Last week was interesting. After having noticed on Netflix that Jane Schoenbrun’s 'I Saw The TV Glow' was available to watch, I found myself excited by what I thought was an indie horror film, beribboned with critical acclaim. I was wrong. It wasn’t a horror film- not in the traditional sense. Who could blame me for making such an error of judgement? The purple, oozing font and ominous title are suggestive of a science fiction B-movie. Everything pointed towards the esoteric and suspenseful. My speculations and deductions proved wrong, to some extent. I’m glad I didn’t dig up too much information or excavate too many reviews for plot details. The shock was a pleasant surprise. It was more Lynchian than my initial predictions of it being a Cronenberg caricature. Brought to life by director and writer Jane Schoenbrun, the film was instead a superbly delicate and profound allegory for the experience of trans people navigating gender dysphoria, identity, and doubt. Trans themselves, Schoenbrun’s own experiences helped to make a wondrously stark narrative something incredibly sensitive and subtle. It isn’t a film shaped explicitly by trans dysphoria. Instead, through its implicit imagining of two individuals forced to question their identity, and the intrusion of media as a lens for transformative speculation, it becomes a powerful cinematic experience. Like the Wachowskis’ own admission that their 90s blockbuster The Matrix was an allegory for their own experiences of transitioning, 'I Saw the TV Glow’ benefits its audience by allowing everyone to sympathise and comprehend how transitioning and gender identity aren’t plagued by alien concepts, but are more human and relatable than we might like to think.

Ocean Vuong is swiftly proving himself to be a prolific wordsmith in today’s literary climate. A sorcerer capable of bridging together distanced themes, whether it is the experience of migratory peoples or the individual experiences of those who belong to the queer community, Vuong conjures vastness in the specific. His poem, Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong, is a testament to his enchanting poetic qualities. Like Schoenbrun’s film, Vuong’s poem empties out a menagerie of thoughts and feelings regarding identity and the problems that can surface when trying to come to terms with it. Vuong’s poem is presented as a message to Ocean’s younger self, attempting to soothe and nurture who he once was and make peace with his doubts. It is a beautiful poem. In engaging with himself, Vuong- like a mirror- reflects on the distance between his current identity and the identity he previously held as a younger person.

For Owen (Justice Smith), the protagonist in Schoenbrun’s film, this opportunity is negated. He cannot speak with his younger self. Instead, he is forced to symbolise the point of no return. At the end of the film, Owen is denied any further opportunities to undertake his transition. In the context of the film, Owen’s gender dysphoria is presented through an identity crisis where his obsession with the obscure television series ‘The Pink Opaque’ and friendship with a fellow fan, Maddy, lead him to question his reality. As a teenager, the resurfacing of Maddy (after she ran away from home) in his life brings with it a boatload of questions. Maddy theorizes to Owen that they are both actually the disembodied, dislocated versions of the television series' protagonists. At first, Owen rejects this, firmly in disbelief that such an unlikely concept could be real. However, for Owen, his recognition of how he has often felt ‘out of sorts’ makes him reflect on Maddy’s theory. After failing to force his head into the television (to see if Maddy’s theory works), Owen’s sanity begins to unravel, as the means by which he can validate his dysphoria aren’t tangible. As a metaphor for the trans experience, Owen’s dysphoria can recognise an alternative identity, but isn’t provided with the means of exploration or the security to experiment with the boundaries of his identity. Later in the film, after Maddy’s ‘transition’, - where she buried herself alive- Owen is left behind, questioning whether Maddy was right. Now middle-aged, working a dead-end job and responsible for a family, Owen is shown at the film’s climax to suffer from a panic attack whilst at work. What starts as a bout of screaming and claims that he is “dying” to those around him (at a child’s birthday party) leads Owen to retreat into the bathroom and imagine opening his chest with a box cutter to reveal the pink hues of the televised world. Nothing changes; Owen’s life continues, apologetic about his breakdown, and unable to change anything. This climax elevates the metaphor and amplifies its tragedy. Owen’s recognition that he is stuck with his body and his current life, unable to transition like Maddy and risk everything for something, becomes paralysing. Unable to mend the past, Owen is burdened by the limits of his present. For Schoenbrun, this metaphor is nuanced in telling the story of those who never fully transitioned, who were stuck in-between genders or identities. Here, the world and its many barriers are made more concrete. The tragedy of Owen’s staticity echoes as an allegory of how trans or queer people are trapped in the liminal space of being aware (or mostly aware) of who they are, but unable to surface or expose their true selves. In helping the audience locate Owen before and after Maddy’s revelatory announcement, the film lets us imagine two versions of Owen. One where he is ridden with teen angst and dysphoria, and another where the banal existence of adulthood barely patches over the same dysphoria he felt when younger. The absence of a ‘happy ending’ not only charges us to feel sincerely sympathetic, but also to realise the darker, existential limbo that is experienced by those forced to refuse their own transition or happiness.

In Vuong’s poem, the gulf between past and present is cushioned. For Vuong (whom we can assume to be both audience and speaker), the poem exists to ‘solidify’ the softness of the younger Vuong, and gift them the rich self-love they deserve. Whilst the poem isn’t at all linked to trans dysphoria, the context of Vuong’s queer identity and immigrant background leans into the allegorical framework of the film. The opening line, “Ocean, don’t be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us,” invites the reader to understand the significance of the poem itself. In referring to himself by his first name, the familiarity of his voice emphasises his good intent to befriend his past self. The negative auxiliary of “don’t be afraid” is itself a comforting, almost parental instruction. Here, Vuong isn’t lecturing, but instead offering security and protection, assuring his younger self to feel at ease. The metaphor of the “road” frames the ‘distance’ between both the younger Ocean and the one writing as something that is both “far ahead” yet “behind” them. This paradox highlights the difficulty of a young queer person’s experience, as they might feel that the ‘safety’ of adulthood and self-acceptance is unattainable. But the poem and dialogue brought to life by it prove that it isn’t the case. In Schoenbrun’s film, Owen’s lack of mentorship or dialogue with his alternate self from the television series disables his faith in the transition required to adopt that identity. For both the younger Owen and the younger Ocean, the challenges of self-acceptance become barriers that help materialise doubt. But in Ocean’s case, the future is brighter and not as bleak as Owen’s.

Later in the poem, Vuong adds that “the most beautiful part of your body is where it's headed.” Like the comforting characteristics of his earlier words, this line evaluates how self-love is motivated not by what one presently is, but by the possibility of what one might become. Beauty is relocated from the physical body itself to its destination. In this sense, Vuong rejects the idea that identity is fixed or static. Instead, he imagines the self as something perpetually in motion, travelling towards a more complete understanding of itself. The future becomes a site of hope rather than anxiety.

For a queer reader, this line carries additional significance. The body, often a source of discomfort, insecurity, or alienation, is transformed into something worth celebrating because of its capacity for change. Vuong's younger self is encouraged not to judge himself according to his present circumstances, but according to the possibilities that await him. The line's optimism emerges from its refusal to treat identity as something already finished. To be unfinished is not a flaw; it is a promise.

Schoenbrun's film repeatedly interrogates this same relationship between identity and futurity, albeit through a far more tragic lens. Whilst Vuong imagines a future self capable of reaching backwards through time to offer reassurance, Owen becomes increasingly disconnected from any conceivable future version of himself. The imagery of ‘The Pink Opaque’ functions as a glimpse into an alternative life, one that appears more authentic than the reality he inhabits. Yet unlike Vuong's speaker, who can recognise growth and transformation as achievable, Owen becomes trapped by indecision. The possibility of change remains perpetually visible, but frustratingly inaccessible.

This contrast becomes particularly poignant when considered alongside Owen's vision of opening his chest to reveal the pink glow hidden inside him. The image externalises the same belief articulated by Vuong's poem: that there exists another self waiting to emerge. However, where Vuong treats this emergence as inevitable, Schoenbrun presents it as uncertain. Owen can recognise the truth concealed within himself, but recognition alone cannot guarantee liberation. The gap between knowing and becoming proves devastating. At the close of the poem, Vuong promises to his younger self, “I swear you will wake & mistake these walls for skin.” Here, the poem’s reality clarifies. What once his younger self might have seen as confinement, or an enforcement of biological claustrophobia, the older Vuong invites them to see their own body as a tool for liberation and comfort. Owen’s act of using the craft knife to ‘cut open’ his chest and expose himself to the glow of the televised reality is the closest he can come to breaking down the ‘limitations’ of his physical and biological self. Whereas some might perceive this moment to be violent and saturated in ‘body-horror’ imagery, the act itself is an attempt at alteration, where the body and identity he wishes he had are teased but neglected.

Indeed, one of the most painful aspects of 'I Saw the TV Glow' is its refusal to grant Owen the future that Vuong's poem celebrates. By the poem's conclusion, Vuong has achieved a degree of reconciliation with himself. The older speaker can look backwards with tenderness rather than regret. Owen, by contrast, is left haunted by unrealised possibilities. If Vuong's poem is an act of self-forgiveness, then Schoenbrun's film is an exploration of what happens when forgiveness arrives too late. Both texts concern themselves with identity, memory, and transformation, yet they ultimately arrive at opposing conclusions: one finds solace in the future, while the other mourns its absence.