Anyone approaching "Blue Film" expecting a standard erotic thriller is in for a surprise. The film, written and directed by Elliot Tuttle, takes its title from the world of pornography, but its ambitions are both more cerebral and more unsettling. Premiering in the main competition at the Edinburgh Film Festival, "Blue Film" is a tense, provocative two-hander that brings together a pair of damaged souls for one fraught night in Los Angeles, forcing both characters and audience to confront uncomfortable truths about desire, trauma, and the lingering effects of power imbalances.
At the core of "Blue Film" are two characters: Hank, a middle-aged former schoolteacher from Maine, and Alex, his one-time pupil, now a hyper-macho Los Angeles sex worker. The set-up is simple but loaded—an anonymous rental house, a $50,000 offer, and a shared, complicated history. According to Variety, Tuttle’s film is an “unabashed provocation, but not a hollow one,” and its protagonists “don’t invite uncomplicated sympathy.” Instead, the film seeks to understand and expose their respective damage with articulate detail, leaving viewers to draw their own conclusions.
Reed Birney, the Tony-winning actor known for his work in "Mass," takes on the role of Hank, whose quiet demeanor masks a past marred by scandal. Kieron Moore, a rising British talent with credits in "Sex Education," "Masters of the Air," and "Vampire Academy," plays Alex, a camboy who performs online under the name Aaron Eagle. The dynamic between these two is anything but simple. For the opening minutes, viewers are immersed in Alex’s world: the camera captures him mid-webcam routine, flexing, taunting his followers, and wielding his sexuality with brash confidence. His persona is a "bullying dom act," complete with homophobic slurs and performative masculinity—a routine that pays well, as tips flow in from his online audience.
But among those watching is Hank, a soft-spoken figure whose face is hidden behind a balaclava. He makes Alex an offer: $50,000 for one night together in Los Angeles. Alex, accustomed to transactional encounters and assuming he holds the power, accepts. Yet, as the night unfolds in the bland, Airbnb-like rental house Hank has chosen, it becomes clear that the balance of power is far more precarious than Alex realized.
Hank’s request to film their conversation—ostensibly about first sexual experiences—initially seems like just another kink, perhaps a nod to the confessional style of Soderbergh’s "sex, lies and videotape." But when Hank reveals that he knows Alex’s real name and hometown, the dynamic shifts dramatically. The masks, both literal and figurative, begin to come off. Alex recognizes Hank as his former middle-school teacher, Mr. Grant, who was scandalously fired, arrested, and imprisoned for the attempted sexual assault of another boy. Alex himself was not one of Hank’s victims, but he was, as the film makes clear, an object of Hank’s desire.
What follows is a delicate, often uneasy dance between the two men, as they probe the boundaries of their shared past and the possibility of a taboo-laced, but entirely legal, encounter. As Variety notes, "the roots of trauma are variously revealed or lied about, fetishes are either intellectualized or viscerally confronted, and the possibility of wholly legal but taboo-laced sex between them hangs in the air." The film is deeply talky, with much of its tension emerging from the charged, propulsive conversations between the leads. At times, the script circles its ideas, but the performances ensure that the energy never flags.
Birney’s portrayal of Hank is marked by stoic reserve and a refusal to dignify the character’s yearning. He captures the "pathetic, impossible yearning" of a man who knows his desires will never be fulfilled, but who cannot let them go. Moore, meanwhile, delivers a performance that is both physically commanding and emotionally vulnerable. His swagger as Alex is revealed to be just that—a pose that crumples into boyish uncertainty when the gaze of others is removed.
The film’s visual style, crafted by director of photography Ryan Jackson-Healy, mirrors its emotional intensity. Working in "late-night pools of teal-blue light and shadow," Jackson-Healy creates an atmosphere that is both queasy and intimate. The cinematography shifts between crisp digital images and the grainy video textures that define Alex’s online persona, emphasizing the blurred lines between performance and reality.
Editor Zach Clark, himself a director of resourceful indie films, keeps the film’s 85-minute runtime tight and its pace brisk. The conversations, though unavoidably dense, are kept "charged and propulsive," according to Variety, and the film never overstays its welcome, even as it delves into the darkest corners of its characters’ psyches.
"Blue Film" is not an easy watch, nor does it seek to be. Its exploration of forbidden desires, trauma, and power imbalances is unflinching, and it refuses to offer easy answers or pat resolutions. The film’s willingness to sit with discomfort, to examine the ways in which damage can echo across years and relationships, marks it as a work of rare courage and intelligence.
For all its provocation, "Blue Film" is not without empathy. Tuttle’s script is careful to avoid exploitation or sensationalism, focusing instead on the humanity—however flawed—of its protagonists. The result is a film that is as thoughtful as it is unsettling, one that lingers in the mind long after the credits roll.
As the film continues its festival run, it is likely to spark debate and discomfort in equal measure. But for those willing to engage with its challenging subject matter, "Blue Film" offers a powerful meditation on the complexities of desire and the lasting impact of trauma. It’s a story that doesn’t flinch from the darkest parts of the human experience, yet still finds room for understanding, if not forgiveness.
In the end, "Blue Film" stands as a testament to the power of cinema to confront, provoke, and ultimately illuminate the tangled web of human relationships. It’s not for everyone, but then, the best art rarely is.
