by Chris Feil

The party of Xavier Dolan is petering out. Or at least for his crowd of defenders, the noble few who have been willing to see past histrionics for the queer pop opera of his cinema. But for all of the detractive claims of the young director consistently falling down his own rabbit holes, it stands to ask what people want from the cinema if not directors drunk on their own Kool-Aid.

And yet his newest effort, The Death and Life of John F. Donovan, is the toughest to defend. Despite some moments when the film really hits its stride, Dolan is mostly merely strident, crafting a trolling work that dares you to not call it as petulant as it is. His films have been called nakedly autobiographical or trite, and this film turns those whiffing dismissals into text. Is one person’s trash the next person’s honesty, in all its cringeworthiness and misguided perceptions? Does what is genuine and true about the thing we deem unworthy still have merit despite our perceptions of its limitations? These are fascinating questions that this film can’t quite elevate or answer, and the results are frequently embarrassing.