LOST COS
The paradoxical psychological burden of the superhero is the intrinsic internalized battle between being the inevitable villain of one's own story while fighting to uphold a self imposed code of honor that rationalizes justified vigilante violence. The ability to disassociate fantasy from reality can be equally dangerous as it is empowering, especially when distressing personal memories spread internally like an invasive species deep within the traumatized psyche.
Previous Broadway producer turned first time filmmaker, writer/director Robin de Levita uses the vibrant underbelly of a fictionalized underground New York City cosplay club to explore a real life counterculture cultivated around continual metamorphosis, celebrating carefully constructed transmuted self expression to cope with the uncontrollable chaos of reality. Herzogian-like casting of legitimate hardcore cosplayers weaves authentic realism into the fabric of this fantasy film, adding local flare flavor akin to NYC filmmaker Frank Henenlotter to capture the slice of city life spirit while using the context of cosplay to honor the delicate ritual of becoming another character through theatrical transformation. Woven into the pages of an LGBTQ+ feminist revenge film lies a look into the colorful characters of New York City, including fed up first generation immigrants food truck owners, semi-menacing slapstick loan shark criminals, an indictment on ineffectual incels, running gags of plotting policemen and a disgruntled Hoboken barber who had me going down the woefully previously overlooked crooner "Jimmy Roselli" rabbit hole.
Following the emotional journey of an abused little girl who grows into a diminutive dental assistant by day blossoming into a secret superhero burlesque dancer by night, an avenger of the death of her beloved, LOST COS asks its audience what succumbing to suffering activates within us in actuality, and if there is the possibility of justification in using one's accrued pain to inflict hurt onto others. Can we ourselves step into the pratfall of becoming a "Lost Cos" to our own traumatic events that eventually define us? The real battle must be fought internally within the confines of our own self written realities, and it's up to us to find ourselves within that mental battlefield - just like cosplayers flock to the "Lost Cos" club to "be found" and to openly "be seen" in a safe space apart from a less accepting world which forces true forms of identity to remain hidden from everyday eschewing society.
The artistic endeavors of the comic book inspired animation sequences in LOST COS are its utmost shining quality, playing off the in vogue aesthetics of the Spider-Verse animated movies with visual flourishes of New York centric comic artists Frank Miller & Ralph Bakshi. The artfully executed animated segments add to the "fantasy blending into reality" element of the story, as well as plussing the already competently choreographed & edited live action fight scenes, and even offer an avenue for artistically exploring mental health moments through animation, like internally compartmentalizing physical assault and psychological trauma where one can reimagine a world where the victim becomes the aggressor in an assertive ass kicking act of self actualization.
In perhaps the film's most impressively executed scene accompanied with a Cliff Martinez-esque NEON DEMON sounding score, the wandering eye of the camera enters the underworld of the LOST COS and follows the protagonist and her friend through the winding, endless corridors of the club using an extremely immersive lens filmed at a higher frame rate to create a surreal experience of floating around like a fly on a wall, similarly to the way Gasper Noe's ENTER THE VOID leads the viewer through a first person POV push through perspective. Although showcasing the fantastical menagerie of cosplayers front and center would have pulled more focus towards the subcultural significance of the story, what is showed is alluring and mysterious, particularly the elaborately adorned mirror masked emcee aptly named "Gemini" representing the thematic tie in of dual personalities residing within one body - a living personification of the constant question of who we chose to be in any given moment and the lens we must turn onto ourselves for self reflection.
An unfortunate effect of a cinemascape constructed around big budget blockbusters is the near extinction of true independent filmmaking, where renowned creatives like Robert Eggers & Ari Aster are considered smaller "indie" directors compared to their giant money counterpart competitors, and avenues to showcase smaller movies get overrun by multiplexes holding out for Marvels. LOST COS has the charm of an independently made issue distributed at a local comic shop, serving as a reminder that not all superhero stories are produced by the big name publishers, just like there's been cinematic success to be found from other indie "every man" comic book sub genre films from over a decade ago such as SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD (2010), KICKASS (2010) & SUPER (2011).
Although this film flounders when it attempts to bite off more than it should chew in its subplots, drawing away focus from the leading lady and her flashback driven post modern noir journey reworking itself into the present as she finds her "coming into character" transformation - the film's artistic vignette style vision makes it worth the watch for folks eager to support more femme hero stories, especially for low budget aspiring filmmakers concerned with delivering concept over consumerism - there is room in cinema for all films across the monetary means spectrum. Even if the movie may not achieve the level of consistent filmmaking finesse of the influential films that it follows, its aspiration to achieve all it sets out to is commendable if not always wholly attained. Hopefully more artfully ambitious indies like LOST COS get their chance to shine in theaters because big ideas deserve the big screen treatment to remind aspiring filmmakers the importance of self expression regardless of budget.
