It is with absolutely no shame that I humbly recant my initial reservations about Challengers, which has left me unfathomably and irreparably horny. The superior talents of cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom—responsible for a bevy of Apichatpong films—charges images with resplendent eroticism and transforms rodent men into sex gods, recasting their industrious athleticism and awe-inspiring musculature as lissome, seductive brawn. Never have I pined so hard for svelte, stubbly thighs.
If you know me, you know I’m not a fan of Luca Guadagnino. His films, steeped in excess, do possess visual appeal and an exquisite covetability, but they run high on emotions that feel equally maximalist and hollow to me. Here his creative latitude is somewhat constrained by the setting on the athletic circuit, relegating him to hotel suites that are expensive but devoid of identity. To compensate, he lavishes style through other elements, like Marco Costa’s quicksilver editing and Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ bouncy, scintillating score, already in the rotation at spin classes. The result is a propulsively poppy movie with emotional mayhem mapped onto a sports metaphor.
It is nearly enough for me to overlook the imprecisions of Justin Kuritzkes’ script, which is preoccupied with plot and hurdles the finer details (over the course of an unnecessary two and a half hours) to reach its climactic shot, an expected but exhilarating narrative smash. The worst offense is the excessive temporal rally (two years later, ten years before that, etc.), which I concluded was not worth trying to keep track of the second the bass dropped on soundtrack in scene one, announcing the movie’s refusal to take itself seriously.
Kuritzkes is married to Celine Song, and between this and Past Lives, I wonder what theater people think of character development as it happens in movies. Both of their cinematic creations feature ciphers characterized by conveniently doled-out details. Past Live’s Arthur is scruffy, Jewish, safe; Challenger’s Art (Mike Faist) is cleancut, nice, and safe. And what do we think either bard-spouse thinks of romantic triangles? I’ve already voiced my temptation to see Past Lives an Asian woman’s fantasy apologia for marrying a white man, and Challengers is also it's own fantasy: a cishet male’s delusions about what women want.
The film seems obviously stacked in favor of Patrick (Josh O’Connor), gifted with rascally charm and wit, and the more talented athlete. But anyone who's encountered the type knows to stay judiciously clear, regardless of how great the sex is. (Not unsurprisingly, the wind-blown metaphor-heavy sex scene is the film’s least sizzling.) The heft of your attraction to either Patrick and/or Art is perhaps telling of your romantic proclivities and experiences, a dead giveaway as it were, about how much of a romantic masochist you might be. (No judgment.)
I'm not entirely sold on Zendaya's acting, but she didn't significantly diminish my enjoyment the way she did in the Dune films. She seemingly has two main modes: scowling and flirting. She does the former so much that you almost expect the crows feet and 11s to set in. (She was Paul Schrader’s first choice for Master Gardener. I shudder trying to hypothesize what that might have looked like.) She’s not helped by the script, but to say her one-note acting simply parallels her one-dimensional character’s tunnel vision (“Tashi <3 tennis” is not a personality, or shouldn’t be) is a paltry excuse. In Past Lives, Greta Lee added nuance to a similarly bland character, even while she was upstaged by her onscreen suitors. I'm also less concerned with whether Zendaya is plausible as a mother, and more intrigued by why her child doesn't flee when Art, their "father," doesn’t speak a single word to them, then suddenly appears in their bed. And then there's the ginormous Flamenco tote flanking Zendaya's tiny frame.
Ultimately, O’Connor and Faist are the film’s true power couple, its centripetal force, two rat men to whom I previously bore negative attraction. Challengers never plumbs the hidden depths of their desires— sublimated into the eating and sharing of phallic objects (hot dogs, churros), moments that alternate between being unbearably cute and flirtatiously risque—making the movie nothing more than an empty tease.
For more romantic-triangles for your viewing pleasure…
Jules and Jim (Francoise Truffaut, 1962)
Y tu mamá también (Alfonso Cuarón, 2001)
Vicky, Christina, Barcelona (Woody Allen, 2008)
The Dreamers (Bernardo Bertolucci, 2003) — someone needs to make this available to stream so we can revel in the beauty of Michael Pitt AND Louis Garrel ASAP
The restaurant equivalents of Challengers
Guadagnino’s movie is an exercise of style over substance, and so too is Holiday Bar, a happening place from the same team behind Saint Theos, where the seafood is mediocre and vibes are immaculate: breezy, sexy, maybe even a little bit silly. Here you’re greeted by white tablecloths, tubular white leather sofas framed by Alex Katz paintings, a perfunctory seafood menu, cast in a soft pink glow. Like Challengers, Holiday Bar also caters to a broader, more prevalent demographic. As a bonus, you gets to sit on Breuer chairs.
When it comes to actual hotels, there’s the Swan Room at Nine Orchard, brought to you by union-denier Ignacio Mattos. Situated inside the grand lobby of historic Beaux Arts building, a former bank, this bar is opulent yet discreet—perhaps not the place you’d spot tennis players but fitting to the film’s mood. I haven’t been yet but I expect wholly passable offerings, like burger and truffle fries, that don’t rise above their ornate surroundings.
But perhaps nothing else might fit Challengers quite like a visit to PDT, the formerly trendy cocktail den known where you a special someone once enjoyed smokey drinks and hot dogs under the cloak of secrecy.
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