Jordan Rossi | The Call / 2023

alone in tears and silence

by Douglas Messerli

 

Jordan Rossi (screenwriter and director) The Call / 2023 [14 minutes]

 

A young man has just come out to his mother, who after seeming taking it well, suddenly begins to scream and reject her son, Amir (Adam Ali), who, as this film begins, has just dialed the LGBT+ hot line from his car in tears.

    It’s apparent he has no where else to go. We see him try to call his father during discussing his distress with the help line, only to be told that with his new family its wasn’t a good night for him to visit.

    The calm voice of the person on the hot line share sympathy for what he’s going to and suggests if he needs help with finding somewhere to sleep, he might be able to help, but Amir by this time has cried himself out, and pulls the earplugs from his ears.

    A few days later, we see him still in that car, clearly have spent the night sleeping there. This time he tells the voice on the line that he’s found a hostel for gay kids, but he’s simply overwhelmed by experience. He hasn’t even had sex with anyone yet. He explains: “I’m a guy who likes guys. And I don’t have anywhere to stay tonight.” He feels he’s not really comfortable in the world he found in the hostel, having just come out.

     “How did that feel, going into a space that was open to you?” the voice on the phone asks. Amir explains that someone introduced himself as “demisexual” and “homoromantic,” and there were other terms about which he had no conception such a “lipstick lesbian,” etc. He clearly felt confused and overwhelmed my such a new world. He explains he’s not an idiot: he know what “pan” and “bi” mean, but there were other new terms as well such as “sis-sexism.” He’s simply confused by it all. He asks, “Do you think people change over time?”

     The voice on the line asks what he’s thinking about when he asks that question, and, quite obviously he answers, “Me, I guess,” obviously desperate to know whether he can find a world in which he feels comfortable. We see him texting his father again, wondering why he can’t be part of his new family.

     It comes down to him wondering whether he can find a place where he can stop pretending to be somebody he’s not, the voice on the line being most sympathetic. A copy interrupts this call by knowing on his window and telling him he has to drive on.

     Three months later, he again calls the help center. His who demeanor has changed. He now is clearly living in the hostel or some place where he’s put pictures on the wall. This time he’s just met someone he really likes, and he needs some sexual advice, frightened apparently since it is the first time when he is actually contemplating having sex. The intelligent voice at the LGBT+ hot line suggests he speak to her like he might want to his new friend, Amir trying out telling his friend just how much he likes him.

     And then, he pauses, explaining the importance of just having someone to talk to. And thanking the hot line for being there.

     This short film, quite obviously, is a plug for the LGBT+ switchboard, but it is a moving commercial for their services nonetheless—and is particularly meaningful today when the US President and his mean and unemphatic associates have cut just such services. This film was made two years ago, presumably in an attempt to encourage young people just like Amir to use their services in helping them go through such difficulties in their lives. Where do these young people turn to now?

     In Britian, where this film was made, they can still make “the call,” but in the United States they must suffer in silence, possibly in their fears and terrors even doing harm to themselves. Where are the hostels in most US cities where such young men and women in similar situations might find a place to stay, to help restore their lives?

     For many, there is now no one to call.

 

Los Angeles, December 12, 2025

Reprinted from My Queer Cinema blog (December 2025).