The Radical Act of Letting Young Men Be Human on Screen
There’s something quietly revolutionary happening in the way we’re allowing young men to exist in cinema. For decades, stories about male friendships have been shackled to clichés—stoic nods, unspoken loyalty, and emotional repression presented as virtues. But The State of Us, the debut feature from Ollie Gardner and Jake Harvey, feels like a sledgehammer to that tired formula. Watching Samuel Bottomley’s Frankie cajole Callum Scott Howells’ terminally ill Taylor into a raucous night out—a scene from the film recently unveiled ahead of its Edinburgh Film Festival premiere—I couldn’t help but think: Finally, here’s a story that treats male vulnerability not as a weakness, but as a superpower.
The Death of Stoic Male Friendships
Let’s be brutally honest: mainstream cinema has spent decades infantilizing male relationships. How many times have we seen the trope of the emotionally constipated buddy duo, where a manly slap on the back substitutes for intimacy? The State of Us dismantles this myth with the subtlety of a Molotov cocktail. Frankie’s decision to break Taylor out of hospice isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake—it’s a desperate, joyful refusal to let mortality dictate the terms of their final moments together. In my opinion, this isn’t just about defying medical authority; it’s about rejecting the idea that men must meet life’s hardest realities with clenched jaws and silent suffering.
What makes this portrayal so radical is its refusal to sanitize their dynamic. These characters joke, bicker, and stumble through emotional minefields like drunkards at a house party—because that’s what real friendship looks like. The film’s co-director Jake Harvey mentions wanting to plant a “small seed in the discourse of masculinity.” But let’s not kid ourselves: this isn’t a subtle gardening tool. It’s a chainsaw carving through the deadwood of toxic stoicism.
When Humor Becomes a Healing Mechanism
One detail that fascinates me? The filmmakers’ insistence on dark humor as a narrative anchor. In an industry obsessed with prestige dramas that weaponize suffering, Gardner and Harvey choose laughter as both armor and salve. This isn’t just tonal whiplash—it’s psychological realism. Anyone who’s navigated grief alongside a close friend knows that gallows humor isn’t avoidance; it’s survival. When Taylor stumbles through that dance floor, briefly recapturing a flicker of his pre-illness self, the scene isn’t about escapism. It’s about seizing agency in a world that’s already started mourning him.
From my perspective, this choice exposes a critical misunderstanding about masculinity: we mistake stoicism for strength. But Frankie’s manic energy—his relentless pushing of boundaries—is its own form of courage. He isn’t running from death; he’s building a temporary universe where the rules don’t apply, where friendship temporarily outmuscles fate. Isn’t that the ultimate power move?
The Edinburgh Effect: Why Indie Films Matter
Premiering at Edinburgh—a festival director Paul Ridd calls a “surpassing expectation” for 2026—this film arrives at a cultural crossroads. The festival’s decision to feature a debut film about terminal illness and male intimacy in its competition slate suggests a shift in what we value as “prestige.” Let’s not overlook the irony: a story born from Harvey’s personal loss (inspired by a childhood friend who died at 18) is now part of an international conversation about art’s role in processing mortality. This mirrors a broader trend in British indie cinema: the rise of deeply personal stories that reject the “arthouse” label to find emotional immediacy.
What many people don’t realize is that festivals like Edinburgh aren’t just exhibition spaces—they’re laboratories for cultural change. By elevating films that blend humor with heartbreak, they quietly reshape audience expectations. Harvey’s comment about avoiding a “more serious” arthouse approach isn’t just marketing savvy; it’s a philosophical stance. He and Gardner understand that accessibility isn’t the enemy of depth—it’s the vehicle for it.
A New Wave of British Cinema
Consider the wider context: this film emerges alongside projects like It’s a Sin (Howells’ breakout role) and The Tragedy of Macbeth (Frances Barber’s recent work). There’s a growing appetite for British stories that balance raw emotion with formal daring. But The State of Us feels particularly urgent in its exploration of Gen Z’s relationship with mortality. These characters don’t have grand philosophical monologues about death—they Instagram the chaos, Snapchat their last laugh, and rage against the dying of the light through bass-thumping parties. This generational specificity isn’t incidental; it’s revolutionary.
If you take a step back and think about it, what we’re witnessing is a recalibration of cinematic empathy. The clip THR shared—Frankie convincing Taylor to drink, dance, and momentarily live—should feel trite. Instead, it resonates because it rejects pity. The directors aren’t asking us to mourn; they’re demanding we celebrate. Isn’t that the most subversive choice of all?
The Unspoken Rules of Male Emotional Labor
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: we still don’t teach men how to grieve. Frankie’s manic quest to engineer the “perfect last night” isn’t just about Taylor—it’s about his own terror of inadequacy. This film dares to ask: What if the hardest emotional labor falls to the “strong” friend? The one who must constantly perform normalcy while privately unraveling? Bottomley’s performance, reportedly rooted in the directors’ real-life experiences, suggests an answer: sometimes the most loving act is to create space for chaos.
This raises a deeper question about storytelling itself. Why do we demand that characters (particularly male ones) “process” grief neatly? The State of Us argues that life doesn’t work that way. Its characters stumble, backtrack, and contradict themselves—because that’s what humans do. In an era of algorithm-driven content creation, this film’s messiness feels like an act of resistance.
Final Thoughts: Planting Seeds of Change
As the Edinburgh Festival kicks off this month, The State of Us arrives as more than just another indie debut. It’s a manifesto. A challenge. A reminder that the most powerful stories aren’t necessarily those that give us answers, but those that dare to ask better questions. When Frankie and Taylor stumble out of that hospice into the Edinburgh night, they carry the weight of every friendship that’s ever struggled to balance joy and sorrow.
Personally, I think we’ll look back on this film as a turning point—not because it’s flawless, but because it dares to reimagine what male intimacy can look like on screen. And in a world where suicide remains the leading cause of death for men under 50, maybe that radical act of emotional honesty is exactly what we need.
