It's inevitable that people will disagree about movies, especially ones that tackle niche subjects. As someone who has written about bodybuilding literature for The Paris Review and reviewed muscle movies like "The Iron Claw" that attempt to capture the essence of strength sports, I approached Love Lies Bleeding with both curiosity and skepticism.
Like many A24 productions, Love Lies Bleeding is visually striking and comes with instant art-house credibility. But beneath its stylish veneer lies a film as insubstantial as the cotton-candy muscles sported by novice steroid users enjoying their first round of water retention. It's the cinematic equivalent of a beautifully plated dish that leaves you hungry an hour later.
The film follows Lou (Kristen Stewart), a reclusive gym manager who becomes entangled with Jackie (Katy O'Brian), an ambitious bodybuilder. Their relationship soon spirals into violence and crime, all set against the backdrop of 1980s New Mexico where it’s always already midnight (seriously, how many of these scenes in the script began EXTERIOR - NIGHT or INTERIOR - NIGHT?). It's a premise ripe with potential, but, in the course of compiling a passing-fair softcore skin flick, director Rose Glass never delivers on it.
O'Brian's performance as Jackie is a highlight. Her physique is believable for a female bodybuilder of the era, and her worried expressions suggest depth to a character that could’ve been one-dimensional. Stewart, always a magnetic screen presence, does her best with Lou, but the character feels underdeveloped—Richard Widmark’s Harry Fabian in Jules Dassin’s Night and the City, but without any of that character’s moral complexity.
The supporting cast fares worse. The always-excellent Ed Harris, playing Lou's crime boss father, is given little to work with beyond grimaces and menacing glares. Anna Baryshnikov's Daisy, potentially the most intriguing character as a sad wretch obsessed with Lou, is reduced to a lip-licking plot device and unceremoniously dispatched.
Glass, whose previous film Saint Maud appeared to show promise as I watched it on the couch in a half-comatose state years earlier, seems out of her depth here. The pacing is languid, the dialogue bad rather than vague, and the plot thin despite its attempts at narrative sophistication. It's as if Glass is aiming for the surreal, dreamlike quality of a mid-1990s David Lynch film but lacks the chops or steady editorial hand to pull it off.
The bodybuilding aspects of the film, which should be its strength, feel superficial—scenes of people lifting weights shot in a 1980s period-piece gym, rendered in the signature A24 style. Anyone familiar with the sport's history and culture will find it wanting here. The steroid use, a major part of competitive bodybuilding, is the best part of the picture—Lou sticking a steroid needle in Jackie’s rear is erotic, even if the scene has too many cuts for my liking (take the jab yourself in a Béla Tarr-style wide and long shot, Ms. O’Brian!)—but should’ve been the main event, tied to what ought to have been Jackie’s stupid, round-the-clock dream of taking the competition stage in Las Vegas.
Love Lies Bleeding attempts, I suppose, to explore well-trod themes of toxic masculinity, obsession, and the American Dream gone awry. But these dull ideas are never fully developed, leaving the viewer with a muddled message when what we should’ve gotten was a story about a deluded, broke-as-a-joke bodybuilder living like a zombie, acting out in the world around her but barely aware of what she’s doing. The film's climax, featuring a surreal hallucination during a bodybuilding competition, is more a desperate grab for profundity than a natural culmination of the story.
Comparisons to other films about strength sports are inevitable. The Wrestler managed to turn its protagonist into a figure of mythic proportions while remaining grounded in a weird kind of magical realism. Even The Iron Claw, for all its flaws, captured something of the tragic sweep of the Von Erich wrestling dynasty. Love Lies Bleeding, in contrast, exists in a narrative no-man's-land, neither fully committed to realism nor willing to embrace the fantastical.
Who is this film for? Hardcore or knowledgeable bodybuilding fans will likely be disappointed by its lack of authenticity and depth. Casual viewers may find themselves lost in the film's meandering plot and oblique storytelling. Art-house aficionados might appreciate the visual style—enough to tell me, as a few have already done, that my perfect movie now exists (this ain’t it, chief)—but they know not what they see.
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of Love Lies Bleeding is the glimpses it offers of what could’ve been. There's a compelling story to be told about ambition, love, and the lengths people will go to escape their circumstances. A tighter script, more focused direction, and a willingness to really engage with the world of bodybuilding could’ve resulted in something special, arguably by concentrating real narrative attention on Jackie as a delusional junkie-in-the-making, Lou as the female schmoe enabling the drug abuse, and Daisy as the saddest of all possible sacks.
Instead, we're left with a film that, like a bird-legged bodybuilder who's all show and no go, looks impressive on the surface but lacks the strength to leave a lasting impact. It's a missed opportunity to explore the misunderstood world of bodybuilding in the way that Night and the City delved into wrestling decades earlier—a world that, as writers like Samuel Fussell and Bob Paris have shown, is ripe with dramatic potential.
As someone who has studied this demimonde extensively and even witnessed relatives do time due to their proximity to it, I can attest that the reality of this world is far bleaker and more compelling than what Love Lies Bleeding presents. The film's ending, in particular, feels like a missed opportunity to capture the pathetic nature of this petty, self-obsessed world.
A more authentic conclusion would’ve seen Jackie wake up after Lou strangles Daisy, then kill Lou herself. She would take their personal effects and drive straight to Mexico to buy more steroids. This Jackie would be unrepentant and unconcerned because, in such a world, that's simply how the game is played. That ending, compressed into a tight six-reel frame, would’ve given us a real movie—one that understands the brutal pragmatism and moral ambiguity that often characterizes the fringes of a bodybuilding world that’s nothing more than muscle, smoke, and mirrors.
This alternate ending would’ve resonated with the harsh realities I've observed. In this subculture, loyalty is nonexistent, survival is paramount, and the pursuit of what one perceives as physical perfection can lead individuals down dark paths. It's a world where the line between victim and perpetrator is frequently blurred, and where the next unrealizable opportunity—be it a competition, a drug deal, or a chance at escape—is always already on the horizon. Jackie's hypothetical flight to Mexico for steroids wouldn’t just be about the drugs; it would be about the never-ending quest for edge and advantage that defines so much of bodybuilding culture.
Moreover, this proposed ending would’ve subverted audience expectations in a meaningful way. Too often, films about subcultures like bodybuilding try to impose conventional morality or redemption arcs where they don't belong. There’s no honor to be had in a world of liars and thieves. As my friend Anthony Roberts often remarks, the first casualty of steroid use is the truth: you lie about how little you take, then you lie about how much, and pretty soon you’re lying about everything. A Jackie who kills without remorse and immediately moves on to her next fix would’ve been a stark, memorable character—one who embodies the ethos of a world where physical strength and mental toughness are prized above all else.
Love Lies Bleeding is like a supplement that promised gains but left you sore and unsatisfied. It's not a total failure, but it's far from the muscular, hard-hitting drama it could’ve been. For those seeking a more authentic and insightful look at the world of bodybuilding, you'd be better served picking up a copy of Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder or Gorilla Suit: My Adventures in Bodybuilding. These works, unlike Love Lies Bleeding, understand that the most compelling stories in this world aren’t about the muscles themselves, but the troubled individuals building them.
The film's failure to capture the essence of this world is disappointing given the rich material at hand. The bodybuilding subculture, with its blend of discipline and excess, ambition and insecurity, offers fertile ground for exploring fundamental questions about identity, body image, and the lengths people will go to transform themselves. Love Lies Bleeding skims the surface of these themes but can’t fully commit.
While Love Lies Bleeding may satisfy viewers looking for stylish, vaguely transgressive entertainment, it fails to do justice to the complex reality of the world it depicts. Those of us who’ve seen the real thing are left wanting more. We're left wondering what might have been if the filmmakers had embraced the full, unvarnished truth of this world, rather than settling for a hot, steamy, and superficial approximation.
