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The Messy, Tender Queer Melodrama of On Swift Horses

In its best moments, On Swift Horses feels in spirit like a lost Douglas Sirk film. Like it is of a piece with those classic 1950s melodramas like All That Heaven Allows and Written on the Wind. The Jacob Elordi part would have been played by Rock Hudson, and it would have been for obvious reasons uniquely fitting. Of course Sirk never could have gotten away with such a brazen take on homosexuality and bisexuality, but the distinct romantic sentiments of that style of movie still come across, the interest in social consciousness and simmering sexuality, which is as significant to the movie as its direct illustrations. Like a Sirk movie, I expect it to be polarizing, but also like a Sirk movie, it is captivating too.
Based on the novel by Shannon Pufahl, it is directed by Daniel Minahan, who’s had relatively little feature experience, but a plethora of TV credits for ‘cinematic’ shows like Six Feet Under, Deadwood, True Blood, and Game of Thrones. The lack of distinction between what goes into those two mediums is very apparent here, as Minahan demonstrates a strong competence in how he relates this material of isolation, self-discovery, and unrequited love in a stifling environment.; and how he leans into the foibles of that same material as much as the virtues.
And there are a fair few foibles from this collection of messy characters making their way in a hostile place and time for their emotional needs. At the start, young couple Muriel (Daisy Edgar-Jones) and Lee (Will Poulter) are living on her late mother’s farm in the middle of Kansas in the early 1950s when at Christmas, Lee’s brother Julius (Jacob Elordi) arrives returned from the Korean War. During their brief time together and as Julius reneges on Lee’s plan for the three of them to move to California, a clear tension brews between Julius and Muriel, a spark of something that is more than just romantic. From here, their stories diverge, connected intermittently by letters, as Julius finds a life in Las Vegas and a new potent affair, while Muriel and Lee settle in California, where Muriel is drawn into her own journey of sexual self-discovery.
The film is very sensual, and not just in its moments of heated intimacy or lovemaking -though these are indeed appropriately sultry. In details of costuming and composition, certain colours and the crisp, tangible environments, it permeates the very air of the film. The hushed tones and insinuations inform this as well, the discretion of what is being said and meant carries its own attractive nuance. Non-coincidentally, it is the same thing that coloured Todd Haynes’s Carol, and explores its similar themes with an equivalent sensitivity. Rarely ever using direct terms (certainly not as we would know them in 2025), Minahan and screenwriter Bryce Krass trust the audience to understand subtext and allusion, and particularly the power of visual metaphor -there are some stark examples in this movie, whether it is character lighting in a gloomy bar or a subtle touch, wide shots of the isolation of a farm or a man riding a horse down the highway. One of my favourites is a call from a phone booth glazed by neon light that resembles Happy Together, and of course the palpable sexiness of the 'olive' scene.
These aspects capture well not only the necessary secrecy of queerness in the 1950s but the intuitive feeling as well of both unlocking that hidden part of oneself and the inescapable danger of embracing it with someone fulfilling -respective to both of the arcs that we follow. For Julius and for Muriel, the filmmaking and the performances do an excellent job of centring you in the psychology of their lives and desires. It is an experience of both claustrophobia and liberation firmly related and sometimes simultaneous. In terms of the film's actual discussion of these themes, there is certainly some discord -especially on the part of Muriel, juggling a sexual awakening, a growing dismay with patriarchal norms with the power of her seeming lust towards Julius (in truth, what he represents more than him personally), how she interprets each of these things and their connection. Yet for as impulsively flaky a character as this makes her in her wants and goals, it resonates as an apt reflection of the trials in exploring one's own sexual diversity and feminist identity in a time of such little broad understanding or definition to either such thing.
Edgar-Jones plays it with fitting nuance, emphasizing both boldness of spirit and an instinctual abundance of caution, each coloured a little by the naivety of privilege. There is no lack of authenticity there though, carrying our sympathy through some real issues of judgement and feeling on her part. The best of Edgar-Jones's blunt confidence with an earnest degree of vulnerability. As her counterpart and opposite, Elordi channels a classically subdued charisma to match his classic movie star looks, embodying fully that archetypal itinerant drifter with a hardened exterior but a soft heart. The chemistry, both sexual and romantic, that he shares with Diego Calva as his gambler lover Henry, is the unexpectedly sweet life-force of his story. Additionally, Sasha Calle delivers a standout performance as Muriel and Lee's neighbour Sandra, an avatar of excitement and liberty for Muriel, but a real and emotionally distinct figure too. And Poulter rounds out the cast well, bringing honest depth to the assuming if non-confrontational husband, who feels real love for Muriel in spite of his overtures of mere control.
Broadly the film is quite good at relating its themes and impressions, the cast and direction are up to the challenge. But there are definitely aspects of the script that tend towards the cloying tenets of melodrama that have given the genre more broadly a foul reputation for a lot of moviegoers. The exposition through letters via voiceover for example reads as very rote and the dialogue almost cliché, as though coming from a 50s movie rather than the 50s itself. To some degree this is the point, but the movie on a whole -in spite of the sweeping drama of its plot -does not feel so sensational. There is a palpable human grounding to the emotional stakes of its narratives. And while the construction of the plot and character arcs are strong and even moving, certain points within them lean towards conspicuous hyperbole within a framework the audience is already asked to temper some disbelief for.
All the same, I would rather the movie veer in the direction of earnestness than cynicism. What sets On Swift Horses apart from most other depictions of queer identity in the 1950s (again with the exception of Carol), is how intimately and sincerely it engages with both the practical and emotional complexities of it. In such an oppressive environment, how did people ascertain their sexualities? How did they find community or real romance, and how could they keep them? And what must it be like psychologically to keep quiet such a profound part of oneself? On Swift Horses grapples admirably with these questions through its rich and tender characters on their coarse journeys. Classic romantic melodrama from a new lens.

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