QUEER (2024) and the Eternal Return of Counterculture

It’s tempting to watch Queer (2024) as just another literary adaptation, another arthouse film drenched in Luca Guadagnino’s signature sensuality. But this is Queer—a work by William S. Burroughs, a Beat Generation relic that has somehow made its way into our algorithm-driven, hyper-aware, politically charged present.

This isn’t just a love letter to Burroughs—it’s a reminder that counterculture never truly dies. It just gets repackaged, commodified, and recycled, over and over again. Queer is about exile, disillusionment, and longing, but more than that, it’s about what happens when radical movements get absorbed by the very systems they were meant to resist.

Now that Queer has finally hit streaming services, it’s the perfect time to revisit these themes. This is not just another prestige drama but a film that deserves deeper reflection, particularly in how it grapples with personal and cultural exile.

A World That Feels Like a Painting: Luca Guadagnino’s Dreamlike Aesthetic

One of the most striking elements of Queer is its hyper-stylized, geometric, almost surreal world. Guadagnino doesn’t attempt to recreate a historically accurate 1950s setting; instead, he crafts a meticulously controlled, dreamlike atmosphere that mirrors William Lee’s state of mind. The streets of Mexico feel eerily empty, making it seem as if Lee is wandering through a world that exists only for him. The architecture, colors, and framing look composed like paintings, with a rigid geometry that makes the film feel strangely artificial. There is an intentional sense of detachment, as if Lee is never quite inside the world he inhabits, but rather watching it unfold like a scene in a theater.

For much of the film, this dreamlike detachment remains constant. The only moment that feels truly alive is near the beach, where the world briefly breathes before the journey descends into something even more fragmented. The film follows Lee and Eugene Allerton as they leave Mexico, traveling first by bus and then by plane to Ecuador, their entry into the Amazon jungle. This transition is visually surreal—the plane scene looks completely unnatural, as if lifted from an old projection or a staged diorama. Rather than breaking the illusion, this effect reinforces it. By this point in the film, reality has started to dissolve, and nothing feels entirely real anymore.

Guadagnino uses color and composition to create a visual experience that transcends traditional cinematic representations of Mexico. Departing from the conventional portrayal of Mexico with dominant yellow hues, Guadagnino and cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom craft a visual palette that evokes the essence of folk art, imbuing the film with a painterly quality.

The interior settings, such as the café scenes, are particularly noteworthy. The windows in these locations are designed to resemble paintings, blurring the line between the characters' environment and art itself. This deliberate choice enhances the film's dreamlike atmosphere, making each frame appear as a carefully composed artwork. The production design by Stefano Baisi further complements this aesthetic, contributing to the film's unique visual language.

This approach not only distinguishes Queer from other films set in similar locales but also deepens the narrative's exploration of perception and reality. By utilizing a color palette and set design reminiscent of folk paintings, Guadagnino invites viewers into a world where the boundaries between life and art are fluid, reflecting the protagonist's internal journey.

William Lee: A Man Out of Time and Place

At its core, Queer is about exile—physical, emotional, and ideological. William Lee drifts between different locations, seeking something he cannot name: in Mexico, in Panama, in Ecuador, and in the Amazon jungle, where he consumes yagé in search of something more. But his exile is more than just a self-imposed journey—he is an outsider in every possible way: queer in a world where that means being a criminal, an addict in a society that demands control, an intellectual in a world that doesn’t care for his kind of introspection.

The journey unfolds in a sequence of disjointed realities. Mexico, which serves as the film’s main setting, starts off as a strangely empty but structured place. It may lack movement, but at least there is still Eugene. The hotel sequences in Panama, where Lee experiences heroin withdrawal, are a turning point. The atmosphere tightens, becoming suffocating, a battle against himself within small, airless rooms. When the film shifts to Ecuador and the Amazon jungle, the world transforms entirely. The feverish, hallucinatory haze of the jungle sequence marks a rupture in the film’s tone, a moment where Lee’s perception of reality is permanently altered.

When he returns to Mexico, everything is different. The emptiness that was once unsettling now feels completely hollow, as if the entire world has drained of meaning. Eugene is gone, and with him, any illusion of belonging. This final stretch of the film feels like watching a ghost wander through a place he once knew, but no longer recognizes.

Daniel Craig delivers a performance that is at once restrained and deeply emotional. His portrayal of William Lee is marked by quiet, simmering frustration, a performance built on subtlety rather than grand gestures.

Eugene Allerton: A Drifter Who Finds His Own Path

While Queer is centered on William Lee’s exile and longing, the film’s portrayal of Eugene Allerton, played by Drew Starkey, offers a fascinating counterpoint to Lee’s obsessive journey. Eugene is not merely a passive recipient of Lee’s affections—his role in the story is more complex than that. Throughout the film, Eugene appears comfortable with the attention he receives from Lee, indulging in his presence and even allowing himself to be taken care of. Yet at the same time, he maintains an emotional distance, never fully reciprocating Lee’s intensity.

In many ways, Eugene is both an anchor and an enigma. He is a man who willingly follows Lee, joining him on a journey starting in Mexico and eventually into South America. But is he truly searching for something? Or is he simply drifting, allowing himself to be guided by Lee’s obsession? His passivity could be seen as a form of self-preservation, a way of keeping his options open while benefiting from Lee’s unwavering attention. However, there are moments when it seems as though he takes subtle advantage of the situation, enjoying the admiration and security that Lee provides without ever fully committing to him.

His role in the story takes on even greater meaning when, by the end of the film, Eugene embarks on a journey of his own. Up until this point, he seemed like someone who was just along for the ride—but now, he’s actively choosing to search for something himself.

In William S. Burroughs’ original novella, Eugene is similarly depicted as a young man navigating his own uncertainties. The film adaptation captures this complexity, painting him as a man who is neither fully invested in Lee nor entirely opposed to him. His ambiguous stance throughout the film makes his final decision to travel on his own even more significant—as if, through his experiences with Lee, he finally realizes that he, too, is searching for something more.

This contrast between Lee and Eugene adds a new layer to the film’s themes. Lee’s exile is one of repetition, while Eugene’s is one of discovery. One remains trapped in his own patterns of longing and detachment, while the other, intentionally or not, stumbles into a journey of self-exploration. In the end, Eugene becomes more than just the object of Lee’s desire—he becomes a character in his own right, someone whose fate extends beyond the confines of Lee’s obsession.

The Meaning of Queer: A Word That Holds History

The film’s title isn’t just a reference to Burroughs’ novel; it’s a word that carries decades of weight, shifting meanings, and societal perception. In 1950s America, the term queer was almost exclusively used as a slur, a label meant to mark people as outsiders. Burroughs and other writers of his time existed in a world where their identities were not just marginalized but criminalized.

Throughout the film, the word queer is used repeatedly, as if it is both an accusation and a self-acceptance. Jason Schwartzman’s character, Joe Guidry whose presence adds an air of detached intellectualism to the film, plays a key role in reinforcing this. His scenes, though brief, highlight how queerness, as an identity and as a concept, is something that cannot be fully escaped.

From Underground to Pop Culture: The Beat Generation and the Mainstreaming of Rebellion

To understand Queer is to understand that it was born from the Beat movement—a literary and cultural rebellion against the sanitized, consumer-driven America of the 1950s. The Beats rejected the suburban dream, the 9-to-5 existence, and the expectation of quiet conformity. Instead, they embraced drifting, experiencing, rejecting structure, rejecting the mainstream.

And yet, here we are in 2024, watching a big-name actor in a beautifully shot film about a movement that once belonged to the margins. This raises the big question: what happens when counterculture stops being counter and becomes culture itself?

We’ve seen this cycle before. The Beats started underground, only for Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg to become mainstream literary figures. The hippies of the 60s, once radical, became a boomer nostalgia trip by the 80s and 90s. Don't forget hipsters. Punk, born as a rejection of capitalism, became a Hot Topic aesthetic sold back to teenagers. LGBTQ+ movements, once violently repressed, now have corporate Pride sponsorships every June. Psychedelics, once a tool of counterculture, are now repackaged into Silicon Valley’s microdosing-for-productivity trend. Burroughs himself went from being a literary outlaw to being name-dropped by the likes of David Bowie, Lou Reed, and Patti Smith, all artists who were once considered subversive but are now part of rock history’s canon.

This idea of counterculture being absorbed into the mainstream is reinforced in Queer through its anachronistic soundtrack. The film features music from the 1990s, including Nirvana’s "Come As You Are" and Sinéad O'Connor’s version of "All Apologies", despite being set in the 1950s. At first, this choice feels jarring, almost out of place—but then it clicks. The music acts as a bridge between the time periods, emphasizing how Burroughs' influence extended far beyond his own generation.

Kurt Cobain was directly inspired by Burroughs. The two even collaborated on the 1993 spoken-word project The "Priest" They Called Him, in which Burroughs’ haunting narration was accompanied by Cobain’s eerie guitar feedback. Burroughs’ themes of addiction, alienation, and the rejection of conventional morality deeply resonated with Cobain and the grunge movement as a whole. Similarly, Sinéad O’Connor, whose fierce anti-establishment stance made her an icon in the 90s, embodies the same kind of artistic defiance that Burroughs and the Beats stood for decades earlier.

By incorporating music from artists influenced by Burroughs, Queer reinforces the idea that counterculture doesn’t disappear—it just evolves. The rebellious figures of one era become the legends of the next, and what was once considered dangerous or subversive is eventually absorbed into popular culture. The inclusion of Nirvana and Sinéad O’Connor in a 1950s-set film speaks to this cyclical nature of rebellion. The Beats influenced punk, punk influenced grunge, and now grunge is part of the same cultural legacy that once shunned Burroughs.

This is exactly what Queer is exploring: the tension between being an outsider and being remembered. The Beats never set out to be legends—they were just trying to survive, to express, to resist. And yet, decades later, their words, their styles, their philosophies are taught in universities, their books are reissued in collector’s editions, and their influence is woven into the fabric of modern art, music, and film.

Burroughs' work was never meant to be easy or digestible, yet here we are, discussing it in the context of a polished, high-profile arthouse film with a Hollywood star in the lead. So, what happens now? Does rebellion still hold the same meaning when the world changes around it? Does Queer celebrate its legacy, or does it mark another moment when the underground is fully swallowed by the mainstream?

The Ending: A Blue-Tinted Farewell to a Life of Exile

As Queer reaches its conclusion, the film takes a decisive shift into melancholy, both narratively and visually. As mentioned before, Mexico was never depicted with the expected warm, golden hues often associated with the country in cinema. Instead, it was carefully composed like a folk painting, with interiors that resembled still-life artworks—cafés where the windows felt like framed canvases, and streets that existed in a strange, suspended reality. The aesthetic was vibrant yet rigid, emphasizing how Lee was both present in and detached from his surroundings, as if he were living inside a world designed for someone else.

But as the film nears its end, that world begins to collapse. The final scenes introduce a deep, unrelenting blue palette, stripping away the artificial warmth of earlier sequences and replacing it with a stark, desolate coldness. The change is subtle at first, creeping in through shadows and reflections, but by the time Lee reaches his final moments, the blue overtakes everything. It’s not just a stylistic shift—it is a symbol of emotional and existential decay. The hopeful illusion of connection is gone, and what remains is a world that no longer belongs to him, or perhaps never did.

The tragedy of Lee’s journey is not just that he ends up alone, but that he was always alone—drifting through different countries, different obsessions, different escapes, never truly finding belonging. The shift to blue in the film’s final act encapsulates this sense of finality, resignation, and exile. It is as if the film itself has accepted his fate. Blue, often associated with longing and melancholy, becomes a visual manifestation of his unfulfilled life. The audience watches as he fades, both metaphorically and literally, into a world that no longer acknowledges him.

This conclusion serves as a fittingly devastating wrap-up to the film’s central themes. Queer is not just about a man chasing an impossible love—it’s about the nature of exile itself. Whether it’s sexual, emotional, cultural, or ideological, the film paints exile as an ongoing state of being, not just a phase one escapes from. William Lee, much like Burroughs himself, was never meant to find a home. His existence is defined by longing for something just out of reach, and in the end, the world simply moves on without him.

And that’s what makes Queer so powerful. It’s a film about the cyclical nature of desire, rejection, and reinvention—themes that extend far beyond one man’s story. The Beat Generation, once seen as radical outsiders, became literary legends. Punk and grunge, born from rebellion, were folded into the mainstream. The queer identity, once criminalized, now has its own corporate branding. But what happens to the people who lived before that transition? What happens to those who were exiled before history decided they were acceptable?

The film ends without an answer. Just an old man, bathed in blue, fading into the inevitable.