There is a single honeyed thread woven throughout the subdued quiet of Drunken Noodles — quite literally. In every change of “act” (which is also a change of lover), there is a title screen. An older man appears from behind, and we, via the camera peering over his shoulder, watch him physically embroider a new piece, a foreboding anecdote about this new lover’s place. This is how Drunken Noodles feels to the naked eye: surrealistic.
A fellow Argentine, Lucio Castro makes work that is subversive in the most heartbreakingly human ways, and Drunken Noodles is no exception. We are told a love story in reverse, following Adnan (Laith Khalifeh, in a most riveting debut lead performance), as he arrives at his uncle’s place to house-sit for the summer. Adnan is a student working at a small gallery for the summer. As we follow Adnan through some late-night New York cruising, we get to know our protagonist as a man who never lives in one place, who speaks with the nerves of someone not quite comfortable in his own skin, who disassociates during abstractly and artfully-directed sex scenes. We fall backwards with him, up in time, tracking him through hook-ups to long-term dissolution before meeting him in the delectable middle-future, having transcended both space and logic. Adnan’s lovers are all kept at a safe distance from his interiority and from the camera itself.
Each of his lovers paints the film with vibrant colors, which speaks to the way our interior lives exude a kind of new faith whenever we’re in love. Like Alice Rohrwacher’s La Chimera, Drunken Noodles aches in the teeth of the viewer long after the physical watch is over. When I watch Drunken Noodles, I remember how I have committed to memory all the ways in which the intangible can be right in front of us, and that it is our own lack of foundation that prevents us from letting it touch us.
I had the great honor of speaking with Castro about writing a queer man’s journey that falls backwards through time, crafting sex scenes in the abstract, and the feeling of an “untouchable” existence, even in active partnerships.
Bella Vega: How did you come about making this film in an act structure, and why was it important to you to show a man’s love stories as they unfold backwards through reality and time?
Lucio Castro: I wrote it this way because it’s my natural approach — I never quite know where the story will lead me, so I write with an open mind. When I’m truly in the zone, writing feels like reading. I often start with one story, then find myself intrigued by another, and after completing that, I explore how they might connect. In retrospect, the order of the four chapters effectively layers information about Adnan, the protagonist, allowing us to gain a deeper understanding of his behavior as the film unfolds.
BV: You provide the audience with a plethora of sex scenes that utilize abstract elements — still-life orgy, sexual graphics on embroidery, a poetry pamphlet, the old artist moving his fingers in the air pre-sex as if he were threading a needle through the air. Yet the longest one, between Adnan and his partner in the cabin, is a long shot grounded in dark, sweaty realism. How did this distinction come when writing the sex scenes with different partners — which to ground in the art, which to ground in the act?
LC: Given that the film is inspired by the work of Sal Salandra, an artist focused on the explicit representation of sexual scenes, I knew from the outset that it needed a strong connection to sex — particularly to how sex and desire are portrayed in cinema. I aimed to explore various facets of casual encounters, cruising, orgies, and intimate moments with partners, ensuring each scene had its own unique flavor. Cinema, being a photographic medium, captures reality in a way that makes even porno films feel authentic; this excites me as a filmmaker, as I seek to subvert the realities that cinema typically presents. The interplay between reality and fantasy was central to both the writing and the production of this film.
BV: There is a repeated theme of being “untouchable,” seen in the fact that Adnan and his boyfriend haven’t had sex in six months and the satyr that Adnan and the old artist see in the garden, who can touch him but whom he can’t touch. Is this a metaphor for Adnan’s life: a man always staying in borrowed houses, experiencing the world through these meaningful affairs, and being completely changed but feeling like he doesn’t make that much of a change in return?
LC: That’s an interesting perspective, and I’m glad the film resonated with you in that way. When I wrote it, I contemplated the distinction between wanting and having — how desire often fades once something is attained. This complex and powerful human drive keeps us perpetually yearning for more. Desire is embodied in the act of wanting to touch, while touching signifies the fulfillment that ends that desire. That’s why I incorporated the poetry of Li Bai in the fourth chapter. He embodies a sense of tranquility, often depicted gazing at the moon, enjoying drinks with friends, and lounging on the grass. His work reflects an absence of desire, representing pure satisfaction and contentment, which, for me, was a perfect ending.
BV: How did you write each character of Adnan’s lovers? Were they based on real-life ex-lovers or ideas of what you wanted the protagonist to learn, change, or experience throughout the story?
LC: Nothing that I write is exact; everything is an approximation of experiences I had or stories I heard or pure imagination — though there is an exact retelling of a story I heard, when Adnan confesses to his partner what he used to do to his grandfather when he was a kid. The reteller asked to remain unknown.
BV: As a director, what do you feel Drunken Noodles, as an addition to your canon, says about you as an artist?
LC: I think that I have exhibited in my past films a willingness to twist reality that I have fully embraced here, and that I will keep exploring and expanding in the projects I have ahead of me.
BV: What is your favorite scene in the film, and how did it go from script to film? Was it written differently to how it showed up in the final cut?
LC: I love the moment when Adnan’s partner puts the groceries in the fridge as Adnan watches him from the couch. It’s one of those small yet significant moments that define our daily lives. I’m very happy because I think that we managed to make that moment “cinematic” through performance [and] framing, and it’s imbued with a nice mix of mundanity and anticipation. In the script, it said something like, “Iggie places groceries in the fridge. Adnan watches him from the couch.”
This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity.
