“Blue Film” has historically been a way to refer to porn movies. The title of Elliot Tuttle’s film is not accidental, though “Blue Film” ends up being much more than a provocation around sex. The movie dares to place a Cambodian boy and a pedophile face to face and, from there, to venture into a morally swampy terrain without simplifying it into good and evil. Even for taking that risk, there is a certain boldness to acknowledge.
After all, how many times have we seen a pedophile on screen? Usually as a monstrous figure, someone to fear and condemn, an embodiment of evil. The sprawling The Florida Project, for example, uses the character of an elderly pedophile as a disturbing and menacing presence that hovers over the story. Blue Film, instead, puts that character in front of us, lets him speak, tell his story, explain his guilt, and live with his contradictions. Blue Film forces us to listen to him, not to absolve him.
In fact, Elliot Tuttle has explained that in constructing Hank he drew on personal testimonies from sexual offenders, and he was surprised by how much guilt, shame, and childhood abuse surfaced. Hank is precisely trapped there: he remains in the same town, has returned to the church, and seems to have turned much of his life into a form of penitence. He even faces, week after week, the person connected with what he did. It is a very uncomfortable idea to witness, but also far more interesting than simply consigning the character to the label of “monster.”
Opposite Hank stands Aaron, the young Cambodian boy, who also carries a backstory far more complex than it initially appears. The film gradually reveals his wounds, needs, and contradictions, without turning him into merely the counterpoint to Hank. Reed Birney and Kieron Moore deliver strong performances, especially because much of the film rests on their glances, silences, and small shifts in attitude. They give two restrained performances, but with a great deal of work behind them.
Yet that is not their only accomplishment. The screenplay is written with meticulous detail and a strong sense of realism. The characters carry contradictions, trauma, misery, and moments of vulnerability, and nothing feels built with broad strokes. The film reveals their histories little by little and manages to make us understand their circumstances without necessarily justifying them. It is a difficult balance, but it works.
One of the strongest and most memorable scenes arrives when Hank shaves Aaron so that he looks younger within their role-playing game. It is an almost impossible scene because it can be repulsive and, at the same time, curiously vulnerable. Tuttle also alters the visual format at that moment, shifting to a domestic-camera style. The result blends the feel of a home video with that of a horror movie: a recognizable intimacy that, precisely because of that, makes us even more uneasy.
It is also noteworthy that the film sustains interest despite its claustrophobic setup, almost entirely inside a single house and largely dependent on the conversations between the two leads. The screenplay reveals information drop by drop, and there is always more behind what we are seeing. It does not rely on grand twists or artifices to maintain tension. In fact, the film works best when it remains tight and focused on its two protagonists.
And from the opening credits, Blue Film makes its intention clear. The cheerful 60s folk-pop of “When Love Is Young” by The Free Design plays as we glimpse a child in footage that feels like home-movie material. The song is almost too bright for what we are about to witness, and that contrast lingers throughout the film.
Gradually, Blue Film becomes something decidedly sad. Perhaps that is another sense in which “blue” applies. Rather than lingering on the sensational aspects of its premise, the film ends up speaking about two solitary figures who originate from very different places but end up resembling each other in troubling ways. It is perhaps there that its greatest strength lies.
As for a flaw, the cinematography loses a touch of elegance toward the end and the finale tips toward sentimentality and conspicuousness, especially in that anguished return to solitude. Yet these are modest quibbles for a courageous, highly attentive, and more complex film than its premise might suggest. Unsettling and murky, yes, but ultimately worth enduring the experience.
