Two grieving strangers form an unexpected bond that forces them to confront loss and loneliness, and to ultimately move forward.
One of those films that quietly earns its place in my end-of-the-year reviews. Bittersweet without being heavy, tender without becoming sentimental, it carries what could be called a kind of lying honesty: emotions that arrive gently, but stay with you long after the credits roll. Writer/director/actor James Sweeney delivers a film that confidently joins the landscape of contemporary queer cinema while remaining refreshingly unburdened by didacticism.
Twineless is about grief, loneliness, and the slow, awkward process of self-acceptance. What makes it resonate is not the novelty of its themes, but the ease with which it allows them to breathe. The film never presses its emotional weight onto the viewer’s chest; instead, it lets moments unfold naturally, trusting silence, humour, and restraint as much as dialogue. There is warmth here, but also discomfort – the kind that feels recognisably human.
The performances are its major strength. Dylan O’Brien (Roman/Rocky) and James Sweeney (Dennis) share an easy, believable chemistry, grounding the film in vulnerability rather than performance bravado. Aisling Franciosi (Marcie) adds the right amount of naivety that, in the end, steps up, while Lauren Graham (Lisa) makes every shot she’s in more beautiful than it already is. Together, they give flesh and blood to characters who grieve, isolate themselves, resent, and occasionally self-sabotage – yet keep searching for a way to love themselves honestly. Not perfectly, but truthfully.
What Twineless avoids, perhaps most admirably, is agenda. It does not posture politically or moralise identity or sexual orientation. Instead, it suggests something far simpler and far more radical: that all genders are equally flawed because all humans are flawed. Everyone makes poor choices, everyone longs for connection, and everyone needs to be seen – not corrected, not packaged, just understood.
Suspense is sustained not through spectacle, but through information – who knows what, why, and how and when it will be revealed. The balance between audience awareness and character knowledge shifts with precision, creating tension rooted in empathy rather than shock. The film understands exactly when viewers want something revealed and when the characters themselves are ready to face it.
In resisting both cruelty and simplification, Twineless stands as a strong addition to American independent cinema – humane, sincere, and disarmingly honest. Not loud, not showy, but deeply felt.
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