Gay Identity – Bitch Flicks

‘Moonlight’ and the Radical Depiction of Love

It’s like Plato’s overused allegory of the cave – everything we knew about this world before was shadow and puppetry; now we’ve seen a glimpse of the real thing. ‘Moonlight’ deals with highly politicized content – race, class, sexuality, gender expression, drug use – in a disarmingly nuanced way. It parachutes into territories dominated by stories about hate and dares instead to tell us stories about love.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Moonlight is a serious, introspective, understated film from director Barry Jenkins that’s been an overwhelming hit with critics, winning numerous awards for acting, directing, writing, and Best Picture, including at the Academy Awards, Golden Globes, Independent Spirit Awards, and Screen Actors Guild Awards. It’s about a gay, Black drug dealer who lives in Miami — and it doesn’t think that any of those things are either funny or shameful.

The main selling point for Moonlight is that it’s different from other movies. Unfortunately, that also makes it hard to explain – the difference of Moonlight is something you feel while you’re watching it. It’s like Plato’s overused allegory of the cave – everything we knew about this world before was shadow and puppetry; now we’ve seen a glimpse of the real thing.

Moonlight deals with highly politicized content – race, class, sexuality, gender expression, drug use – in a disarmingly nuanced way. It parachutes into territories dominated by stories about hate and dares instead to tell us stories about love. The film checks in with its protagonist, Chiron (played by Alex R. Hibbert, Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes), at three different points in his life – as a child, growing up in a rough neighborhood; as a teen, struggling with his sexuality; and as an adult, seeking a sense of authenticity. Each chapter ends at a startling point and begins by defying any stereotypes we’ve come to expect.

Hilton Als’ gorgeous essay in The New Yorker unpacks the story in more detail, and offers more insight into what it means to see Black gay men depicted this way on film, but, like Als, I was struck by my own reaction to the film’s first chapter. In that story, the young Chiron makes friends with a neighborhood drug dealer (Mahershala Ali) who becomes a surrogate father to him. I spent the first two thirds of that chapter with my shoulders and stomach clenched, waiting for something awful to happen. I was waiting for the drug dealer to be a bad person. I was waiting for Chiron to be disappointed, or rejected, or hurt somehow by this relationship. I was surprised and moved when I realized I was actually seeing kindness. I was seeing a picture of men with do-rags and pistols who love.

A lot of stories about poor Black communities are stories about either pity or invulnerable hyper-masculinity. Love is a lot more humanizing than pity and a lot more vulnerable than a rap video. Love makes us real to each other – it lets us see each other as kin. There is a shocking tenderness to Moonlight that cuts across boundaries – there is a confident assertion that these are people whose stories matter; that their experiences are worth sharing; that we will feel connected to them and sit with them in their pain, and triumph, and struggle, and caring. It’s an assertion that Black lives are human lives, as rich, complex, meaningful, and worthy as any other lives we see on film. The characters aren’t offered to us as archetypes or clowns – they’re offered to us as our own.

Moonlight isn’t the first film to act like Black people are human, or like poor people are human, or like gay people are human – but it is a beautifully-made movie, with a rich emotional palette and an introspective style. One of its strengths is that, for a movie about love – that is, in many ways, essentially a romance, at its core – it doesn’t fall into the trap of being sentimental. While racism, homophobia, and poverty aren’t the topic of the film, they inform the setting and the characters’ worldview. There’s a powerful scene where Chiron’s mother (Naomie Harris), addicted to crack cocaine, screams at him, yelling words we can’t hear – words he later dreams or remembers as “Don’t look at me.” That sense of shame and self-hatred, manifested in the psychological violence she does to herself and her son, haunts every chapter of this story, but it’s allowed to exist alongside caring and hope, without either cancelling the other out.

The final two chapters of the film, in one way or another, concern Chiron’s relationship with his bisexual friend and primary love interest, Kevin (played by Jaden Piner, Jharrel Jerome, and André Holland), and the way that various pressures in his life converge to mold the way he presents himself to others. In some ways, Chiron comes full circle by growing up to be like the drug dealer who raised him – outwardly tough, physically strong, and kind.

Moonlight is about Black masculinity, and does an exquisite job of dramatizing gender performance, but it’s reductive to say it’s only about gender, sexuality, or identity. Moonlight is a movie that captures the zeitgeist of the early twenty-first century – of a generation that grew up in the 1980s and 90s; of a culture with a lot of bullshit things in it, that still has the courage to risk a vulnerability like love. It’s the kind of film that you want future generations to see, so they can understand what the world was like in the past – the kind of film you want future generations to be confused by, because so much has changed, and the kind of film you want them to connect to, because our humanity cuts across time.

Like many other festival films, Moonlight is a slow burn that requires some patience to watch. I promise you, though, that your patience will be rewarded. This movie stayed with me for weeks after I saw it, persistently tugging at my attention, making me want to watch it again. It’s different in a way you truly have to see to understand.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV, and video games on her blog.

Miss Piggy Turned Me Gay

Miss Piggy taught me that femininity and glamour are constructs. They are costumes anyone can wear providing you have the right attitude. I was a slightly effeminate little boy who collected My Little Ponies and owned a pair of Jelly sandals. Miss Piggy showed it was okay to be girly, that there was even power in being feminine.

This is a guest post by Maximilian Mosher.

I’m sorry to disappoint you but Bert and Ernie are not gay. They’re not. When Jim Henson and Frank Oz created them for Sesame Street they were intended as a tribute to the grand tradition of mix-matched comic duos—Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, Felix and Oscar of The Odd Couple. The fact that in the decades since people have come to view them as a gay couple says more about the normalization of homosexuality and the decline of the comic duo than anything intended by the Children’s Television Workshop.

“They’re puppets,” explained Steve Whitmore, who’s performed Ernie since Henson’s death. “They don’t exist below the waist.” But denials have only added fuel to the fire. With a smirk, gay men enjoy “outing” these symbols of childhood with the same relish they used to reserve for “outing” Hollywood actors. With a continued dearth of same-sex role models in popular culture, Bert and Ernie have been enlisted as gay marriage symbols, appearing on placards, buttons, and t-shirts. Men dressed in Bert and Ernie costumes have even been married at gay pride parades. When it came to celebrating the Supreme Court’s ruling on the Defense of Marriage Act last June The New Yorker chose not an image of a flesh and blood couple but an illustration of the two Muppets cuddling.

It’s not just allies who suspect same-sex shenanigans at 123 Sesame Street.

“Bert and Ernie are two grown men sharing a house and a bedroom,” claimed the Reverend Joseph Chambers on his radio show. “They share clothes, eat and cook together and have blatantly effeminate characteristics… If this isn’t meant to represent a homosexual union, I can’t imagine what it’s supposed to represent.”

The Reverend clearly knows nothing of the show or, for that matter, fashion. Ernie has only ever worn horizontal stripes. Bert, being the more practical one, wears vertical, along with a very 1970’s turtleneck. As for being effeminate, Ernie is a disorganized mess while no stylish gay men would allow the caterpillar that stretches across Bert’s forehead to go un-tweezed.

Bert and Ernie sleep in separate beds, are rarely physical with each other, and never say lovey-dovey things. In fact, they seem ready to murder each other most of the time. (“Sounds like a lot of couples I know,” I can hear you saying.)

But everyone has it wrong. Bert and Ernie are meant to teach children they can be friends with people different from themselves. There’s nothing “gay” about them, save for Ernie’s love of bubble baths. If Reverend Chambers is really worried about kids being introduced to queer culture he needs to move past Bert and Ernie. He should condemn an entirely different show and an entirely different Muppet.

It was Miss Piggy who turned me gay.

Despite the celebrity cameos and pop culture spoofs, Sesame Street was always meant for children, but Jim Henson was wary of being seen as a kids’ entertainer. It took years for him to get it on the air but The Muppet Show, which ran from 1976 to 1981, was meant to correct this misconception. Henson sought to prove a show with puppets could have universal appeal.

Like Walt Disney and the creators of the Warner Brothers’ cartoons before them, Henson and his Muppet Workshop forgot to create female characters. (When a girl was needed on Sam and Friends, Henson’s first TV show, he’d throw a blonde wig on Kermit. If only Reverend Chambers had seen that!) There was the odd exception, such as a purple Muppet named Mildred who, with a perm and cat’s eye glasses, resembled a Fraggle librarian. But at the beginning The Muppet Show was an overwhelmingly male affair with male characters performed by male puppeteers. Like a true star Miss Piggy would have to invent herself.

The Muppet performers had used a homely lady-pig puppet in a few TV specials but she lacked a name and distinctive personality. Before the first season of The Muppet Show, Muppet designer Bonnie Erickson replaced the puppet’s beady black eyes with large blue ones and dressed her in a silk dress with lilac gloves. A permanently attached handkerchief was used to conceal the puppet’s arm rod. Paying tribute to Peggy Lee, Erickson named the puppet Miss Piggy Lee, but the “Lee” was swiftly dropped to avoid offending the singer.

Initially Miss Piggy lacked a distinctive voice. Frank Oz and Richard Hunt shared the responsibility of performing her, with the latter giving her a flouncy British accent and a stuffy, Margaret Dumont-ish character. But as Oz gradually took over, Miss Piggy’s personality asserted itself.

During one rehearsal, Henson and Oz were working on a scene in which Piggy slapped Kermit. Oz thought a karate chop was funnier, paired with a dramatic “hiii-yah!”

“Suddenly, that hit crystallized her character for me,” Oz told the New York Times. “The coyness hiding the aggression; the conflict of that love with her desire for a career; her hunger for a glamour image; her tremendous out-and-out ego…” As they say, a star was born.

Befitting a diva who stepped out of the chorus, Miss Piggy soon took over. With practically no other females to compete with (other than the androgynous guitarist Janice, originally designed as a big-lipped tribute to Mick Jagger) Piggy would grow in stature to become the only woman the Muppets needed. Her costumes multiplied. Her production numbers became more elaborate. She peppered her speech with ridiculous bastardizations of French, a habit perhaps inspired by the legendary Hollywood agent Sue Mengers. Miss Piggy thought nothing of throwing herself at male guest stars, or stealing scenes from great beauties like Raquel Welch.

Pigs, despite their documented intelligence, are thought of as dirty, rotund, and as far away from showbiz glamour as possible. But as a little kid I never took Miss Piggy as a joke. I accepted her beauty and elegance sincerely. For me, she was the star she believed herself to be. This was perfect training for my eventual love of drag queens, who also don sequined gowns, feather boas, and demand you take their star personae seriously.

Of course, simmering just below her fuzzy peach surface, Miss Piggy had a well of anger and aggression that busted out in karate chops, punches, and kicks. When she got mad, Frank Oz lowered her voice from its regular high-pitched coo to a low, gruff, streetwise snarl. Being a lady is all well and good, but when the going gets tough, the pig gets rough. A lilac glove can sometimes conceal a fist.

Miss Piggy is a pushy, bullying, manipulative, insecure, egoist. There’s more Diana Ross in her than Peggy Lee. She should be unlikeable.

But she has one trait that humanizes her. She loves Kermit. He’s her Achilles Hoof. Her love for him is pure, passionate, and pathetic. She humiliates herself over and over just to get his attention. As Frank Oz said, quoted in Brian Jay Johnson’s new biography of Jim Henson, “She wants that little green body so badly.” And Kermit, for the most part, brushes her off and ignores her. Loving someone incapable of reciprocating is a tragedy every queer person who’s fallen for a heterosexual can understand.

Miss Piggy eventually snagged Kermit via a surprise wedding at the end of The Muppets Take Manhattan (1984). The ceremony was performed by an actual New York City minister, and in the years since, puppets and performers alike have enjoyed teasing fans about whether the characters are “actually married” or not. Either way, the union of frog and pig and the nullification of their romantic tension brought a symbolic close to the Muppets’ Golden Age.

I love Miss Piggy, but I realize her characteristics as I’ve listed them aren’t exactly those of a role model. With her diva behavior and camp aesthetic, Miss Piggy is a throwback to the closeted gay world before the Stonewall Riots, when queer men worshipped Mae West and a sharp, sardonic tongue was their only weapon. By the time The Muppet Show was at its height, gay men had already moved on to body-building and Donna Summer. Perhaps this is why Pride Parades feature Bert and Ernie and not Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy, with her exaggerated femininity, barely concealed aggression, and pining love of a “straight” man, reminds gays of their past. Bert and Ernie as a committed couple is a more useful symbol for gay activists still fighting for same-sex marriage, even if it is a projection of fans. Puppeteers aren’t the only ones who can pull the strings.

Max Mosher is a freelance writer who has written for the Toronto Standard, WORN Fashion Journal, the Utne Reader, and Hello Mr. magazine. He tweets under @max_mosher_. Despite his best efforts, he’s more Kermit than Miss Piggy.

LGBTQI Week: Pariah

Pariah (2011)

This review by Monthly Guest Contributor Carrie Nelson previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on January 25, 2012.

I enjoyed many films in 2011. All of my favorite films of the year, however, were the ones that unnerved me with their honesty, sticking in my thoughts long after the end credits rolled. One of those films was Martha Marcy May Marlene, which I’ve already written about, and another was Pariah.

Pariah, in its simplest terms, is a lesbian coming-of-age story. Yet it is unlike any other lesbian coming-of-age story I have ever seen, largely because the film is not about a young woman’s initial discovery or self-acceptance of sexual identity. When we meet Alike (played masterfully by Adepero Oduye), she already is well aware of and comfortable with her sexual orientation. The film does not start from a place of Gay 101; there are no scenes where Alike expresses sexual confusion or the desire to be straight. It operates under the assumption that our heroine is out (at least to her friends and high school English teacher) and proud.

Alike and Laura

Instead of a traditional coming out story, Alike’s journey is about finding her place within her community. At home, her mother (Kim Wayans) encourages her to dress femininely and act ladylike. (One of the most heartbreaking scenes in the film involves Alike’s discomfort wearing a pink blouse that her mother was so excited for her to try on.) Outside of home, her friend Laura (Pernell Walker) teaches her how to convincingly present as butch and suavely seduce femmes. Alike is able to navigate both worlds, but she does not feel fully comfortable in either of them. The film follows her as she shatters the assumptions others make about her and determines what she needs to do to be truly happy.

What impressed me the most about Pariah was its ability to depict the uncomfortable awkwardness of being a teenager. Though the film is very specific in its geographic and cultural location, Alike’s need to find her place in her social circle is universal. When she accompanies Laura to clubs, she is unable to comfortably flirt with other women. She tries hard to adopt a butch identity, but it never feels right. Early on in the film, Alike experiments with packing, but she quickly determines that a phallus is not what she needs. It is not until she meets Bina (Aasha Davis, who I’ve loved since she played Waverly on Friday Night Lights), the daughter of her mother’s friend, that Alike finds herself in a situation where she can present her sexuality and gender identity in the most authentic way, without pretense or expectation. And although Alike’s relationship with Bina turns in a surprising direction, the experience is necessary for her to begin to see the variety of ways in which she can be a queer woman.

I appreciated the diversity of queer women depicted in Pariah. From women who self-identify as lesbians to women who simply enjoy being intimate with other women, from women who have masculine or feminine gender presentations to women who cannot be so easily labeled, Pariah shows that there is no single way to be queer. Mainstream depictions of gay identity tend to reinforce stereotypes, but while Pariah does feature women in traditional butch-femme pairings, such relationships are not the only ones presented, nor are they shown to be the “right” way to be gay. All of the characters and relationships in Pariah have flaws, but all are also beautiful in their own ways. I was continually struck by the film’s honesty as I watched it, and the diversity of women and relationships presented is an excellent example of that honesty.

Audrey and Alike

Audrey, Alike’s mother, is one of the most fascinating characters in the film. Rather than a one-note antagonist, as parents of gay teens are often depicted on-screen, Audrey struck me as a woman who truly wants to connect with her daughter but does not understand how. She seems to know all along that Alike is gay, but she believes that if she buys her enough feminine clothing, dictates her friendships and talks to her about boys, Alike will be straight. This behavior only distances Alike from her mother, and understandably so – it is not the behavior of a tolerant or accepting parent. But there is never a doubt that Audrey truly loves her daughter and wants what is best for her, a fact that makes the climax of the film so difficult to watch. I only wish the film had been able to flesh Audrey out more and spend more time with her character. One of my favorite scenes is one of Audrey sitting in the break room at her office, mutually ignoring the rest of her colleagues who are eating together and chatting. Audrey only breaks out of her shell when a friend approaches her and asks her about the new clothing she bought for her daughters. The implication seems to be that Audrey is materialistic and a bit of a snob, but we do not find out more about that. I wish we had – it might have provided more insight into why she adopts such a conventional view of female gender identity and sexuality.

One cannot discuss Pariah without acknowledging the fact that it is a film about queer women of color made by a queer woman of color. It’s rare that women of color are given the opportunity to tell their own stories, and in a year during which The Help is receiving enormous critical praise and attention, it is disheartening that a film like Pariah is receiving so much less notice. Pariah is a vitally important film, and its story and performances are as strong as you will find in any other film from 2011. At the time of writing this review, Academy Award nominations have yet to be announced, and I am hoping that, when they are, Pariah and its creator, Dee Rees, will receive their well-deserved recognition. Whether or not they do, I encourage you to seek the film out in theatres. It may not be the flashiest or most technically elaborate film of the past year, but it is without question one of the most honest.

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Carrie Nelson is a Bitch Flicks monthly contributor. She was a Staff Writer for Gender Across Borders, an international feminist community and blog that she co-founded in 2009. She works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit, and she is currently pursuing an MA in Media Studies at The New School.

LGBTQI Week: Why You Should Love ‘FlashForward’s’ Janis Hawk

This is a guest review by TJ Murphy.

When considering the finest LGBTQ representation in television, the short-lived science fiction television series FlashForward may not be at the top of your mental list.

The 2009 ABC show—about a mysterious event that causes the entire planet to black out for two minutes and seventeen seconds (exactly), during which each person on Earth experiences a “flash-forward” into his or her life six months into the future—lasted for only one season. The cancellation was perhaps warranted due to the extreme overacting of lead Joseph Fiennes (no doubt better suited for roles like Shakespeare in the lauded Shakespeare in Love) and the contrary “blahness” of his co-lead John Cho.

However, the show’s premise of getting a glimpse into one’s future provided a gamut of philosophical conundrums concerning free will—whether or not we have any—that charmed the pants of this philosophy major’s heart. If those quandaries would not suffice to make you all hot and heavy though, I have five magic words for why you should find and watch this one-season show: FBI Special Agent Janis Hawk.

Janis is introduced to the show as a member of the L.A.-based FBI team (led by lead character Mark Benford, played by the histrionic Fiennes) that will strive to solve the mystery of the flash-forward. She wears navy power suits, speaks in a gravely, sarcastic tone, and is, in her own words, “super gay.” Thank you baby Jesus!

Now let’s get this straight. She is (*sob* was) an out lesbian character on a major television network whose sexuality has nothing to do with the show’s premise and little to do with the character’s personality and interaction with her coworkers. She is a strong, female character who happens to like the ladies, much to the dismay of some poor shmuck who asks her out at karate practice. Instead, she leaves with this woman, the alluring Maya:

You know what? Let’s take a little YouTube break. (This clip will kick your ass, wine-and-dine you and then make you breakfast). Oh, I forgot the last minute of it! It will also make your heart sad.

The fabulous Christine Woods as Janis Hawk is only an auxiliary character; a B story to the show, and her love life is only a B story to her B story, if you will. The fact that Janis’ romance has the emotional turmoil to guide us from first-date jitters to steamy sexual tension and then on to disappointment and abandonment in such a short span of screen time is a testament to the character’s strength.

Indeed, Janis Hawk is not a fabulous character because she is a lesbian and that lends her some sort of diversity credential. She is a fabulous character because she is a layered one. In her fast-forward, she sees herself as pregnant, getting a sonogram, enamored with love for her unborn child. This startles her because 1) she has never wanted a child and 2) in order to have a child, it would seem that there would need to be a penis involved and she remarks dryly, “I don’t like them.”

(Her “I don’t like them”—best delivery of a line… ever).

The fact that Janet broke up with Maya when Maya suggested that Janet’s future baby is theirs is a wonderful example of character complexity. Maya is overeager to make a family with Janet and Janet is understandably protective of her possible future pregnancy. She tells Maya, “This isn’t a me-you thing, Maya, this is a me thing.” She makes clear that her pregnancy would be just that, hers, and that Maya has no right to put claims over it. Feeling pressured and exposed, Janet ends it. What’s left from the brief relationship? Two characters—neither the villain nor the hero, no savior nor saved. These are the pieces left in a broken relationship, whether it be a straight or LGBTQ one, and when film or television manages to mirror reality like this, it is doing something very, very right.

When a run-in with some bad guys leaves Janet with a bullet wound in her stomach and a very rare chance of being able to conceive, Janet faces true heartbreak for the first time. She copes with feelings of failure, inadequacy and hopelessness stemming from the sickening feeling of recognizing her own desire to be a mother too late.

She also probably ruined her olive suit. (It matched my eyes and everything).

On a more frivolous note, the character of Janis wears this silver ring on her thumb—the very same thumb that she uses to draw Maya closer and sink them both into the ephemeral bliss of a kitchen kiss.

That flash of silver just gets me every time.

However, if getting to pretend that you’re dating this bundle of FBI-agent strength, sarcasm and flashing smile–

–is not enough motivation for you to watch the show, let’s remind ourselves of our little secret. Remember that Janis’ romance is a B story to her own B story within the show. There are many other complex and fascinating characters, including the male doctor she spoke with who is diagnosed with cancer yet sees a future with a beautiful Japanese woman and a haggard father who sees, in his vision, the daughter killed in action in Afghanistan alive and well six months later.

Moreover, as stated, Janis’ own story is far more complex than her romantic life and sexuality—as any well-rounded character should be, especially any LGBTQ character whose broadcast might stretch the minds of bigoted people.

At this point, I would like to warn you that there are a lot more surprises to the show that will keep you coming back for more, but if you hate any kind of spoilers, put your hands over your ears and sing “I Was Born This Way” right now. … Did I trick you? Instead, just don’t scroll down past this picture of a bunny in a knitted hat:

If Janis Hawk wasn’t already badass enough, she turns out to be…

A DOUBLE AGENT!!!!!!!!!

My case is closed. Love her, cherish her, cheer her on, and cry that this show only lasted a season so that we do not have more time with Janis Hawk.

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TJ Murphy is a rising senior at Dartmouth College studying philosophy and art history. She is now accepting any advice from anywhere as to what she should do for a living. She enjoys writing, bookstores, cappuccinos, and climbing trees and she is not usually bitter about cancelled television shows.

LGBTQI Week: The Problem with GLBT Representation in True Blood and Lost Girl

This is a guest post by Paul and Renee.

When it comes to GLBT representation in the media, unless a television show is targeted specifically at the community, erasure continues to be the norm. Urban fantasy has moved from a small die hard audience to the mainstream and though we can regularly see shows about vampires, werewolves, fae, and ghosts, there are few GLBT characters and a dearth of decent representation.

HBO’s True Blood and Showcase’s Lost Girl have the most visible GLBT characters on television in North America, in terms of the urban fantasy genre. Though both shows have GLBT characters who have extremely high profiles and a reputation of being extremely GLBT friendly, there are certainly many problematic elements.

True Blood is based on The Southern Vampire Series written by Charlaine Harris. In the novels, Lafayette is killed off quite early and is shamed for participating in a sex party. Thankfully, the character of Lafayette in True Blood has become a staple of the show. Despite being a fan favourite, Lafayette is a character that inarguably fulfills a lot of stereotypes that are aimed at same gender loving men of colour. Lafayette is a cook but he moonlights as a sex worker and a drug dealer. Though he is routinely given some of the best lines to say, he too often falls into the sassy best friend role.

Nelsan Ellis as Lafayette and Kevin Alejandro as Jesus in True Blood

In season three, we learned that Lafayette only started dealing V and doing sex work to pay for the hospitalisation of his mentally ill mother and though the reason is understandable, no other character on True Blood has been forced into this position though they are all working class.

If Lafayette is dogged by several stereotypes, Talbot revels in them. The lover of Russell Edgington (who is an awesome villain but also personifies the depraved, psychopathic homosexual trope), Talbot is a 700-year-old vampire who squeals at the sight of violence. He throws epic temper tantrums over the interior decorating. Someone stamp a rainbow on him and call his unicorn, he’s done. But to quickly fill his shoes we have Steve Newlin – get yourself another trope bingo card because he’s a) a gay man trying to force his attentions on a straight man b) a closeted homophobe, c) a closeted, bigoted preacher and d) getting campier by the episode – have you hit bingo yet? Bet you will by the end of the season, this was just 2 episodes!

The women aren’t free from stereotyping either; Tara finds her love for women and with it an interest in kick boxing – did she get some free dungerees and power tools with that?

I do have to say that not all the portrayals are stereotyped – Eddie subverts many (albeit he exists to serve and help Jason grow) and Jesus more – we don’t see enough about Pam and Nan to see what they fit. But except for Pam, they all fit one trope – GAY DEATH. Yes, there’s a drastic amount of “gay death” on this show. It’s a sad trope that GBLT people rarely live long on the television screen and their sexualty is often the cause of their deaths – and with Talbot (who actually died during gay sex! And to hurt his gay lover), Jesus (at the hands of his gay lover!), Eddie (found by his killers because he hired a gay prostitute), Sophie Ann and Nan were racking up the body count.

But, perhaps the most glaring flaw in True Blood is how the GBLT romances compare with the straight counterparts. True Blood is not a show that is shy about nudity or sex scenes – it is pretty unusual for episodes to go by without at least someone humping someone wearing very little. Eric, Sookie, Jason, Bill, Sam – we have seen them naked and going at it hammer and tongs. But Lafayette and Jesus? The contrast is blatant – even most of their kisses are in low light conditions. They go to bed wearing multiple layers of clothing (in Louisiana, no less) and their scenes together commonly have them sitting pretty far apart and lacking any real physical (or even emotional) intimacy. The emotional distance is very telling in what should be some of the most poignant scenes between them – when Jesus is grieving over his dead friend, when he is risking his life going into Marne’s shop, when Jesus emerges from that shop injured (Lafayette actually ran to hug Tara while Jesus bleeds); you’d expect some emotional angst here. But throughout season 4, you could have mistaken them for roommates, not lovers. This sanitisation is sadly prevalent with gay and bi male couples in television in general – their sex lives are considered more obscene than their straight counterparts, in need of censorship and “toning down.” True Blood’s straight explicitness makes this extremely blatant – with Lafayette and Jesus and even with Sam and Bill’s “Water in Arkansas” dream sequence (that cuts out just before a kiss). The closest we get to any explicit scenes is with Eric and Talbot – again with low light kissing, no nudity and, of course, saved for straight audiences by including the dreaded gay death.

We contrast that with the lesbian relationships and, if anything, we see a different story. But is this putting them on the same explicit level as the straight relationships or is it an attempt to pander to the straight male gaze? If anything, the scenes between women are more sexualised than between straight couples – not because they’re more explicit, but because they are less personal. Nan Flannigan and Pam both have sex (oral sex that doesn’t smudge their perfect make up, no less) with nameless, characterless women. The only actual relationship we have seen between two women is Tara and Naomi – and again, we saw them make out and have sex almost before we knew Naomi’s name. She appeared in exactly five episodes – and not for much of them at that – and in that time they were either having sex or fighting over Tara’s deception. She has now disappeared. Tara and Naomi’s relationship seemed to exist more to show sex and provide Tara with conflict than to be an actual relationship. All of these sex scenes feel even more gratuitous than the majority of the straight sex scenes because they add precious little to plot, story, development or any relationship – they’re there for the sake of the sex.

Rutina Wesley as Tara Thornton in True Blood

I love that True Blood goes out of its way to include so many GBLT characters – yet at the same time they make me cringe. Inclusion of many characters is great – but we shouldn’t be able to go through TV Tropes, ticking off the stereotypes, the tropes and the unfortunate prejudiced portrayals.

In Lost Girl, we move from having a GLBT character as a sidekick to the protagonist. Bo is a succubus – a being which takes life force from others through sexual contact. At first she is only interested in taking energy from evil doers because she has absolutely no control over her abilities. When she discovers that she is actually a member of the fae, and not some sinful freak, Bo begins a relationship with Dyson – a male werewolf. Vying for her attention is also the beautiful human doctor Lauren.

Essentially what develops is a love triangle and, as to be expected, it is far from simple. Bo has good chemistry with both Dyson and Lauren and in the end engages in sex with them separately. The problem then becomes a question of who does Bo really belong with. It is clear from the outset that though she cares very deeply for Lauren, her real love is Dyson. Dyson even goes as far as sacrificing the most important thing in his life – his love for her at the end of season one, in order to save Bo’s life. When they do have a break in their relationship, it is because he is temporarily unable to feel passion for her. It is during this period that Bo explores further possibilities with Lauren, which rather makes Lauren look like second choice.

Lauren is heavily attracted to Bo, but she is searching for a cure for her comatose girlfriend Nadia, who has been in stasis for five years. The first time that Lauren and Bo have sex, it is because Lauren has been ordered to do so by The Ash – the leader of the light fae. This amounts to sex through deception. Unfortunately, this isn’t the last time that sex between women happens at the behest of a man, which reads like cheap titillation. In a break from both Lauren and Dyson, Bo briefly dates the dark fae Ryan and he initiates a threesome, but what the camera focuses on is Bo’s interaction with the woman he procured. Clearly this was a sexual performance meant to please the straight male gaze.

The cast of Lost Girl

One of the most frustrating aspects of same sex love on Lost Girl is its treatment of the relationship between Nadia and Bo. After spending five years looking for cure for Nadia, Lauren is finally successful. However, after Nadia is infected by The Garuda, a few short episodes later, Lauren quickly assents to her desire to die. How are we to believe that Lauren held this faithful love for all of these years and then so quickly agreed that her partner should die? Nadia and Lauren’s feelings for her were determined disposable for the sake of furthering a love story which has clearly already been decided.

Even when Bo learns to control her desire to drain life energy during sex, there are still only two instances of sex between her and Lauren, which pales to the numerous times that Bo engaged in sex with Dyson. Lauren is the fragile human that Bo can potentially hurt, whereas Dyson literally represents everything that is good in terms of protection, strength and healing.

This of course places a premium on the heterosexual relationship over and above the gay one.

And this is perhaps the cornerstone of GBLT depictions in media in general – and certainly in these shows specifically – GBLT relationships are nearly always depicted as secondary to relationships of straight people. They can be there, but they have to take a back seat to the “real” relationships and depictions. Too often this backseat results in characters that are fraught with tropes and are frequently laden with stereotype after stereotype.

We’re happy, after so much erasure, that we’re actually seeing GBLT inclusion – and these programmes certainly do a lot right – but there’s still a lot dogging these characters.

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Paul and Renee blog and review at Fangs for the Fantasy. We’re great lovers of the genre and consume it in all its forms – but as marginalised people we also analyse critically through a social justice lens.

‘The Birdcage’: Where You Can Come As You Are

Dianne Weist as Louise, Hank Azaria as Agador, Christine Baranski as Katherine, and Gene Hackman as Senator Kevin Keely in The Birdcage

This is a guest review by Candice Frederick.

There’s a particularly memorable scene in director Mike Nichols’ big screen adaptation of the 1978 French comedy La Cage Aux Folles that few people talk about. Probably because, like much of 1996’s The Birdcage, the comedy is colorfully nuanced when you least expect it.

The setup: Robin Williams plays gay cabaret owner Armand Goldman, whose life partner is Albert (Nathan Lane), one of the must-see acts down at their drag queen hot spot in Miami, The Birdcage. Armand’s 20-year-old son Val (Dan Futterman) has announced that he’s engaged to be married to his teenage sweetheart, Barbara (Calista Flockhart), and must introduce his dad to her conservative parents, right-wing Senator Kevin Keeley (Gene Hackman) and his wife, Louise (Dianne Wiest). The politician and his wife would be in for an unwelcomed shock, if Armand and Albert hadn’t finally come up with the fool-proof plan to have Albert pose as Armand’s wife (in drag).

The scene: Val is with his dad Armand, fretting over having Albert involved in the farce at all as Albert is apparently far too flamboyant to pull off anything other than the performance du jour over at The Birdcage. As Val continues to fret over it, and exchange a few worries with his father, his insecurities begin to show and some of his comments come off unintentionally insensitive. And Albert just so happens to come in on the tail end of Val’s tantrum:

Oh yes, another jibe, another joke at my expense. You were probably laughing at me with Katherine, too. Well, why not? I’m not young, I’m not new, and everyone laughs at me. I’m quite aware of how ridiculous I am. I’ve been thinking that the only solution is to go where no one is ridiculous and everyone is equal. Goodbye, Armand.


Nathan Lane as Albert and Robin Williams as Armand in The Birdcage

That’s the thing with The Birdcage. It’s more absurd to disguise yourself as someone else rather than to unveil your true self—gay, straight, or otherwise. In other words, Armand and Albert are quite “normal,” despite other people’s projections of them. They are well-off business owners of the hottest spot around, and virtual celebrities in their glamorous hometown. Their swanky penthouse apartment would be the envy of anyone who was lucky enough to visit. They have lover’s quarrels just like anyone in any normal relationship have.

Their abnormality, so to speak, lies in the fact that they are two of the more modern gay male characters, whose sole purpose isn’t simply to enter the scene as the punch line in a mostly straight guy-focused film. Sure, they’re hilarious, their dance moves are enough to make both Beyoncé and Britney Spears blush, and you need a scalpel to remove the amount of makeup Armand has on his face (as Val points out in the movie). But, most importantly, you know their stories. They’re not just the gag.

You do an eclectic celebration of the dance! You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! You do Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham! Or Twyla, Twyla, Twyla! Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!… but you keep it all inside.


Nathan Lane as Albert in The Birdcage

Interestingly enough, the ‘90s offered a hodgepodge of films like this that showed a fully realized story of gay men. In 1993 we saw Tom Hanks as a gay man suffering from AIDS in Philadelphia. And who could forget 1995’s To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, where Patrick Swayze, Wesley Snipes and John Leguizamo play three drag queens on a road trip to nowhere town USA, where they discover a certain sense of self? Even on the small screen on Will & Grace (which debuted in 1998), we got to watch a gay male lawyer living large in New York City going through the same ridiculous scenarios we all have to endure.

They are a few exceptions, though we still have far to go, where the bridge between gay, straight or otherwise is just a wee bit narrower. And they serve as launching pads to some of the more impressive gay-themed films we see today.

It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to learn that The Birdcage held the highest weekend opening gross with an openly gay male lead for thirteen years until 2009’s Brüno. It’s entertaining, tongue-and-cheek, smart, and fully aware of itself.

Hank Azaria as Agador, Dan Futterman as Val, and Robin Williams as Armand in The Birdcage

Williams fits very snugly into the role of Armand, who’s the atypical gay male character we tend to see on the big screen. As indicated in the quote earlier, he keeps his sexuality a little closer to the heart, unlike Albert. Armand shows an interesting blend of church and state, and Williams balances those traits quite well, without robbing the character. But once he’s challenged, you really get to see his heart become more profound:

Yes, I wear foundation. Yes, I live with a man. Yes, I’m a middle- aged f*g. But I know who I am, Val. It took me twenty years to get here, and I’m not gonna let some idiot senator destroy that. F&*k the senator, I don’t give a damn what he thinks.

It’s simple, and straight to the point. Broadway veteran Lane and Williams have fantastic chemistry. You can tell that many of the most amusing lines from the movie may have showed their keen sense of improv, which makes these actors even more astounding. Not only are the two leads exceptional, Futterman’s fervent portrayal of a guy desperately trying to do the right thing, for everyone, and Flockhart’s wide-eyed sweet girl act are also captivating to watch. Moreover, Hackman and Wiest are a barrel of laughs as the pretentious senator and his gloriously oblivious wife, who both represent the people on the other side of The Birdcage.

The Birdcage is a little film with knee-slapping scenes coupled with thoughtfully acute moments as well. It doesn’t aim to change the perception of gay culture, but it offers a look into one gay family by putting them into an extraordinarily futile situation indicative of exactly what the characters fight against. You see why they’ve created The Birdcage, where everyone can come as really they are and fit right in.

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Candice Frederick is an NABJ award-winning journalist and film blogger for Reel Talk. She’s also written for Essence Magazine and The Urban Daily. Follow her on twitter.

Call for Writers: LGBTQI Representations in Film and Television

It’s that time again!

This is a wide-open theme, and we welcome all proposals that examine LGBTQI themes in film and television, however one chooses to interpret it; there are, after all, no strict definitions. You can find a slew of lists online that might give you some ideas on where to start, and I’ll link to a few here:

Greatest Lesbian Movies

List of Television Programs with LGBT Characters

Lesbian Film Review

The Big Queer Movie List

List of Transgender Characters in Film and Television

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These are a few basic guidelines for guest writers on our site:

–We like most of our pieces to be 1,000 – 2,000 words, preferably with some images and links.

–Please send your piece in the text of an email, including links to all images, no later than Friday, June 22nd.

–Include a 2-3 sentence bio for placement at the end of your piece.

Email us at btchflcks(at)gmail(dot)com if you’d like to contribute a review. We accept original pieces or cross-posts.

Submit away!

Guest Writer Wednesday: Review – Pariah

Pariah (2011)

This is a guest post from Carrie Nelson.

Alike and Laura

Audrey and Alike

Carrie Nelson has previously written about Martha Marcy May Marlene, Precious, Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, The Social Network, Sleepaway Camp, and Mad Men for Bitch Flicks. She is a Founder and Editor of Gender Across Borders and works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC.