Due to his high profile death from AIDS early in the crisis and its galvanizing effect on the movement, Rock Hudson is arguably more known now as an icon of LGBTQ history, then for the films in which he starred. That is certainly the point of view of Stephen Kijak’s latest documentary “Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed,” which richly explores his personal life while taking a cursory look at his filmography.

This is true to the doc’s source material, Mark Griffin’s 2019 biography Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allows, which weaves the history of Hudson living as a closeted gay man in midcentury America within the framework of his most popular films. Viewers looking for an in-depth history of his diverse work as an actor will likely leave disappointed, though they will learn a lot about Hudson’s personal life and conflicted interiority.

The doc begins with a story told by Hudson to a fellow aspiring closest gay actor about a dream he had in which he were the center of a sparkling diamond. This dream supposedly was the anchor to which Hudson clung throughout his tumultuous career in Hollywood. It’s through this frame the filmmakers posit that much of his choices in life – including his reluctance to come out even post-Stonewall – stemmed from his desire to achieve and maintain this stardom.

Using a plethora of archival video and photography, Kijak plots the life of Hudson—born Roy Harold Scherer Jr.—from his childhood in Illinois to his stint in the Navy during WWII to his early days and later ascent in Hollywood. Kijack pays special attention to Hudson’s relationship with agent Henry Willson, who created the name and the star persona that fans knew as Rock Hudson. 

The filmmakers do not shy away from the lilac and lavender aspects of old Hollywood, exploring the various ways queer stars hid their personal lives and fought to keep their names out of tabloids like Confidential. This includes an in depth look at Hudson’s brief arranged marriage to Wilson’s secretary Phyllis Gates and the damage it caused to both parties. 

All of this is rich and thorough. However, the formatting of the documentary remains curiously uneven. For the first 45 minutes or so, Kijack uses solely voiceover from various interview subjects, some new recordings and some archival, who either knew Hudson personally or have insightful commentary on his life and career. However, the last hour of the film shifts to on-camera interviews with various living people, some of whom were part of Hudson’s inner circle like “Tales of the City” writer Armistead Maupin and Hudson’s ex-boyfriend Lee Garlington, and a particularly touching interview with his “Dynasty” co-star Linda Evans who discusses their controversial kiss on the show.

While the shift in format is certainly do to the availability of these subjects and their proximity to Hudson during his lifetime—the private photographs supplied by Garlington of the two on vacation together will surely tug at your heartstrings—the execution of this shift is creaky and would have have felt less abrupt had the filmmakers chosen to weave these on camera interviews from the beginning. 

The film also heavily relies on the editing format from the excellent 1992 experimental essay “Rock Hudson’s Home Movies” in which filmmaker Mark Rappaport uses footage from Hudson’s films—out of context—in order to cheekily make gay entendres and nod to queer readings of his films when watched with the knowledge of Hudson’s orientation, whether they’re actually there or not. While Rappaport’s use of this technique was playful and subversive, the way it’s employed by Kijack is often far too on the nose and rings hollow.

One aspect of this documentary that does shine as bright as Hudson himself is the way it highlights the deep friendships he had with his co-stars Elizabeth Taylor and Doris Day, and their steadfast support of him after his diagnosis. Aside from some enlightening excerpts from his close friend George Nader’s diary, much of the documentary’s look at the cover up and then impact of Hudson’s diagnosis of AIDS often comes across like a Wikipedia entry, but its use of archival footage of both women, and especially a fiery speech made by Taylor, brings a much-needed personal touch to this sequence.

Kijack smartly ends this section on a bittersweet note. AIDS activist Bill Misenhimer states “it’s hard to say he saved anyone because no one was saved. Everybody died,” but noted that Hudson’s announcement of his diagnosis “gave people hope.” Each living member of Hudson’s inner circle also shares how many friends they lost, with one friend recalling “all we did was go to funerals and fundraisers” and another stating how it inspired him to get tested. Kijack then contrasts audio of a reporter revealing that funding for AIDS research skyrocketed in the year after Hudson’s death with chilling footage of the AIDS Memorial Quilt being laid on the Mall in Washington, D.C. 

Kijack does not end the doc on this bleak note, rather allowing a ray of hope to shine through via one of Hudson’s final interviews in which he shares he’s not afraid of anything anymore. It is this quiet strength “Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed” aims to project, and although the documentary has structural issues, it is this strength that will likely inspire those who may not know Hudson’s work to seek it out, and remind a new generation that, despite seemingly insurmountable difficulties, it was possible for some of our queer forebears to find a little slice of happiness, despite living in a world that told them they were not welcome. 

On Max today.

America is often ridiculed internationally for its affinity for the flag. A symbol of patriotism hung outside of homes, worn on shirts, pasted on bumper stickers, etc., the flag is an omnipresent force in the visual fabric of America. Yet what has garnered quite a bit of controversy over the past few years is another similarly revered symbol: the anthem, alongside its cultural rejection. Whether it’s kneeling as it plays or refusing to sing along, the simplest of actions are powerful displays of opposition and touchy subjects for the country’s most loyal “patriots.”

Of course, this disillusion is rooted in the systemic oppression of anyone outside the majority. Produced by Ryan Coogler, director Peter Nicks’ documentary “Anthem” follows composer Kris Bowers (“Brigerton,” “Green Book”) and producer D.J. Dahi (“Self Care” by Mac Miller, “Money Trees” by Kendrick Lamar) as they trek across America, looking to reinvent the anthem. 

The documentary takes the format of a road film as Dahi and Bowers travel to American genre-centers like Nashville, Detroit, and the Bay Area, meeting with musicians and discussing their love for the art form. All of these individuals perform, as well as relay the histories, importance, and qualities of their genres. Across all groups, the sentiment is the same: music is love, music brings people together, and the anthem doesn’t truly accomplish either. 

As they travel the country interviewing a breadth of artists, every interaction is marked by a bothersome sense of artifice. There’s a lack of genuine chemistry within the conversations, and it feels more like checking boxes than thoughtfully engaging with the subjects. Dahi and Bowers lack chemistry and rapport as well, feeling like two talented students stuck together for a group project. 

The camera is always strongly felt by the people in front of the lens and it leads to a rigidity that takes the emotion out of the sentiment. It renders these conversations as educational spiels instead of empathetic discussion. The value of what is being said is undeniable, but in a documentary that’s thesis is rooted in empathy and unity, there’s a counterintuitive emotional distance between the subjects that translates even further through the screen.

“Anthem’s” format is equally formulaic. Dahi and Bowers drive to a city, listen to their subjects play, and then interview them. This repeats itself throughout the entirety of the documentary, and while it works to get all the information outlined, it’s fatiguing. Perhaps these downfalls are a result of the film’s ambition, tracking a transnational exploration of music, interviewing figures in the community, and crafting a song to end it all. It’s a lot of information to crush into 98 minutes, and while a longer documentary was a feasible solution, the lack of communion between the subjects is a trickier fix.

However, what is most fascinating about “Anthem” is its investigation into the legacy of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the hypocrisy that has followed it from its origin. Francis Scott Key wrote the American anthem to the tune of a British song, cementing an off-the-bat philosophical complication that only continues to prove itself in terms of representative problems today.

The project of “Anthem” is special and compelling, but the documentary lets itself down. There is a notable neglect to include much of the musical process. We meet gospel singers, country singers, Native singers, jazz singers, etc., but we are hardly privy to how Dahi and Bowers actually compose the song to include these genres. The conversations between the artists across the country are shown as they write the lyrics and discuss the issue of a hopeful v. critical tone, but the music itself feels forgotten. 

There’s a wonderful analogy when Dahi and Bowers visit Detroit, where the jazz musicians reveal the key to their performance. Jazz is a conversation with all the players, they must work together, listen, and know when to play and when to let another player shine. It’s the documentary’s whole philosophy, and while it works on paper, the execution teeters on connecting its feeling to its format. 

“Anthem” is a love letter to the art form, as well as the diversity in the country where many of these genres originated, but it fails to fully realize itself. The American fight is one that rears itself against racism and stuck-in-the-mud traditionalism. Naturally, the symbols of these forces are just as hard to change as the minds themselves. “Anthem” takes on this daunting task, making a concerted effort to display the beauty of culture in the United States, and music’s intrinsic tie. Yet while acknowledging the importance of its thesis, it doesn’t fulfill the full empathy required to inspire.

On Hulu today.

The topic of motherhood has long provided the horror genre with some of its greatest stories. From “Rosemary’s Baby” to “The Babadook,” there is something inherently scary about watching your beloved child be overtaken by evil forces or reckoning with the idea that becoming a parent makes us vulnerable to just about every terrible thing in our world (and beyond). In Daina Reid’s new film “Run Rabbit Run,” fertility doctor Sarah (Sarah Snook) meets these tensions head-on when her precocious seven-year-old daughter Mia (Lily LaTorre) begins to claim she’s actually Alice, Sarah’s sister who disappeared when she was Mia’s age. 

Reid’s ghost story uses innocuous objects to layer on the film’s sense of unease. First, Mia shows up with a white fluffy rabbit, and she quickly becomes obsessed with it, to the point where she begins wearing a self-made pink rabbit mask. The bunny, which she names Rabbit, ominously hops around the house, a harbinger of the bad things still to come. When Sarah tries to get rid of Rabbit, it bites her, the first of many injuries she will incur as she spirals over memories of her missing sister, her estranged mother, and recently departed father. The film’s conflict is centered between mother Sarah and daughter Mia, but it also includes a thorny relationship with Sarah’s mother, Joan (Greta Scacchi), creating a cycle of guilt from childhood sins and feeling like she’s not doing enough for her kid. 

Rabbit is not the only troubling thing in Hannah Kent’s script. In setting up Sarah’s narrative, Kent shows the audience how much Sarah’s been pushed to the brink even before anything unexplained begins. She’s divorced and co-parenting with her ex-husband, Pete (Damon Herriman), who has moved on and in the process of starting a new family of his own. Sarah is also dealing with the death of her dad, his things still piled up in her garage yet to be sorted through. And then there’s her mother, an ominous figure also losing her memories to dementia. When Mia’s problems escalate, she at first tries to be the strong parent doing what’s right for her child, but then, she starts to hurt herself in the process, and by extension, hurts Mia. 

In a marvelous departure from her best-known role as Shiv Roy in “Succession,” Snook brings a motherly sense of care and duty to her character. She’s attentive and affectionate in ways many of us haven’t seen her. Her calm, collected demeanor quickly erodes in the face of so much uncertainty and stress. Snook’s attention and care for LaTorre’s Mia is deeply felt, and their bond is evident from the first scene when mother wakes up her daughter with a birthday gift. LaTorre looks at Snook with large expressive eyes that shift from confused and scared when she’s inexplicably bleeding to burning with rage when she screams that she’s actually Alice. But in moments of Mia’s clarity, LaTorre runs to Snook and embraces her tightly for safety, establishing the close relationship between the pair early on; giving us a sense of what will be lost once Rabbit enters the frame.  

Sarah’s descent to madness mirrors the haunting landscape of the film’s setting in Waikerie, Australia.  There ate windswept horizons, imposing cliffs, stormy clouds over luscious green hills, flutters of birds flying in droves by her old home, and what looks like trees sprouting out of a purple river. The film wallows in a weatherbeaten palette, with lots of pale yellows and dusty grays, in the daytime. At night, darkness takes over, and even well-lit homes and cozy bedrooms start to feel unsafe. Cinematographer Bonnie Elliot carefully plays with these moods to create a visual sense of Sarah’s spiral. The film’s aesthetic becomes increasingly erratic as she loses her grip on reality. When Sarah goes in and out of a dreamlike state, images may look hazy or disorienting in their closeup, then harshly come into focus when she returns to reality. When Sarah starts to lose control, Snook physically takes her character to that dark place, but the film’s camera immerses the viewer in her unease. 

Motherhood, like extreme moments of grief, can be among the most life-changing experiences – a clear demarcation of life before and after the event. Sometimes, it can also be coupled with extreme feelings of isolation, which in this horror movie, makes a person vulnerable to the ghosts of their past. “Run Rabbit Run” is a solid spooky tale without anything too flashy like a Babadook to haunt our dreams and memes but chilling enough to make us sit up in our chair and scan the screen for the next sign of danger. While a fluffy white rabbit may be a symbol of innocence, it leads Sarah down a nightmarish version of “Alice in Wonderland.” The mothers in this film are haunted by the mistakes they made. Joan never seemed to have recovered from Alice’s disappearance, and Sarah’s barely buried trauma resurfaces her own feelings of regret over failing her daughter. And once Sarah is through the looking glass, are she and Mia safe? Are any of us?

On Netflix now.