Our male lead, Woody, is handsome and loves rap music. He's like that guy you knew in high school or, better yet, he's you. Our female lead, Nell, loves poetry, sensible clothing, and high expectations. Despite her obvious beauty, you'd never consider dating this earnest, intelligent, and kind student. A nerd? Yuck times! Our heroes, though next door neighbors, belong to very different worlds. Nell is Romanticism embodied and Woody, the product of some industrial process, is a crass machine of a man. He is some horror of modernity.
They bicker, they tease, they go on a field trip to the standard Mesoamerican exhibit in Anytown, U.S.A. While standing before a statue of Tezcatlipoca, Nell explicitly states how wretched it would be to have Woody's life. Unfortunate diction for the young poet. It looks like these two might learn a bit about one of this God's many epithets, specifically Necoc Yaotl, or Enemy of Both Sides. That nerd should have read up on her Aztec deities rather than dead English guys. When's the last time you heard of Shakespeare flipping gender roles? Oh, all the time? Yeah right.
Now sleep heroes, sleep and be reborn. They awake to the shock of new genitals, and stumble about their environments like pretty butterflies or some forgotten Ungeziefer. Now hold onto your drinks (you are drinking, yes?) because pronouns, names, and sexual attraction is about to get a little confusing.
Our heroes are clumsy in new roles and operate under an outdated paradigm; they, enemies, inflict hurt upon one another. Female Woody promptly goes home with a dude, gay panics, and makes leaves. Of course, Nell's honra is boned. The rumor spreads that Nell has broken chaste. Male Nell flaunts agency and refuses fate. She convinces Female Woody to see the broader truth; they're in this together. “Nobody calls us a slut,” he proclaims to a delighted and now emotionally engaged audience.
This newly formed team sets out to face the challenges that await high school seniors. For Female Woody, it's Nell's interview with Yale. After some pointless compliments, the Dean gets down to brass tacks. “Yo, homegirl, what type of writers you into these days?” The question is poorly worded and Female Woody writes him off immediately, “None of them. They all suck,” he replies. Astounded, the Dean prepares to crush this young girl's dreams. Then, drawing on quintessentially Woody qualities, our hero lobs a desperate Hail Mary. “Well, I do like some poets,” he stutters. He name drops 50 Cent like it ain't no thang. “It's urban poetry you see! It's agency, it's voice, it's hubris, it's the sickest beats,” spits Woody. “Shit yeah!” cries the Dean. It's a brilliant moment. The audience is near tears.
Cut to Male Nell sucking at football. Never mind that her offensive line is visibly intoxicated, never mind that her team's defense can't come within five yards of a ball carrier, this one's on the QB, it's always about the QB. Nell mutters something about messing with the wrong girl; I think it's directed at the defense. It almost certainly speaks to female empowerment.
Female Woody enters and sits down next to his father. “We're not doing that well,” the father remarks. It's heartbreaking and comments on things much grander than football. The line is delivered perfectly. This actor is without flaw.
Oh shit, crescendo time! Perhaps this girl can ball after all. She flips an obese man over her back, stands erect, and fires a perfect strike. Touchdown, motherfuckers! The audience can feel their collective heart-rate quicken. She takes another snap. She spins, jumps, and flips into the end zone. Female Woody looks up at the father. “That's my boy, that's my son, my flesh and blood,” the proud father shouts. This is beautiful, surreal, transcorporal poetry. In magical drag, a son is able to watch his father experience true vicarious joy for the first time. We bear witness to an unlikely gift. The audience is doing backflips. This genre fuckin' rules!
After the game, Female Woody and Male Nell meet in some corridor. Bodies, elastic and charged, snap back to original states. The characters' eyes appear, for a moment, as abandoned birdbaths, reflecting interactions that will never be again. Cue the DJ, it's dance time, bitches.
Woody hates his date. She is but a remnant of a now distant past. He dreams of Hotty McNerdstuff and their love, founded in true empathy and knowing another's body. It, like anything, is gross if you think about it too much. Meanwhile, Nell's dad shows the sort of paternal care that helped Nell become the fine young woman she is and will be. "Go confidently into the dance! Be with Woody" he tells her. He winks at Woody's dad across the picket fence. The fathers are in a celebratory mood, itchin' to get sauced. They return to an earlier world, before children became a dull focus of their lives.
Nell finally arrives at the dance and the director opts for surreal elements. The gyrating proles disappear. Our heroes are all that matter. Woody verbally fumbles over a sonnet but it's of little consequence. She loves him for who he is, not some idealized reflection of herself twisted by fun-house mirrors to have male parts and an oxford cotton shirt. His humanity is now romantic. They dance. They make rash decisions. They kiss and James Blunt plays. They decide to do something together. We don't know what it is. I think they ran out of money for this film. We, like the fathers, look skyward, weep proudly, and get housed.
This touched me but only in the way one body swapping to another can. Gnocchi.
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