Crush

In the vast, neon-lit landscape of the 2020s streaming wars, there is a very specific type of "content" that usually feels like it was assembled by a kitchen robot: the teen rom-com. You know the vibe—over-saturated colors, actors in their mid-twenties pretending to struggle with algebra, and a soundtrack curated by a TikTok algorithm. So, when I sat down to watch Crush on Hulu, I was prepared for a pleasant, if forgettable, 92 minutes of background noise. I watched this while wearing socks with holes in the toes, and for some reason, the draftiness made the bright, summery track-meet setting feel even more aspirational.

But then something happened. The jokes actually landed. The chemistry didn't feel like two planks of wood being rubbed together to start a fire. Most importantly, Crush managed to be a "queer movie" without the exhausting, soul-crushing weight of a "coming out" tragedy. It’s a film that exists in a world where being gay is about as scandalous as choosing chunky peanut butter over smooth. In our current era of hyper-discourse and performative representation, that feels like a radical act of normalcy.

The Art of the Pivot

The story follows Paige, played with a delightful, jittery neurosis by Rowan Blanchard (Girl Meets World). Paige is an aspiring artist who has been harboring a long-term, borderline-stalkerish crush on the school’s "it girl," Gabriela (Isabella Ferreira). When Paige is falsely accused of being a mysterious graffiti artist known as "King Pun," she’s forced to join the track team to prove her school spirit (and avoid suspension).

It’s a classic "fish out of water" setup, but the water is filled with track hurdles and awkward stretching. The twist? To get closer to Gabriela, Paige has to train with Gabriela’s sister, AJ, played by Auliʻi Cravalho. If you only know Auliʻi Cravalho as the voice of Moana, prepare for a pivot. She plays AJ with a moody, athletic cool that provides the perfect foil to Paige’s frantic energy.

The film was produced by Maya Rudolph’s Animal Pictures and shot through the American High production hub. For the uninitiated, American High is a studio that took over an abandoned high school in Syracuse, New York, and turned it into a literal factory for teen movies (like Big Time Adolescence and Plan B). There’s a certain "Syracuse Chic" to the production—it feels contained, lived-in, and slightly more authentic than the glossy, Burbank-backlot versions of high school we usually see.

Comedy That Actually Runs

Comedy in the streaming era often suffers from "improv-bloat," where scenes go on three minutes too long because the director didn't want to cut a mediocre riff. Thankfully, director Sammi Cohen keeps the pace at a sprint. The humor here relies heavily on character quirks and visual gags. Tyler Alvarez, playing Paige’s best friend Dillon, is a particular standout. He and Teala Dunn play a couple so intensely committed to their own "power couple" brand that they become the funniest thing on screen.

The script, written by Kirsten King and Casey Rackham, understands the specific rhythm of Gen Z sarcasm without feeling like it’s trying to sell you a vape pen. It’s self-aware but not cynical. Even the "King Pun" mystery—which could have been a distracting B-plot—is handled with a light touch, serving mostly as a vehicle for Paige to realize that her artistic soul is actually kind of a dork.

One of the film's greatest strengths is its "Subjective Irrelevance" of conflict. Usually, in these movies, the conflict is "Will they find out I'm gay?" or "Will my parents disown me?" Here, the conflict is "I think I like the sister of the girl I thought I liked, and also I’m bad at running." It’s refreshing. It treats queer joy as the default setting, which is a hallmark of the best contemporary cinema. It’s not trying to teach a lesson; it’s just trying to make you laugh.

Why It Got Lost in the Shuffle

Released in April 2022, Crush suffered from the "Hulu Dump." Without a theatrical window and competing against the massive marketing machines of the MCU’s Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, it became one of those films that people "discovered" via Twitter clips rather than a traditional release. It’s a shame, because it has more personality in its opening credits than most $200 million blockbusters have in their entire runtime.

The film also benefits from a killer supporting cast. Megan Mullally pops up as Paige’s over-supportive mom, and her comedic timing is, as expected, surgical. She manages to make a joke about "the sapphic gaze" feel like a natural mother-daughter moment rather than a screenwriter’s checklist.

Despite being tucked away in the back corners of a streaming library, Crush is a film that deserves the "cult favorite" status that usually takes decades to achieve. It captures a specific moment in the early 2020s where representation finally started feeling less like a lecture and more like a party. It’s colorful, it’s witty, and it’s genuinely sweet without being cloying.

Crush is the kind of movie you put on when you need a reminder that the world isn’t entirely made of fire and bad news. It’s a well-crafted, expertly timed comedy that gives its leads plenty of room to shine. While it doesn't reinvent the rom-com wheel, it gives it a much-needed alignment and a fresh coat of paint. If you’re looking for a hidden gem in the streaming pile, this one is a winner.