Having just moved to Chicago, I’ve been searching for ways to familiarize myself with my new home: the sights, the sounds, the cultural tapestry—and, apparently, the blowjob alleys. Enter Anything That Moves, Alex Phillips’ world premiere at Fantasia Fest and his unhinged, sex-drenched follow-up to 2022’s All Jacked Up and Full of Worms. While some people turn to Google Maps to find the fastest route to work, I’m letting Phillips be my tour guide through the neon-lit, wormy underbelly of the Windy City. Pray for me. I first encountered the wild, worm-slurping mind of Phillips a few years ago when Worms blindsided me with its blend of filth, psychedelia, and the most traumatizing use of a sex doll since Team America. I survived—barely—and still, like a moth to a trash fire, I was back to see what fresh trauma Phillips had cooked up. Turns out, Anything That Moves is no less chaotic, but it’s also something I didn’t expect: charming. The film follows Liam (Hal Baum), a bike courier who moonlights as a sex worker. His clients aren’t just horny—they’re lonely, weird, wounded. Whether he’s cuddling with a grieving widow, servicing an eager housewife (played by none other than Ginger Lynn Allen), or easing the existential dread of a desperate gay theater kid, Liam provides pleasure as both a physical and emotional salve. He’s like a sex-positive Mary Poppins, minus the umbrella but with plenty of lube. Shot on gorgeous, grainy Super 16mm, the film has a sun-drenched softness that evokes a long-lost era of 1970s porno chic. Everything looks warm, lived-in, and ever-so-slightly sticky. There’s an earnestness to it all—yes, even during the scene where Liam performs cunnilingus in the first five minutes—that makes the sex scenes feel less like titillation and more like communion. Phillips borrows the visual language of vintage porn but uses it to tell a story that’s far more empathetic and character-driven than most modern thrillers dare to be. But lest you think this is just softcore with a heart of gold, rest assured: the movie gets weird. Real weird. There’s a serial killer on the loose, picking off Liam’s clients one by one, and our good-natured hero suddenly finds himself the subject of suspicion, scrutiny, and increasingly surreal paranoia. The tone gradually slips from sunshine into sleaze. Primary colors give way to murky reds and blues. Sound design by Justin Enoch grows more intrusive, disorienting. One moment, Liam is having a heartfelt conversation with a client about aging and desire. The next, he’s dodging overzealous cops straight out of a D-grade giallo and stumbling into a conspiracy that may or may not involve organ trafficking. The narrative itself gets murky, occasionally collapsing under its own weight. Some characters, like Liam’s partner Thea, are criminally underwritten, and by the third act, the film teeters on losing control of its own momentum. But Phillips has never really been interested in traditional structure. What keeps Anything That Moves from totally derailing is its unwavering sincerity and its radical sex-positivity. This film is one of the rare genre entries that treats sex work not with judgment, pity, or glamorized tragedy, but with affection and humor. There’s no savior character trying to “rescue” Liam from his line of work. In fact, his job is framed as a kind of healing labor, one that connects him to the city and its denizens in intimate, bizarre, and occasionally life-threatening ways. In a cinematic landscape where sex workers are often used as disposable bodies, Anything That Moves gives them agency, dignity, and—shockingly—joy. That’s not to say it’s an easy watch. It’s chaotic, vulgar, sometimes aimless, and clearly not built for mainstream audiences. But that’s the charm. Phillips is carving out a unique space in underground cinema: one where bodily fluids, trauma, and tenderness coexist in the same frame. You’ll laugh. You’ll cringe. You’ll question your own sexual ethics while watching a man in a crop top ride a bicycle into a murder scene. And honestly? That’s the kind of cinema we need more of. If All Jacked Up and Full of Worms was a descent into drug-induced madness, Anything That Moves is a weird, sexy love letter to human connection. It's pornographic without being porn, erotic without being exploitative, and messy in all the ways that life—and sex—often are. So yeah, while I’m still figuring out how to take the Red Line without ending up in Evanston, I know one thing for sure: Anything That Moves may not be the best guide to Chicago’s geography, but it’s a damn fine introduction to its underground spirit. Just be careful what alleys you turn down. You might find more than just deep dish. Verdict: Come for the sex, stay for the satire, and prepare to be beautifully confused.