post-coitus conversation
by
Douglas Messerli
Zach
Siegel (screenwriter and director) You Can Stay Over (If You Want) / 2023
[11 minutes]
Fairy
tales often reveal our worst collective fears in a manner in which we couldn’t
express them in mimetic art. We need the seeming fantasy and exaggeration of
the fairy tale to honestly express our most wonderful imaginings and horrific
fears.
Zach Siegel’s fairy tale at first pretends
to be a gay pick-up story that quickly turns into something that explores the
far deeper psyche of all gay men and others who upon having sex with another
dare to explain something about themselves that the other may not what to hear
or if he knew would not encourage continuing a relationship.
In this film, John (Michael Sturgis) and
Patrick Reilly (Alex), having met one another, have had pleasant sex even
before the title. In fact, the quite affable John has already begun a story
about anal sex that has resulted in the rather unpleasant conversation topic of
defecation, the first of what might be represented as just too much information
for a momentary sexual partner to digest.
Yet Alex greets it with a friendly manner,
and the two seem, from all evidence, appear to truly like one another, planning
on getting together again even though; but since it’s after 2:00 in the
morning, Alex insists he has to go.
You can see the look of John’s face as he
wonders if his bed partner is yet another one-time partner, ready to go soon
after the sexual release. Yet he is ready to accept the fact, but not before,
as Alex rushes to dress, he ventures one more invitation: “You can stay over, if
you want.”
Alex pauses, giving the usual excuses, that
he has an early appointment in the morning, etc. But yet there is something so
friendly and open about John’s suggestion that he dares go beyond the usual
jargon. Finally, entering into the myth of all fairy tales, he admits to
something that would almost surely jeopardize any further communication with
the man he might like to meet up with again.
John’s first reaction, naturally, is to
try to trace it as a metaphorical statement, that perhaps it is a nightmare, a
statement of anger, or relates to a regular erection, a demand for further sex,
something having to do with the sexual instrument some men refer to as they “snake.”
But, no, Alex insists, it is not a
metaphor; this is real: he actually turns into a giant snake.
Imagining to be some sort of delusion John
discreetly asks how long has this been occurring in his life, Alex suggesting
it has been as long as he remembers, and his family has attempted to see
doctors who might explain or cure it without success.
Probing a bit further John tries to have
Alex explain how he deals with the condition. But again, Alex is very practical
and honest about it; it simply retires to the bathtub until the transformation
is complete and he has turned back into a human being.
Asked, if he is convinced that what Alex is telling him is real, John
admits that he cannot truly believe it, but asks if it were true, might Alex kill
him. But even here Alex cannot answer for his snake self. He doesn’t know, but
sets his alarm each night to awaken him so that he can retreat to the tub.
Convinced, now more than ever, that he
has to leave, Alex continues dressing, only to hear John tell him that he has
very nice bathroom tub. Who couldn’t resist such a kind invitation.
And when at the appointed hour John wakes
up to see his bedmate missing, hearing strange sounds from his bathroom, who
wouldn’t be tempted to at least go take a peek, which he does.
In fact, there is a quite giant black
snake in his bathtub, it’s tongue prominently displayed. John begins to
carefully back out, but then, quite strangely, pauses, and finally moves
forward joining the snake in the tub.
The serpent does not attack him but slithers
around him and John actually makes contact with the serpent’s tongue.
I like the Letterboxd response of a
commentary whose moniker is “EmpressEuphoic,” who expresses quite succinctly
the vague notions that had crossed my mind:
“Intimacy
is easy — until honesty is introduced.
Zach Siegel begins where most films
politely fade out: after the hookup.
Two men in bed, conversation drifting from
casual to… inadvisable. One can almost feel the moment approaching — the point
at which someone will say something they cannot retract.
You Can Stay Over (If You Want) treats
vulnerability as risk. The offer to stay is not romantic — it is conditional.
To remain is to reveal.
The conversation sharpens, oversharing
masquerading as intimacy, until it becomes clear that desire is not the
problem. Truth is.
After Bad Medicine [the 1985 movie directed
by Harvey Miller], where attachment persisted despite its damage, this feels
more surgical. The connection is not yet broken — it is simply… tested.
One does not fear being known. One fears
being known accurately.
A sharp little study in post-intimacy —
precise, uncomfortable, and just honest enough to unsettle.
After discovering that desire can endure
damage, one is confronted with something far less resilient — the truth, once
spoken.”
The more I thought about this
superficially unlikeable short film, the more I admired it.
Los
Angeles, May 14, 2026
Reprinted
from My Queer Cinema (May 2026).
No comments:
Post a Comment