The Man I Love is a quietly devastating yet strangely uplifting story of loss in the waning years of the 1980s AIDS epidemic. It doesn't reveal anything new about the topic, and I have some reservations about yet another film about queer death instead of celebration, but when the art is this immaculate, it's hard to remain indifferent.
It stars Rami Malek, Tom Sturridge, Luther Ford, Rebecca Hall, and Ebon Moss-Bachrach, who are all marvelous in their roles.
Some of them have only a few lines, yet they carry the weight of years of care and love in the face of incomprehensible devastation. Watch, for example, how a weary Moss-Bachrach reminds Hall that we're seeing a brief high point before an inevitable end. It's a simple moment, yet their body language suggests a conversation they've had before, and a worldview from the other that may not be altogether empathetic to those suffering.
You won't hear the word AIDS uttered anywhere in this film, yet its presence is everywhere. It seeps through the cracks and foundations, suffocating the air. At one point, Sturridge asks Ford if he knows who lived in the apartment before him, and where he thinks the once-healthy twentysomethings disappeared to. Medication is laid out on the table in mammoth amounts. Goodbyes and affection are expressed in droves because every time might be the last.
Yet there's a defiance against this harsh reality in everything that Jimmy (Malek) and his crew of thespians do. They're putting on another show, even as Jimmy has begun to forget his lines. Everyone is supportive because everyone knows the reason; they just refuse to give it a name. It isn't shame, it's just that talking won't help. Even when Sturridge goes to the hospital for help, the inhumane indifference fostered by monsters like the Reagans trickles from every dismissal from those who are supposed to help.
The Man I Love is not a big film. It aggressively avoids huge melodramatic moments, even as the characters live with sadness and pain at every moment. Newcomer Luther Ford is particularly great as the lovelorn tenant who is instantly smitten by Malek's defiant bon vivant. Watch how much anticipation and hope he puts into every gesture and request, as if the universe itself might collapse on a denial.
Malek, likewise, has never been better. I find him an interesting but often frustrating actor, who is typecast because of his looks and mannerisms. Here, he plays against his beauty and showmanship, imbuing every mannerism and gesture with a bit of coarseness to tell us how far his illness has progressed. This is a man at death's door denying reality, both fully aware his time is near, yet somehow clinging to the hope that one more performance could see him through another season.
When he sings at his parents' anniversary dinner, it is a heartbreaking opportunity at a goodbye, where Malek delivers one of the most devastating performances of his career. I was already moved by the film at this point, but when Malek's voice breaks as he sings, "Look what they've done to my song, mom", I couldn't stop crying.
Yet, despite all the darkness, Sachs is not interested in wallowing in despair. Loss and regret and sorrow go hand in hand with renewed life and a chance to remember the good times. When there's an opportunity to dance, you take it. Who knows when we'll get another one?
