Moodysson’s camera is intimate, like he’s right there hanging out with the three of them, and even the narrative itself feels beholden to their adolescent whims. A scene where they find a dirty trash bag full of yarn on the street and take it home and goof around is “unnecessary” from a plot-development perspective, but crucial to illustrating how big moments in teenage life, especially for young women, barely scan as much of anything to the rest of us. And the band’s songs are simple, stupid, and awesome. “Hate the sport, hate the sport,” goes one that rails against their gym class, which illustrates just how much Moodysson “gets” these kids: He even loves their obnoxious, inarticulate rage. Meanwhile, male condescension and disappointment in dudes pervades and the girls must transcend or at least deliver some Liz Lemon-level eyerolls at it all: The aging rock ‘n’ rollers that run the community center insist on calling them “a girl band” and, upon meeting Hedvig, assume she can’t play the guitar, even though she’s got Andrés Segovia-level chops; some cute boys in the nearby big-deal-ish punk band turn out to be political dim morons (which is a huge bummer) who just wanna make out (which is cool, for a little while at least). Everything matters so much here.