Director Daniel Minahan's adaptation of Shannon Pufahl's novel On Swift Horses begins in the 1950s. Julius (Jacob Elordi) has been discharged from the Korean War and is now residing in the Kansas domicile of his brother, Lee (Will Poulter), and his wife, Muriel (Daisy Edgar-Jones). Eventually, Julius, being an eternal drifter, goes his own way to Las Vegas. Muriel and Lee, meanwhile, travel to California. In both locations, there’s hope of finding riches and a better life. Unfortunately, personal problems plaguing these souls endures even when the scenery changes.
But flickering hope emerges in the flames of rebellious love. Julius, working as a bodyguard at a casino, finds himself smitten with co-worker Henry (Diego Calva). Meanwhile, Muriel, feeling suffocated by Lee's desires, finds solace in a passionate sexual relationship with neighbor Sandra (Sasha Calle). When Julius and Muriel feel their bodies intertwining with their same-sex partners, the world suddenly feels whole again. Too bad these relationships can’t publicly exist beyond the borders of a Vegas hotel room or Sandra’s house. This is 1950s America, an era where LGBTQIA+ folks can lose their jobs over their identity and homophobia is normalized in even the highest positions of power. Thank goodness none of that happens anymore!
I hate to use such a reductive word describes any movie. This moniker sounds like a go-to put-down for anyone uncomfortable with any motion picture that dares to take a pause. However, On Swift Horses earns the descriptor boring. Minihan has delivered a feature that never soars as either a steamy romantic drama or a meditative contemplation of suppressed desire. Instead, it’s a flatly realized title told with exceedingly bog-standard imagery. A motion picture about people having to sneak around in the backrooms of American society to feel alive shouldn’t feel so devoid of tension or danger.
On Swift Horses most comes alive in its smattering of playful moments. Especially delightful is a scene where Muriel knocks on Sandra’s door and discovers a bunch of lesbians inside congregating under the false pretenses of “a book club.” The wry dialogue from these gals (“oh yeah, we love to read”) finally injects something besides brooding and buttoned-up yearning into the proceedings. Flashy sex scenes aren’t especially memorable in their editing and framing, but they also feature some welcome verve. Tender smooches on knees and moans of pleasure exude far more life than most other On Swift Horses sequences.
The Bryce Kass-penned screenplay is otherwise mostly shrug-worthy. Who knows if this problem was inherent to Pufahl's writing, but On Swift Horses desperately needed a little more narrative variety. Individual sequences concerning Julius are especially hard to distinguish from each other given how static he is. This is where Minihan’s unfortunately underwhelming visual tendencies really hobble the film’s potential. Features about LGBTQIA+ individuals silently pining for other people have informed some of the most radiant looking movies of all time. Any image from Carol or Portrait of a Lady on Fire could hang in the Louvre.
Last year, Luca Guadagnino and cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom delivered two movies (Challengers and Queer) about guys lusting after dudes overflowing with memorable visual touches like phallic churros . Minihan and cinematographer Luc Montpellier, meanwhile, just dial down the colors in On Swift Horses (rarely in cinema history has Las Vegas been this devoid of even ominous glitz) and eschew grandiose imagery. Dialogue-heavy scenes are filtered through standard medium shot/reverse shot. Visual idiosyncrasies to differentiate the worlds of Julis and Muriel are minimal. There’s a lack of specificity to this feature’s filmmaking, which just accentuates the inertness of its script. Neither the heart nor the eyes get properly satisfied watching On Swift Horses.
If nothing else, the production does showcase talented work from a new generation of leading men and ladies. With Muriel, Daisy Edgar-Jones especially impresses with her consistently scrunched-up body language. Even when she’s acting rebelliously in visiting a horse race or a queer bar, her arms remain close to her body while all her mannerisms stay subdued. The way she subconsciously shrinks herself in everyday domestic life endures even if Lee is nowhere in sight. Edgar-Jones effortlessly delivers terrific physical work while also communicating tangibly aching pain in the character’s eyes.
Elordi, meanwhile, impressed me partially because I was initially ready to write off his performance. In the first half of On Swift Horses, Elordi imbues a quasi-Elvis twang (isn’t that Austin Butler’s territory?) and a sleepy disposition that felt too checked out. As Elordi begins to imbue greater levels of desperation and raw vulnerability in his scenes capturing Julius bonding with Henry, though, his acting choices clicked into place. Like Edgar-Jones, Elordi is also portraying profoundly ingrained suppression, just in more of a nonchalant fashion. This Saltburn veteran’s commitment to that earlier personality just makes the emotionally unguarded pieces of Julius extra impactful.
These two strong lead turns are backed up by similarly skillful work from Calle and Poulter, the latter especially excelling in keeping viewers guessing on how malicious (or even consciously malicious) Lee is. Still, these performances aren’t enough to compensate for a feature too cold as a romantic melodrama and exceedingly stiff as a visual exercise. There’s certainly no dearth of dramas chronicling suppressed queers in mid-20th century America. In that cinematic pantheon, On Swift Horses doesn’t stand out nor does it fare much better as a standalone feature. Die-hard Elordi and Edgar-Jones fans will leave satisfied, but everyone else will only see endless unfulfilled potential in On Swift Horses.