A disorienting COVID comedy with plenty on its mind, Stress Positions announces the arrival of filmmaker Theda Hammel as a bold new voice to watch. This is her feature debut both in front of and behind the camera — the director/writer/composer/editor also co-stars alongside comedian John Early — and the result is an intimate New York farce of epic proportions.
Set during the pandemic lockdown in 2020, it follows a group of jaded, white, queer older millennials (and one young Moroccan zoomer) and channels America’s post-9/11 zeitgeist into an uproarious search for authenticity. With repetitive, rapid-fire dialogue reminiscent of screwball comedies, it hammers home its central ideas early on, and with reckless abandon. This leaves a surprising amount of room in its mere 95 minutes for quiet contemplations on identity in the form of old home videos.
It’s as reflective as it is self-reflexive, a fun work of autofiction that, while not strictly autobiographical, captures what it feels like to live during (and be defined by) fraught moments in modern American history. Its edges are often frayed, and they become increasingly so as the film goes on — it is, after all, a first-time feature, and bears all the manic hallmarks of novice filmmaking. But its roughness is part of its zany charm.
What is Stress Positions about?
Credit: Courtesy of NEON.
Co-written by Hammel and actor Faheem Ali, Stress Positions follows Terry Goon (Early), a high-strung white gay man looking after his soon-to-be ex-husband’s Brooklyn brownstone in 2020, during the initial days of self-quarantine. As a gas-mask-donning Terry participates in early COVID rituals — from sanitizing food and money to banging pots and pans for aid workers — he also looks after his Moroccan nephew Bahlul (Qaher Harhash), a 19-year-old model with a broken leg.
Despite Terry’s numerous reminders of “He’s my nephew, and he’s very badly injured!” (in a forceful, Billy Eichner-esque cadence), salacious news of the alleged boytoy in his basement travels via whisper network. The rumor, at one point, travels through his college friend Karla (Hammel) — a transgender physiotherapist — and her author girlfriend Vanessa (Amy Zimmer), a lesbian couple working through trust issues in their Greenpoint apartment. Thanks to numerous bizarre circumstances, from Terry suffering an unfortunate cooking injury to Karla’s fate becoming entwined with a young Afghan American GrubHub driver (Ali), the two friends end up reuniting and catching up over several evenings.
The plot may be sparse, but it’s filled with a litany of strange supporting characters — like Terry’s upstairs neighbor, the elusive, elderly, seemingly conspiratorial Coco (Rebecca F. Wright) — who add a certain idiosyncrasy to the movie’s contours. The real story of Stress Positions, however, is born through its numerous interactions, which arrive with a bustling, distinctly New York energy mixed with COVID-era paranoia.
Nearly every character is flippant with their words, and their dialogue is usually imbued with political subtext, even in the most mundane interactions. For instance, when Karla makes a stray comment about Bahlul being from the Middle East, Bahlul reminds her Morocco isn’t part of the region. This simple interaction leads to absurd confusion and insecurity amongst the movie’s white characters that reverberates through the narrative as they try to recalibrate their understanding of both Bahlul and the world around them.
Stress Positions is about post-9/11 America.
Credit: Courtesy of NEON.
The film takes its name from CIA torture methods used during the “war on terror,” though given Karla’s job as a physiotherapist, it takes on a sly (if silly) double meaning about contortion and stress relief. This sort of tension, between personal details and the world’s wider political backdrop, make for some of the film’s most knee-slapping comedic moments.
During the story, she and Terry encounter numerous Muslim workers and proceed to stumble through their interactions with them, like the well-meaning but oafish characters on The Office. They have liberal politics, but like their understanding of the Middle East and North Africa — which are as much geographical areas as they are constructs in the Western consciousness — the characters’ own political identities are in flux.
Karla, for instance, has a fleeting interest in men despite identifying as a lesbian, and she insists she’s Middle Eastern-adjacent because of her Greek heritage. But what soon becomes clear, in her evening chats with Terry and Bahlul, is just how much modern incarnations of whiteness and Americanness are formed in relation to (and in some ways, in opposition to) a nebulous, villainized Middle Eastern-ness. No character ever puts this idea into words, but the movie is whip-smart in the way it frames idiotic dialogue, and the way it interrogates each politically charged faux pas through lingering, awkward silences.
While voiceover from Karla introduces the story, the narrations soon shift in POV, allowing Bahlul to recount his upbringing with his white mother (Terry’s sister), who converted to Islam, and who now exists in snippets of forgotten home videos. Through these segments of recollection, the film slows down and zeroes its focus on the shifting context of Bahlul’s ethnic, religious, and sexual identity. The question of his queerness is broached but never fully answered, a lingering tension that draws comical bewilderment from Karla and Terry. As older millennials who came of age in the 2000s and 2010s — when their respective trans and gay identities found mainstream acceptance — they’re far more accustomed to definitive labels, and seem intimidated by the fluidity of the forthcoming generation.
For Bahlul, the most reserved of the film’s leading trio, the question of who he is in an American context is as political as it is personal. His quiet crisis of identity is subtly exacerbated when the Fourth of July approaches, and star-spangled banners become common decorations. However, neither this nor any of the movie’s other loaded, reflective subplots would amount to much were Stress Positions not so deftly crafted too.
Stress Positions is a lightning-in-a-bottle comedy.
Credit: Courtesy of NEON.
Across numerous scenes, characters in Stress Positions question whether Vanessa’s book, based on Karla’s life, is an authentic reflection of her story or simply borrows it for convenience. This recurring thread invites similar questions about the movie too, but while Vanessa’s novel is referred to as disposable, Hammel’s work behind the camera is a shot in the arm for the modern New York comedy. It captures feelings of millennial listlessness similar to the Max series Search Party (not the least because they have Early in common). But the film also contrasts this sense of time unfolding infinitely during the pandemic with a wild-eyed, frenetic approach.
The movie’s slapstick sensibility — buoyed by hilariously committed work from Early, who pratfalls his way through entire scenes just to answer the doorbell — fills the frame with an effervescent energy. But outside of its immediate context as a joke, each bit of on-screen momentum feels entirely (and intentionally) useless, given the characters’ quarantine confines. They could bounce off the walls, and it would have little to no effect on the outside world, until and unless one of the other cast members enters their private bubble.
This not only reflects the restlessness that took hold in early lockdown, but the gloomy, nihilistic outlook of an American generation defined by wars, recession, and ultimately, a pandemic. Every subplot in the movie’s peripheral vision, whether Karla’s relationship woes or Terry’s impending divorce, feels both inevitable and depressingly self-fulfilling, as though the very notion of hope were something surreal or absurd. The film, in this way, verges on a strange kind of magical realism in its moments of self-affirmation (like the act of Bahlul admiring his own body, presented in dreamlike fashion) — moments made all the more perplexing by Hammel’s intriguing, percussion-heavy score.
In Stress Positions, up is down, left is right, and who someone is (or purports to be) is ever-shifting, changing with each new bit of social or political context unwittingly introduced into a conversation. It’s about the connections between people who, despite believing otherwise, are disconnected from one another and from the world at large, and about how tensions they don’t even recognize exacerbate each ridiculous situation. It’s a smart movie about dumb people, and a wildly good time.