there are not as many stories about the actual queer experience post-coming out and how just because you're out, doesn't mean everything is magically better.”

There exists, in examinations of horror films, many avenues of addressing trauma, grief, and pain in its many forms. Suspiria (2018) chooses to explore this through the undertones of class struggle, the duality present within a backdrop of a divided Berlin, and the evocation of pain amidst the community as a body. It also explores themes of generational guilt during the Cold War, motherhood, evil, and the dynamics of matriarchies.

The point of calling attention to this is not to villainize these characters or condemn them for their oftentimes relatable personality traits. It’s simply important to be aware of the way they lack any range of human emotion and exist as a fantasy exclusively for heterosexual men. By playing heavily into stereotyped gender roles, it further emphasizes the existence of the patriarchy and internalized misogyny.

So many films featuring queer characters are centred on the narrative of coming out, and the often ensuing difficulties related to homophobia. While this is a reality that many of us within the LGBTQ+ community face, it’s nice to escape that gravity in order to enjoy a more light-hearted narrative. D.E.B.S. provides us with that escape: it’s a silly sapphic story about a reputable spy and a notorious supervillain who fall in love despite the odds.

Recently, re-creations of the iconic final scene from the 2019 masterpiece Midsommar have been all over my TikTok for you page. The prevalence of this content prompted an interesting chat with a friend, in which we discussed the probable catharsis of collective emotionality. Imagine the validation you would feel while experiencing intense anguish as you are held by a collective of people who are crying and breathing in tandem with you. This is the embodiment and quintessence of pure, intensive empathy.

Yes, God, Yes follows the sexual awakening of Alice – a sophomore who is confronting her newly discovered sexual desires and ensuing feelings of Catholic guilt (due to being conditioned into believing that such feelings are inherently sinful, and that acting upon them is damning). While this film is categorized as a raunchy comedy, it portrays a much more genuine account of coping with Catholic guilt and sexuality than I anticipated.

We want representation. We want new stories about POC and LGBTQIA+ communities. We want shows which navigate disabled friendships and portray the suffocating grip of the patriarchy. We want to watch plot lines unfold that are about more than cis, white, able bodied relationships.

The Miseducation of Cameron Post (2018) is a truly phenomenal film – from the subdued autumnal pigments to the dominant denim duds to the storyline itself, I would highly recommend it to absolutely everyone (regardless of your status as a cohort of the alphabet mafia).

Inside is an absolute masterpiece: introspective, relatable, and deeply depressing. Bo Burnam’s latest Netflix special is both a social commentary about assorted aspects of existence and is an account of his journey throughout the global pandemic, focusing on content creation, anxiety, depression, suicidal ideations, and isolation induced agoraphobia. After watching the special with some friends via Netflix Party, I proceeded to listen to nothing but Inside (The Songs) on Spotify for a week straight, while recommending the special to everyone I possibly could.

How is it that we so easily fall prey to biased media coverage and propaganda, while critically consuming the stories shown to us? Why is it that we’re so much happier to accept critiques of our systems if they’re shown through the lens of fiction, as opposed to a segment on the news?

Recently, I watched Dead Poets Society (1989) with my partner and her roommate and found myself overcome with emotion. To see how the impact of John Keating’s teachings and the philosophies guiding particular poems manifested within the lives of these elite prep school boys was incredibly stirring. Longing to lose ourselves in the world of poetry, we formed our own knockoff Dead Poets Society, reading and analyzing poems that we love and searching for new poetry that fit within specific themes.

While the evolution of film narratives alongside feminist ideology has allowed strong, independent women to flourish in fiction, many cult classics are guilty of portraying anti-feminist characters. First, I have to establish what I mean when I say “anti-feminist character”, because I’m not referring to a woman who expressly advocates against women’s rights – the issue is slightly more subtle and much more nuanced than that. The anti-feminist character tends to be a woman who is regarded as a feminist icon in some respect, while fundamentally opposing feminist beliefs in a myriad of ways. Since anti-feminist characters can be conceptualized so variedly, I’m going to present you with a few archetypes, based on characters from cult classics, in order to better illustrate this concept. Notably, each of these archetypes has been given a title that conveys the anti-feminist principles it projects.

But less discussed on a global stage, are the films being made in Australia, by Australians, set within Australia. From action and adventure, to thrillers, to comedies, these films are some of the most entertaining, emotional and impactful ones I’ve seen.

Babyteeth is the story of a terminally ill teenager Milla, who falls in love with a polyabusive drug user and local dealer. With protective parents who have a relationship riddled with problems that remain under the surface, the film is a gritty comedy drama that slots right into the Australian indie film landscape.

A defining characteristic of society has always been its ever changing beauty standards. And yet with each decade that ushers in an emphasis on a new body type, this specific feature still becomes the most desired objective. Despite the fact that we know in ten to twenty years it’ll be gone or completely changed, its time in the spotlight still puts immense amounts of pressure on young people, and particularly women or femme identifying people. 

Three years ago, when my friend and I discovered that Teeth was available on Netflix, my response was to do all four. At three in the morning, sitting on her sofa-bed hybrid in lower Manhattan, we listened to the familiar thump of the Netflix introduction and felt a mix of fear and curiosity about the 1.5 hour journey ahead of us.