SYNOPSIS:

QBY is a raw, hallucinatory, and darkly comedic coming-of-age memoir-fiction hybrid, fusing the high drama of Shakespeare, the jagged violence of Tarantino, the confessional vulnerability of Spalding Gray, and the stripped-back realism of Dogme95 films like Dogville. It’s a fractured self-portrait of a young man stumbling through the wreckage of adolescence, class conflict, sexual identity confusion, gender warfare of the '90s and chemical euphoria in search of something resembling love — or at least, clarity. Our unnamed narrator is a compulsively reflective outsider, terminally shy yet constantly in his own head, a boy raised on contradictions: sex-negative Catholic guilt and sexualised media, toxic masculinity and outsider art, emotional sensitivity and a culture that punishes it. His story unfolds like a monologue on a broken stage, fragmented by memory, flashback, hallucination, and denial — a non-linear journey through a decade of chaos. What begins as a loose attempt to tell “the truth” quickly splinters under the weight of trauma, shame, and self-mythology. The film opens with the narrator in his twenties, isolated, numbed, and hollow, trying to make sense of how he got here. He traces it back to the turn of the millennium — the late ‘90s and early 2000s — when everything began to fracture: schoolyard humiliations, the fear and fascination of sex, a girlfriend he couldn’t love properly, and another he loved too much. He recalls the betrayal of his body during formative moments, the performative bravado of male friendships, and the constant undercurrent of unspoken questions about gender, identity, and desire. As his peers lean into laddishness, our protagonist drifts into subcultures and sidequests — rave scenes, warehouse parties, failed bands, and art school breakdowns. Along the way, there are ecstatic highs: the rush of first love, mind-warping drug trips, surreal sexual encounters, the possibility of reinvention. But they’re always tainted — by bad timing, by guilt, by class resentment, by a culture that doesn’t allow space for contradiction. He loses himself in masks: the good boyfriend, the tragic artist, the horny nerd, the suburban prophet. None of them fit. All of them hurt. What follows is a journey through toxic friendships, near-misses with salvation, and downward spirals into betrayal — both received and inflicted. The narrative never settles into heroism or self-pity. Instead, it confronts the truth in its most uncomfortable forms: that the narrator has hurt people, failed to grow, clung to fantasies, and at times confused pain for depth. Yet, amidst the grotesque humor and brutal honesty, QBY remains hopeful — even tender. Moments of grace pierce through: a girl teaching him how to please her with no words, a look across a crowded club that lingers too long, a conversation with a lost friend who sees through his mask. QBY doesn’t resolve neatly. There’s no moral, no triumphant redemption arc. Instead, there is a moment of naked awareness: a man, no longer a boy, finally able to sit with his own contradictions. The shame doesn’t evaporate — but it no longer defines him. The film ends not with a victory, but with a question — an honest one, asked without irony. Visually and tonally, QBY is jagged, intimate, and unfiltered. Shot in a Dogme95-inspired style, the camera often lingers too long, capturing awkward silences, private rituals, and sudden eruptions of emotion. Scenes collide like fractured memories: a tender flashback interrupts a fight, a poetic monologue bleeds into a drug-fueled sex scene, a childhood memory is reenacted with adults in costume, underscoring the absurdity of nostalgia. The soundtrack blends glitchy electronica with indie acoustic tracks, from Neil Young, Iggy Pop and Steppenwolf, to Phil Anselmo, Chris Stapleton, Zakk Wylde, Max Cavalera, Barnaby Weir and Dez Fafarra. Reflecting the protagonist’s disjointed inner world. Ultimately, QBY is a portrait of someone trying — and failing — to become whole in a world that never taught him how. It’s about the performance of masculinity, the shame of vulnerability, and the long, messy road to self-acceptance. It’s also, maybe, a love story — not about the perfect partner, but about finding the courage to love yourself enough to stop hiding.