UNHhhh

As far as movies were concerned, I found last year to be pretty underwhelming. Even as I was reflecting on a full decade of moviegoing pleasure, I had to admit that, in the last several months, delight had been rather scarce. There was the blissful magnetism of J.Lo and crew in Hustlers; the putrid ferocity of Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe in The Lighthouse; and Al Pacino, hunched and gurgling with glee over a bowl of ice cream in The Irishman (“A work of art!”). But that’s about it.

The coming of awards season hasn’t much helped. Many of the “prestige” films that were, until last week, courting (or wrestling for) Oscar buzz — Little Women, Parasite, Uncut Gems, etc. — failed to win me over. It’s the tragedy of having gone to so many movies: it becomes harder and harder for me to be impressed. Sometimes I fear that I’ve become an old crank — but the flip side is that my years of watching have made me much more appreciative of genius whenever it does rear its pretty, painted head.

Speaking of which: about nine months ago, a friend introduced me to the YouTube series UNHhhh — a show abundant in not only genius but glittery, loud face paint. Each episode begins with its two stars — Trixie Mattel and Katya Zamolodchikova, drag queens famous for their appearances on RuPaul’s Drag Race and its spinoff series, All Stars — sitting in front of a green screen, introducing themselves. “Hi! I’m that Golden Retriever that used to shoot basketballs but then lost his leg and is dead now,” Trixie might say. “And I’m a lightly seasoned, broiled Cornish game hen,” Katya may rejoin.

Then both queens will slide their hands down their bodies and moan the show’s evocative or, as they put it, “post-verbal” title: “Unhhhhhh…!”

For those of you who don’t know, it’s the show where Trixie and Katya talk about whatever they want — because it’s their show, and not yours. It’s also the best thing I’ve seen on any kind of screen in the last year.

Upfront, I have to admit to what I view as the irreverence of this essay; on a certain level, it strikes me as petty and dilettante-ish for a movie critic to favor and give space to a subject that has no discernible relation in the traditional movie format. But I feel that movies have something to learn from UNHhhh — a series that is emblematic not so much of YouTube content, but of queer narratives. The most dispiriting thing about American movies is their tendency to rely on temporal, “heteronormative” plot progressions: because events unfold in a certain direction, they gain meaning through the accumulated significance of story. (This is why so many movies end with marriage or the deliverance of a child.) In Casablanca, Rick Blaine’s mounting moral dilemma — to help or not to help the cause of freedom— results in a concise climatic action; The Godfather’s famous, homicidal finale is juxtaposed against a christening; and Forrest Gump’s rather haphazard life choices (though atemporally motivated) unfold alongside — and, ultimately, influence — major historical events and an unrequited childhood love.

All of these movies are resolved with a couple coming together, if not in marriage or even in happiness then long enough to produce or potentially conceive a child. The same is true of this year’s nominees for Best Picture: a war dies away; a family reorients itself with multiple weddings; a divorced couple maintains a healthy dynamic for the sake of their son… even Quentin Tarantino revises a historical event so that a pregnant woman may live. Most movies promote a logic that says meaning is developed through time, and end with some kind of heterosexual union that ensures reproduction and, therefore, “future.” The queer perspective is unique in its ability to synthesize all arenas of thought, experience and insight into a single gesture of now. Meaning is not gained; it is immediately available.

Part of what makes UNHhhh such a liberating experience is how totally it breaks from all forms of narrative pretense. The format of the show is at once incredibly restricted and wide open: consisting of nothing more than two “actors” and a single backdrop, UNHhhh derives its power from the charisma of its stars’ personalities and the resourcefulness of their post-production editors.

The queens are hilarious all by themselves. Trixie, a.k.a. Brian Firkus, models her look after Barbie dolls and specializes in bold-faced yet ironic declarations (i.e., “I hate farts,” or “I have blossomed into the most beautiful young woman”), whereas Katya, otherwise known as Brian McCook, opts for a more cryptic, contradictory aesthetic and relishes outlandish or tangential humor (“I’ve thought about hiding in a washer-dryer…,” or “Don’t [deer] try to get hit [by cars] for the insurance money?”). Each episode features a new topic, like driving or wealth or self-care, but there’s no guarantee that the queens will keep their focus; in one episode about shopping, they end up having an extended conversation about poop.

Coherency is not the point. In the way that “logic” is a foundational element of linear, “straight” narrative structures, Trixie and Katya subvert such demands by emphasizing codes of meaning that exist independent of temporal institutions. “I think,” Trixie speculates, in a sequence where she and Katya are addressing the prospect of raising children, “that [doing this show] has got to be better than parenthood.”

“The legacy is firmly entrenched in the information superhighway,” Katya offers. “We don’t have to pick up these episodes and bring them to the doctor.” In other words, UNHhhh is funny. It doesn't need to aspire to anything else.

But its stars’ comedic strengths are only half of the show’s fun. Due to the literal blank canvas behind them, Trixie and Katya are subjected to all sorts of graphic liberties by editors Ron Hill, Christopher Smith, Jeff Maccubbin and Kurtis Meyers. A WWE wrestler may unexpectedly crash into frame and pin Trixie to the ground, or Katya may suddenly appear as a dog on a leash, being walked through a park. These impositions typically emphasize whatever Trixie and Katya are saying — for instance, at the start of one episode, Trixie, looking over her own outfit, asks Katya, “Do I look like the Swiss Miss Girl?” The editors suddenly have two wriggling blonde braids shoot out of her head, accompanied by a sound effect that evokes a mutant root bursting through soil. (The audio effects are ambiguously sourced — a fact that only adds to their transgressive power.)

Sometimes, though, the editors like to elucidate that which goes unsaid. They’ll illustrate “subtext” by offering “reads” or textual translations of what the queens say, e.g., “**shade,” “<judgement>,” “Trixie loses interest in Katya’s answer in: 3… 2… 1….” These antics complete the overarching dynamic of UNHhhh: a push-and-pull between the wits of its stars and the wits of its editors. Everyone sprints to keep up with one another, but there’s also no threat of rivalry or hostility, nor is there any strain; it’s an uptempo free-for-all in which nothing is sacred and everything is game.

Another limiting quality of “straight” narratives is how closed off they are from dissenting views: typically, an audience follows and is encouraged to revere a single hero in their efforts to save “the Future” — and in post-production, editors are tasked with preserving the narrative thread, making their creative choices more or less invisible to the audience. This often results in a humorless, somber ethos that lacks the sparkle and spontaneity of life. UNHhhh takes the potential of editing and self-commentary further until it develops an ongoing dialogue between its creators, complete with references that evolve into mainstays of the show’s internal culture (e.g., “Oh, honey,” “Capping,™” “**thwoorp**,” “No Bras, No Panties,” etc). In one episode, in order to emphasize a point, Trixie stars humming a bit of soft jazz that’s been used by the editors many times before. Mid-hum, she faces the camera and instructs her editor: “Ron, play the music.” Which he promptly does (though a note pops up on screen to let us know that, in fact, it’s Jeff who’s editing this part).

All of these elements amount to a sort of queer utopia — a non-linear, spatially abstract zone where signifiers collide to generate singular meanings, and all stages of production mesh into one expressive act. It’s a circus, or a burlesque. The world folding in on itself.

At the start of one episode in the last season, Trixie lifts her stockinged foot to the camera so we can see her big toe pushing through a giant hole. Katya claps her hands: “That’s drag.” UNHhhh embodies the spirit of drag culture — that is to say, a mixture of glamor and trash. It strips down the mise-en-scène of moviemaking to its barest essentials: a camera, and two people waiting to be filmed. The onslaught of computer graphics grant the proceedings a sky’s-the-limit creative capacity; in the end, more is achieved in this simple YouTube show than in any Hollywood epic. Drag queens have always represented the basis of good entertainment: extravagance, yes, but the kind of extravagance that is rendered endearing by human frailty.

In the midst of a media culture obsessed with perfection, UNHhhh gives us space to celebrate our inconsistencies. It grants us permission to enjoy ourselves. And at the end of the day, when the fanfare has died down and all the awards have been parceled out, what is going to leave the biggest impact: prestige or pleasure? You can’t take your Oscar with you — and wherever you go, there you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re sitting on a gold toilet or sucking a turd out of an outhouse in Iowa.

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