Casey (Josh Lavery), the wandering figure in Craig Boreham's gay character study "Lonesome," appears only briefly at first, much like Jon Voight in "Midnight Cowboy." Yes, both are on their way to the big city from their respective quaint country landscapes. But, unlike Voight's Joe Buck, Casey's journey from the Australian outback to Sydney isn't motivated by money. Intercourse is a purely mechanical and necessary act for him, not a horny endeavor. Casey wants a bleak ending—he wants to see the ocean so he can commit suicide in it.


Dean Francis' warm photography, stained with sunny marigold hues, belies Casey's aching feeling as he drives through grain fields toward a truck stop. A bearded trucker is drawn to Casey's boyish face and muscular frame, and their bathroom encounter is the first of many. That changes in Sydney when he joins Tib in a threesome (a cheeky Daniel Gabriel). Casey exposes himself to the possibility of being hurt for the first time in what must feel like a long time.


Casey shares with Tibs the sad backstory—heartbreak, a crashed truck, and running away from home—that would make for a soul-stirring country song during nightly talks and daily walks. He also begins to feel at ease in Tibs' presence, partially processing the self-guilt and self-hate that caused him to shut down in the first place. Casey could be content; he could reconcile with his estranged parents; and he could even settle down with Tibs. However, his inability to fully forgive himself pushes and lengthens Boreham's romantic drama.


Casey does not appear to be the most intriguing subject for a character study at first glance. He moves through this world so passively that I'd be surprised if his dialogue lasted more than a couple of pages. He has a stoic demeanor, guided by a strong desire not to be discarded again. Much is dependent on Lavery's body's interaction with these new urban spaces. It's the same as it's always been, with the exception of the fact that it's now in the form of a video game.


Lavery and Boreham use sex as both a character arc and a source of passion, which is a rare trick in modern cinema. By the halfway point of "Lonesome," Casey's sex is more than just a means of survival; it's a silent language expressing his desire to be loved. Lavery's once-frozen frame melts away; varnished in Tib's simple apartment's strange purple and violet lighting, he becomes limber. When the anguish he has always feared returns, his austerity returns, and sex transforms from a purely robotic, transactional pursuit to one of self-punishment. Lavery is completely committed to these flights of adoration and angst, even when the film becomes overly sentimental (particularly the parallel Boreham sketches of parents who have misunderstood their gay sons).


The ending is also far too neat, a bit of wish fulfillment that borrows more from a slew of teen romances than the bleak character-driven narrative initially promises. Still, as Casey ran full-speed through Sydney, lifted away from his terrible weight, fully open for love, I was swept up by "Lonesome," and glad that it sees a reality for its gay protagonist other than harm and unrelenting trauma. Despite its name and abundance of sex, "Lonesome" is surprisingly wholesome.