KILLJOY

The next generation are inheriting a world that feels like it’s already collapsing environmentally, politically, socially.

They know it. They feel it. And they’re angry.

KILLJOY doesn’t ask them to let that anger go.

It asks what happens when we admit the world is burning.

What happens when we stop performing happiness to make other people comfortable. What happens when we refuse the idea that joy and rage can’t exist at the same time.

This film is about radical joy, but not the sanitised version. Joy as defiance. Joy as survival. Joy that coexists with grief, frustration, and refusal.

At its centre is someone who hasn’t figured that out yet. Killjoy is not the polished figure of resistance we like to celebrate. They are messy. Reactive. Still becoming. And that matters; because we don’t often see characters allowed to be unfinished in their anger.

This is a queer story, but it doesn’t pretend that queerness automatically means belonging. Community can be ecstatic, but it can also be difficult, alienating, and out of reach.

KILLJOY holds both.

I grew up moving between worlds, living room reenactments of classical musicals, devouring 90s cartoons by the cereal bowl full, then disappearing into the Australian bush from dawn till dusk to invent entire worlds from nothing.

That instinct didn’t go away. It turned into music videos, building spectacle, shaping feeling, chasing something that sits between image and emotion.

This film is an extension of that impulse. It refuses a single form. It moves between live action, animation, and virtual production because no one language felt sufficient.

KILLJOY is not trying to be seamless. It is trying to be alive.

If an off-Broadway musical and a DIY punk show tried to build a fantasy film together, it would look something like this.