At just twenty-one, Australian filmmaker Alice Maio Mackay has achieved what most artists spend decades attempting: an instantly recognizable voice.
Her work merges DIY intensity with radical sincerity, balancing the intimacy of friendship films and the assertiveness of horror allegory. She creates stories not about transness as spectacle but transness as lived, felt, and fierce reality.
Her newest feature, The Serpent’s Skin, continues her thrilling, rebellious streak, sitting comfortably within her filmography yet glowing more brightly. Like her earlier works, it unfolds through genre playfulness, part horror, part coming-of-age odyssey, but its ambitions feel larger.
Here, Mackay fuses the supernatural with the political and the erotic with the rageful, crafting a defiant piece of queer cinema that burns with life and danger.
Edited by Vera Drew, the trans filmmaker behind The People’s Joker, The Serpent’s Skin becomes a creative bridge between generations of trans artists. It feels handmade yet assured, pulpy yet meaningful, a love letter to those who find safety in community and terror in rejection.
Mackay positions her film’s title as both metaphor and identity: the serpent’s skin as the act of shedding, transforming, and reclaiming one’s body.
The Story: Power, Vulnerability, and Trans Rebellion
The luminous Alexandra McVicker stars as Anna, a young trans woman forced to leave home after her parents deem her “wayward.” Their voices, faint and sharp behind closed doors, echo throughout her journey, reminders of the violence of erasure.
Seeking refuge, Anna arrives in Adelaide to live with her sister Dakota (Charlotte Chimes), who tries to guide her toward a quieter life but cannot quiet the chaos trailing close behind.
Anna soon meets Danny (Jordan Dulieu), a cisgender man whose gothic allure, painted nails, black curls, and easy charm initially disarm her.
Their connection unfolds quickly, driven by attraction as much as longing for recognition. His casual acceptance, “that’s fine,” he says of her gender, rings hollow, an early sign that not all allies carry understanding.
Finding work at a record shop provides Anna with brief solace, but danger intrudes in the form of a petty thief. When he attacks, something inside her ignites. A flash of neon pink floods the frame as the aggressor collapses, bleeding from the eyes and mouth.
This eruption of power becomes the film’s hinge, shifting The Serpent’s Skin from grounded drama into supernatural queer myth.
Enter Gen (Avalon Fast), a mysterious stranger and part-time prophet who recognizes what Anna has done and what she can become. Gen explains that Anna has “popped” an innate defense mechanism triggered by mortal threat. The act is exhilarating yet perilous, representing both empowerment and potential destruction.
In Gen’s care, Anna learns to channel her force with intention. What begins as mentorship grows sensual, philosophical, and spiritual relationship at once tender and revolutionary. Together, they combat external threats and internalized fear, redefining survival as shared rebellion.
Love, Power, and Horror Through a Trans Lens
The Serpent’s Skin uses horror not as spectacle but as expression. Mackay reframes violence against queer people into a metaphoric transformation. When Anna sets a piece of transphobic propaganda aflame using her new powers, it feels like catharsis made literal.
The film’s genre trappings, witchcraft, vampirism, and satanic cults reimagine old misogynistic fears about women’s bodies and queer magic as sources of empowerment rather than danger.
The Serpent’s Skin (Credit: Dark Star Pictures)
What makes Mackay’s horror distinct is her blend of warmth and fury. The blood and neon don’t exist for shock; they symbolize brightness forcing its way through pain. Anna’s journey isn’t framed as a fight for acceptance from society but as an affirmation of existence and the right to be seen, desired, and free.
The love scenes, which center on trans intimacy, are particularly striking. They neither conceal nor fetishize. Instead, they present queer desire as sacred and ordinary, bodies meeting not to prove something but to feel.
When Anna and Gen hold each other, their closeness flickers between affection and ritual, both sensual and transformative.
There’s rage underneath the tenderness. “We’re still in hiding,” Gen says one night. “As if the witch hunts are still onto us.” Anna’s reply is soft but unflinching: “They are. They’ve just changed their names.”
It’s one of several moments that ground the fantasy in contemporary trans experience, threading political consciousness through psychedelia and poetry.
A Visual Spell of Neon and Shadow
Stylistically, The Serpent’s Skin is electric. Mackay and her cinematographer coat every frame in saturated tones of amethyst, turquoise, and shock pink, turning Adelaide’s drab corners into dreamscapes.
The low-budget aesthetic becomes a strength; grain, flicker, and handheld framing lend the movie a tactility absent in studio horror.
The metaphysical glow running through the visuals mirrors the characters themselves, unpolished yet luminous, precarious yet radiant. Rather than aiming for realism, Mackay opts for texture, evoking 80s VHS grit crossed with mystical surrealism.
The effect feels both nostalgic and defiantly future-facing, a reclamation of DIY queer cinema where imperfection equals authenticity.
Key moments play out like paintings come to life: a broken window shimmering with moonlight as Anna confronts her nightmare; the faint hum of a record player while Gen speaks about transcendence; the ouroboros tattoo crawling across Danny’s neck as he succumbs to violence and obsession.
Each image reinforces Mackay’s instinct for tying the personal to the mythical.
Even when the story teeters toward chaos, the direction never loses coherence. Mackay embraces maximalism without apology, wielding color and sound like emotional weapons. The dreamy synth score pulses like a heartbeat, guiding the viewer through love, fear, and liberation.
Alice Maio Mackay: A Voice for Trans Horror’s Future
The impact of The Serpent’s Skin stretches beyond its story. Mackay’s filmography, though still young, feels like a manifesto for trans authorship. She echoes Gregg Araki’s early independence and energy but moves past queer cinema’s historical defensiveness. Her queerness isn’t explained; it simply exists, audacious and self-assured.
By aligning trans identity with mysticism, Mackay offers more than metaphorical empowerment; she constructs a new mythology. The idea that queer individuals hold hidden, magical energy serves both as fantasy and truth. It reclaims the very superstition once used against women and trans people, transforming persecution into prophecy.
Within underground cinema, Mackay’s rise signals a larger shift. Trans creators are telling their own stories not as subjects studied from a distance but as vivid protagonists wielding agency, humor, and rage. The Serpent’s Skin may wear its lo-fi charm proudly, but its emotional and political resonance feels world-class.
Alice Maio Mackay’s work arrives at a critical cultural moment, reminding audiences that horror, so long used to demonize difference, can also celebrate it. As Anna learns to harness her power without losing her tenderness, Mackay demonstrates what real creative magic looks like: fearless imagination.
The Serpent’s Skin hypnotizes through its glowing turmoil, a film both fierce and fragile, haunting yet jubilant. It stands not just as queer horror but as queer liberation, expressed through artistry that feels instinctively alive.
Mackay understands that to tell trans stories through horror is to reveal both the beauty and brutality of transformation. Her cinema pulses with life even in darkness, a reminder that survival itself can be an act of creation.
At twenty-one, Alice Maio Mackay isn’t just directing films; she’s rewriting what horror can mean when it belongs to those once hunted by it.
Few topics in cinema evoke both dread and absurdity like the nuclear standoff. The atomic age birthed stories of existential panic, from Kubrick’s biting satire Dr. Strangelove to Lumet’s solemn procedural Fail-Safe.
Both films arrived in 1964, framing the same fear through lenses of irony and despair. Sixty years later, Kathryn Bigelow’s A House of Dynamite attempts to reignite this cinematic legacy with 21st-century paranoia.
But rather than balancing absurdity and gravity, Bigelow’s return to military drama collapses somewhere between the two. Working from a screenplay by Noah Oppenheim, she places the United States at the brink of nuclear disaster once again, stripped of Kubrick’s acidic humor and Lumet’s moral precision.
What remains is a film so overly reverent towards its subjects that it borders on unintentional propaganda.
The irony of the title suggesting a nation built on explosives ought to deliver a bitter satire. Instead, A House of Dynamite treats American institutions as inherently noble yet hapless victims of circumstance.
It’s a perspective that feels oddly dated, wrapped in an outdated reverence for government order even as real life suggests otherwise.
The Setup: When Perfection Turns to Paralysis
The film’s triptych structure divides the story into three chronologically looping acts. Each rewinds back to the moment when the U.S. defense system detects a foreign nuclear launch headed toward the heartland.
Each time, the same events unfold from a different perspective: first, the Situation Room, then the military base, and finally the Oval Office. What begins as a narrative experiment quickly becomes a repetitive cycle of tension without escalation.
The first chapter, centered on Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson), is easily the strongest. As a White House Situation Room officer who’s barely able to balance work with caring for a sick child, Ferguson brings weariness and focus to a chaotic environment filled with alarms, screens, and endless calls.
She is joined by her superior, Admiral Miller (Jason Clarke), whose steady demeanor barely conceals exhaustion.
When radar identifies what appears to be a nuclear missile headed for Chicago, dismissed at first as another military exercise, panic sets in. Bigelow crafts this segment with technical precision, flashing consoles, overlapping dialogue, and the sinking rhythm of bureaucratic panic.
The realism is impeccable, aided by Barry Ackroyd’s handheld camerawork that simulates the pulse of live reporting.
Yet almost as soon as the film reveals its structural trick, resetting time and retelling the incident, its emotional weight evaporates. Tension collapses under repetition. Knowing that each segment rewinds to the same starting point leaves viewers trapped in monotony rather than anxiety.
Act Two: Duty Without Doubt
The second part moves to a Nebraska airbase, where General Brady (Tracy Letts) grapples with protocol while Defense Secretary Baker (Jared Harris) tries to coordinate communication from Washington.
A House of Dynamite (Credit: Netflix)
Their exchanges add procedural realism but little moral tension. Brady’s resolute patriotism, anchored by Letts’s gravelly authority, mirrors countless Cold War-era depictions of American restraint.
Harris, meanwhile, plays Baker as a bureaucratic Cassandra, warning and analyzing, yet always too late. His scenes feel static, weighted with exposition about the chain of command rather than urgency.
The dialogue, earnest to a fault, repeats themes of resource allocation and technological overload until they blur into background noise.
Through these segments, Bigelow aims to scrutinize America’s $50 billion defense machine, a system too vast to control when crisis hits.
Conceptually, the movie could function as a critique, showing how red tape and hierarchy render even advanced militaries helpless. Unfortunately, Oppenheim’s script softens that argument by insisting that everyone’s intentions are pure.
No one here acts out of arrogance, ego, or nationalism. Every man and woman is portrayed as an honorable patriot doing their best in impossible conditions. Such moral flattening drains the story of human complexity. Realistic bureaucracy might be frustrating, but drama demands friction.
The President’s Burden: The Calm that Kills
The film’s final act brings the crisis to the Oval Office. Idris Elba delivers a commanding performance as the president, a leader visibly suffocating under pressure yet desperate to appear calm.
At his side stands Lieutenant Commander Robert Reeves (Jonah Hauer-King), a quiet aide whose composure contrasts with the chaos around him.
Elba’s gravitas nearly saves the third act. His controlled breathing, trembling hands, and haunted eyes capture the unbearable moral gravity of potentially condemning millions to death.
Yet Bigelow’s direction undercuts his performance by constantly cutting away to secondary characters discussing logistical minutiae. The camera lingers on screens and phones more than faces, making the climax feel procedural instead of emotional.
When the timeline resets for the third time, even viewers’ empathy resets with it. The tension surrounding whether Chicago will survive fades into indifference less because the scene is poorly staged than because the film has trained us to expect stasis. Time keeps looping, but no character learns or evolves.
Why Earnestness Can Be the Enemy of Power
The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty proved Bigelow’s unmatched ability to dramatize military tension without glorifying war. But A House of Dynamite lacks the ambiguity that gave those films bite. Here, earnestness smothers complexity. Every character operates with moral clarity, leaving no room for irony or ethical conflict.
By refusing to question authority, the film reduces the nuclear crisis to a technical malfunction rather than a systemic flaw. The conversations about defense spending or foreign “aggression” invoke real global anxieties but never critique the power politics fueling them.
The suggestion that America’s leaders are simply misunderstood guardians plays uncomfortably close to Cold War propaganda.
Bigelow’s visual precision can’t hide the hollowness beneath. The shaky handheld style, urgent editing, and authentic jargon simulate reality but fail to deepen it.
The film’s temporal looping could have underscored the futility of military repetition the idea that panic regenerates like an algorithm, but it instead feels like a structural gimmick masking predictability.
Performances Outshine Their Material
Despite its flaws, the cast delivers uniformly strong work. Rebecca Ferguson brings compassion and texture to Olivia Walker, grounding her professionalism in human exhaustion. Tracy Letts’ stoicism feels mature and level-headed. Jared Harris injects intelligence into banal dialogue. Idris Elba’s presence dominates even in silence.
These performances illuminate what the script avoids: individual moral doubt. In fleeting gestures a sigh, a misplaced hesitation, the actors suggest what Bigelow’s camera too often overlooks: fear, guilt, and futility. Their work provides the humanity that the film’s patriotism suppresses.
A Misfire That Needed More Fire
When Bigelow chose to name her film A House of Dynamite, she echoed the paradox of nuclear deterrence, the idea that peace rests atop a stockpile of destruction.
But where Kubrick saw that paradox as satire and Lumet treated it as tragedy, Bigelow regards it with misplaced faith. America emerges not as an aggressor or victim but as a misunderstood caretaker of global stability.
That perspective might have worked in smaller doses, but across two looping hours, it becomes alienating. The film mistakes solemn tone for significance and sincerity for truth. Even its technically accomplished sequences phones blaring, missile tracks illuminating radar screens, don’t build to catharsis.
When the movie ends abruptly, cutting to black mid-sentence, it seems to gesture toward ambiguity. Instead, it lands like an unfinished thought, mirroring the fatigue it unintentionally creates.
Bigelow remains one of Hollywood’s most intelligent action directors, a master of orchestrating chaos. Yet A House of Dynamite proves that even the most skilled filmmaker can lose power when conviction replaces curiosity.
