Crude, Clever, and Constantly Confrontational

Read Time:5 Minute, 39 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
Lemonade Blessing
–

Genre: Comedy, Drama
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 40m
Director(s): Chris Merola
Writer(s): Chris Merola
Cast: Jake Ryan, Jeanine Serralles, Skye Alyssa Friedman, Miles J. Harvey, Michael Oloyede, Todd Gearhart, Keith William Richards
Where to Watch: shown at the 2025 Tribeca Film Festival

RAVING REVIEW: In a world of sanitized coming-of-age stories, it’s rare to find one that dares to be this confrontational. This debut feature doesn’t just poke the bear—it grabs the cross, lights it on fire, and dares you to look away. It weaponizes irreverence, yet never loses sight of something more meaningful beneath the smirk. It’s both crude and contemplative, mischievous and honest, managing to hold a middle finger in one hand and a mirror in the other. For a film wrapped in the language of a sex comedy, it cuts far deeper than its sacrilegious exterior would suggest.

At the center is John, played by Jake Ryan, a teenager dropped into the strict ecosystem of a Catholic high school by a mother so devout she might as well be sending him to seminary. His rebellion is not instant—no dramatic meltdown or explosive tantrum. Instead, it creeps in, sparked by an unpredictable classmate named Lilith (Skye Alyssa Friedman), who’s less a manic pixie and more a chaos prophet. Through her, John’s understanding of sin, love, and approval starts to unravel, and not delicately.

The dynamic between John and Lilith isn’t just there to drive the plot; it serves as the film’s ideological core. Their relationship isn’t built on typical teen movie flirtation. It’s thorny, inappropriate, and often uncomfortable—that’s the point. What’s especially sharp about how it’s handled is that it doesn’t feel designed to shock for the sake of it. The film challenges the framework that shaped its lead character and, by extension, its audience. That challenge wouldn’t be nearly as effective without the on-screen chemistry between Ryan and Friedman, who approach the material with a kind of fearless energy that’s rare in stories about faith and sexuality.

Director Chris Merola, making his feature debut, has infused this project with a personal stamp that you can feel in nearly every frame. There’s a lo-fi, DIY grit to the aesthetic—not by accident, but by intention. The use of his childhood home, his actual video game consoles, and props that feel like they were made in a high school art room (because some were) gives the movie a specific, unfiltered texture. Instead of chasing perfection, it doubles down on identity, which is fitting given the subject matter. It’s rare to see a debut that embraces its rough edges so openly.

Narratively, the film doesn’t play it safe. There’s a deliberate structure to how it slowly turns up the heat, starting with awkward flirtation and ending in total theological freefall. That said, it’s not chaos for chaos’s sake. It has something to say, and it says it through character arcs, not just punchlines. The humor, while proudly crass at times, doesn’t undercut the emotion. It reinforces it. By leaning into discomfort, the film earns its quieter, more honest moments of reflection. There’s a risk in juggling raunchiness with real emotional trauma, but Merola pulls it off without tripping over the tonal wires.

One of the biggest strengths lies in its direct engagement with modern masculinity. While the plot plays out in the halls of a Catholic school, the commentary reaches far beyond. The film doesn’t shy away from the reality that young men today are absorbing toxic messages—from misogynistic internet figures to outdated dogma—and questions what happens when that confusion festers. The film never leans into preaching; it’s far too irreverent for that. Instead, it tricks you into listening, using provocation as a gateway to introspection. That’s not an easy balance to strike.

From a casting standpoint, the supporting players also deserve a ton of credit. Jeanine Serralles plays Mary (John’s mom) with a perfect mix of sternness and sorrow, grounding the film’s more absurd elements with a mother who genuinely believes she’s saving her son. Miles J. Harvey brings an offbeat energy that bounces nicely off Ryan’s more subdued performance.

The DIY construction of props, like a giant communion wafer made from dehydrated Wonder Bread, perfectly reflects the film’s tone: unpretentious, self-aware, and laced with a very specific kind of irreverence.

Ultimately, what makes the film so effective is its ability to present truths without trying to resolve them. It understands that real adolescence isn’t about one big choice—it’s a minefield of little contradictions. That’s where it finds its voice: in the confusion, the messiness, the moments where laughter gives way to discomfort, and where boundaries are drawn, crossed, and redrawn again.

This film asks a lot of its audience—not because it's difficult to follow, but because it’s unafraid to make you squirm, sit with difficult ideas, and reflect on the beliefs you may have never questioned. It’s sharp, provocative, and rooted in something deeply personal, yet wildly universal. It doesn’t aim to comfort you. It wants to shake you out of your assumptions and leave you thinking long after the screen goes dark.

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