It could be a matter of bad taste or intransigence on my part, or the rare contrarian streak rearing its ugly head. Whatever the case or cause, it seems like there's always one major queer film per year I end up despising while the rest of the world falls over itself in praise. Last year, Bros was the foremost example, and I found myself at odds with people whose perspective I respect. In 2023, the honor falls on Bottoms, Emma Seligman's studio-backed follow-up to Shiva Baby's indie success, a sophomore feature that hits the proverbial slump right on. And yet, I feel like I should have loved it. At the very least, I wish I did…
Comedy is subjective beyond belief, so I won't belabor the point that I think Bottoms could have been much funnier. Nevertheless, the tonalities of the thing could be improved if someone stripped some of the smugness away, took the sense of self-satisfied cleverness, and threw it out the window while they're at it. The final result of Seligman and company's film fest lab script (un)developing and constant improv isn't nearly smart enough to sustain the attitude. Part of it stems from its lack of specificity, as if it were trying to lampoon a whole subgenre along with social status quo, outdated stereotypes and up-to-date mores, a nostalgic glance stuck to a try-hard touch of now.
Points for ambition, points off for incoherence.
For some somehow-too-long 91 minutes, Bottoms extenuates itself in search of a satirical edge it never achieves, mimicking bite without having any tooth to speak of. In the process, Seligman steers the project away from naturalism toward a more heightened register without getting her team on the same wavelength. Whether pre-written or ad-libbed, the text demands an adherence to stylization most actors sidestep in mumbles and loose gesture. Sometimes, that works, as with Ayo Edebiri's sentimental earnestness amid insincerity galore. More often than not, it falls flat on its face.
Credit where it's due: Marshawn Lynch's limited screen time allows him more leeway than most, and he makes it work. So does Havana Rose Liu, who negotiates the shattered unrealities of this teen sex comedy with aplomb. Beyond them, the intentions are good, the results less so. They're not helped by shabby lensing, including a director working with widescreen framing and short depth of field for no discernible reason. So often, Seligman seems to be staging background action for maximum funny business, but neither the frame nor the focus reflects that. Cinematic comedy extends beyond verbal and behavioral jokes.
It can be audiovisual – it should be – but it needs precision to land. Bottoms lacks control in a way that's unproductive rather than liberating. Going into more specifics, the sound mix is as atrocious as the cinematography, bearing the glitz of a big studio budget but no sophistication, no modicum of wit beyond basic functionality. Let's not even talk about the editing or the evident lack of coverage throughout. As the wasted opportunities pile up, frustration increases, a steady rise that bursts off the charts by the time Bottoms arrives at a ludicrous finale that's not wild enough to sing as pure absurdity. Too tethered to pastiche and hollow narrative with no internal logic, not even that of anarchic abandon.
Ultimately, I was bored to tears, patience erradicated by forced comedy delivered with a smirk and a shrug. The formal formlessness only added insult to injury.
Still, despite all these objections, I wish I could support it. We need more queer comedies made with Hollywood resources, more opportunities for such artists whose voices have historically been marginalized. But of course, to respect queer art is to accept that, sometimes, like all art, it's bad. So, am I wrong about Bottoms? You tell me.