In the immediate, one would imagine, that might not be the case, and not just because overseas travel and social distancing will be with us for a while. Even before the pandemic, the London Film Festival, also programmed by the BFI, made efforts to extend its reach outside of the capital with a select number of more mainstream festival picks screened in cinemas around the country. In 2020 they moved beyond those safe bets to hotly anticipated films such as Chloe Zhao’s exquisite Nomadland and Francis Lee’s period romance Ammonite. Admittedly, these were not “nationwide” in the classic sense – i.e. available everywhere – but, rather, in 12 cinemas in major cities from Manchester to Edinburgh.

The idea of looking to the future, however, applies not only to the festival format but to the films themselves. For the most part, film festivals act as a springboard, as an open sea of mostly unvetted titles. Sure, quite a few of the more prominent films arrive with an element of prestige already bestowed on them by other festivals (some in this year’s Flare line-up have appeared at Outfest, TIFF, and more) but there is also a chance to uncover something new, something exciting and different. In that way, festivals can indicate what is to come by premiering fresh-faced films looking to establish themselves, and BFI Flare 2021, a festival that began in 1986 and dedicates itself to LGBTQ+ film, indicates that documentary is ramping up significantly. 

Rebel Dykes (June 2021) tells the story of lesbian activists with plenty of anti-nuclear protesting, sexual politics, and anti-Thatcher activism to boot. Directors Harri Shanahan and Sian A. Williams combine archive footage with interviews and animation to create a genuinely punk-feeling documentary that is an excellent antidote to mainstream films’ more assimilationist messaging. What’s also soothing is the trans inclusion within the radical lesbianism, which the documentary makes a point of addressing – this seems pertinent given the current state of trans rights and feminism in the UK. Elsewhere, Cured (TBC), a more typical feature, documents the campaign lead by LGBTQ+ activists to remove homosexuality from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). It features hard-to-stomach descriptions of “therapy” thrust upon LGBTQ+ people over time, and interviews with those who fought to remove it. Meanwhile, Mama Gloria(TBC), a far smaller affair than the aforementioned two, follows Gloria Allen, a trans woman and activist in her Chicago home. Throughout the film, she meets up with those she has inspired, her old school friends, and her family to trace her life and legacy, creating a touching portrait of a too-often ignored icon. 

Less impressive, it might seem, is the fiction film on display. This is not to say that most weren’t, at the very least, enjoyable in some way, but for the most part they felt like somewhat derivative versions of things that have come before. By far the most original was The Obituary of Tunde Johnson (TBC), which follows a Nigerian-American teenager who is shot by police officers during a “traffic stop”. This leads Tunde (Steven Silver) to be stuck in a time-loop in which he is forced to live the same day repeatedly, where he is always killed – in differing scenarios – by a police officer, only to wake up back in his bed. The clever weaponizing of a Groundhog Day narrative places a viewer in constant fear and awareness of the police, which works to emulate the state of mind of a young black man, like Tunde, in modern America. Unfortunately, the melodrama surrounding this premise – that Tunde is secretly dating a hot, chiselled jock who has yet to come out – is far less exciting and innovative. 

Outside of this, films like Boy Meets Boy and Sublet both attempt to go for a mash-up of Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy and Andrew Haigh’s Weekend, to varying results. Sublet, the marginally better of the two, struggles to establish what it really wants to say and flounders around in predictable plotlines and stereotypes. Boy Meets Boy trades in Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy for two young gay men – one British and one German – and swaps out Vienna for Berlin as the two spend 10 hours together before one has to catch their flight back to the UK. The relative simplicity of films like this – that it’s just two people talking for two hours – is far harder to capture than it might appear, and neither can offer up much that is genuinely original. As for Firebird, the flashy and sexy period drama set in Soviet Russia, it feels more like something for a Sunday night on the BBC. It’s as if they want to capitalize on the success of recent romantic dramas like And Then We Danced or God’s Own Country (both of which screened at the festival in 2020 and 2017, respectively) but lack the authenticity to do so, instead offering something that feels lukewarm overall. It desperately wants the emotional weight of Portrait of a Lady on Fire within a military setting like Moffie, but unfortunately, all it does is remind you there are better films out there you could be watching. Speaking of other movies, both The Greenhouse and the semi-autobiographical Jump Darling try their best to bring some zazz but, for the most part, don’t quite stick the landing, even if both feature solid performances. Especially the latter, which brings us acting legend Cloris Leachman’s final performance, which is, of course, nuanced and touching. 

Finally, the most egregious of all might be Cowboys, an American drama starring Steve Zahn and Jillian Bell. It tells the story of a trans child, Joe (Sasha Knight), without really considering the trans perspective. Written and directed by a cisgender woman, Anna Kerrigan, the story revolves around how two thinly drawn parents, Troy and Sally (played by Zahn and Bell, respectively), each navigate the information that their child is trans. Sally refuses to believe it isn’t more than just a phrase and refuses to buy toys that aren’t “meant” for girls, whilst Troy, a temperamental alcoholic, is more accepting but is also facing his own battles. In light of this disagreement, Troy kidnaps Joe (who is constantly put in cheap wigs), and they set off for the Canadian border on horseback. In the end, Cowboys results to nothing more than a sensationalist drama for straight and cisgender folks that shuns the perspective of the queer child who should be at its centre. 

Ultimately, BFI Flare is uniquely positioned as a beacon of queer cinema in the UK and its highlighting of films like Rebel Dykes – which they previewed in 2016 – and their commitment to offering independent queer film a platform. It seems that, for all of us, 2020 has had an effect. Last year’s festival, which was one of the first to move online in mid-March as the UK went into lockdown, offered up the seminal documentary on trans representation in the media, Disclosure, as well as the aforementioned military drama Moffie. Other highlights included Isabel Sandoval’s much-lauded Linga Franca, Hong Khaou’s tender second feature Monsoon, and Oliver Ducastel and Jacques Martineau’s dark and complicated Don’t Look Down. Now, just a year later, there are simply fewer films rearing and ready to go with the future of the distribution and the industry at large in flux. 

It may seem that, from my summations here, a lot of the entries into this year’s Flare festival were a little lacking, especially compared with last year, and that might not be entirely fair. I have to disclose my bias: as a queer person, I’m positioned to want a lot from my LGBTQ+ and Queer Cinema. That means that, when it disappoints, it really disappoints. I feel, when they aren’t perfect, like that famous clip of Tyra Banks: “I was rooting for you, we were all rooting for you!” I’m sure the films I’ve discussed here will find their audience; there are many LGBTQ+ viewers out there desperate for something new who will see a glimpse of themselves within them. All of us are looking to the future; the future of film, festivals, and queer cinema. All of us want the best.  

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On Kathryn Hahn

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The film follows Abby (Kristen Stewart) as she agrees to spend Christmas with her girlfriend, Harper (McKenzie Davis), and her family for the first time. The catch? Harper isn’t out to her parents, and for the five days they’re staying with them they’ll have to pretend to be “roommates” and hope that no one picks up the 1970s undertones of that word. Abby begrudgingly agrees, but their trip brings into question Harper’s commitment to their relationship and also brings up her past; one in which she has acted cruelly towards an ex-girlfriend and has an ex-boyfriend who her family thinks she’ll eventually marry. It pits Stewart and her queer world against Harper’s family – a wealthy, white, seemingly conservative, political family who are seeking donors for the father’s mayoral campaign.

Despite my reservations about the holiday itself, I was excited for Happiest Season. Clea Duvall is a great comedic actress who I loved as Margery on Veep, and, on top of that, I enjoyed her directorial debut well enough, The Intervention, in 2016. The latter being a mid-range ensemble comedy that dealt with the breaking down of a relationship. I also love Kristen Stewart from her reckless swearing on SNL, to her fashion sense, to her nuanced performances in films like Personal Shopper, Certain Women, Still Alice, and The Clouds of Sils Maria, for which she won a César (the French Oscar) and became the first American woman to do so. When you add to that a cast that includes Aubrey Plaza, Dan Levy, and Mary Steenburgen I was entirely sold. After watching it, however, I’m not so sure.

Whether or not Happiest Season is “queer” enough isn’t a conversation I’m interested in having any more. I think there are valid conversations to be had about its whiteness and its cis-ness, though. While art can be inherently political and, through its casting and narrative it does subvert typical norms, it still conforms quite neatly to a heteronormative ideal – with Abby planning to propose to Harper at Christmas despite her friend John (Levy), reminding her that she’s “engaging in one of the most archaic institutions in the history of the human race.”

In the film, even though the spectre of heterosexuality looms large, the two leads are lesbians (well, one of them might be bisexual but the movie doesn’t offer much in the way of this interpretation.). In the past, mainstream Christmas movies have allowed queer couples only to exist as supporting characters. In one of my acceptable Christmas movies, The Family Stone, Tyrone Giordano, and Brian White play a gay couple who are members of the titular family. Their sexuality, which is used occasionally to develop the stony and lost-for-words Meredith (Sarah Jessica Parker), is not often discussed (but, in a movie that features so much bed-swapping and romantic drama it is sad to see them sit it out.)

There is no straight romance to counteract the gay in Happiest Season and there is no straight drama to hide behind. Yet, it does feel like it’s accessible to both gay and straight people. Usually, that would bother me. It did with 2018’s Love, Simon, or even, a few months ago, with Supernova, the Colin Firth and Stanley Tucci two-hander. The desire to appeal to straight people by either offering a diluted version of queer people – i.e. basically classically handsome straight-acting white people – or (spoilers for Supernova) killing them off so audiences can feel sympathy for them. God forbid straight folks might have to empathise with the gay experience that doesn’t involve death!

Anyway, I’ve digressed slightly, but what I mean to say is this; Happiest Season is potentially a step in the right direction but it depends how you look at it (well, apart from the overwhelmingly white part, that’s bad from every angle.) Stewart, an openly queer woman, shines in all her pantsuit, beanie hat, and sneakers glory. She is funny and awkward, while able to capture the difficulty her character has with being forced back into the closet. Also, spoiler alert for Happiest Season, no one dies.

I might watch it again next year, if not just to see the palpable sexual tension between Stewart and Plaza (I know I’m not the first to say it, but those two should be together.) It may even open a conversation with people who might not normally engage in that kind of discussion, about how the holidays can be difficult for queer folk who often have to hide who they are.

I suppose, it’s time for me to stop expecting so much from mainstream movies. I still will continue to be vocal about the number of queer characters that die, but I don’t think it’s time for me to give up on seeing myself in them. Instead, I’ll reframe them gateway films (so they don’t make me so mad!)

Gateway films, like gateway drugs, are a low-level intro into something larger. Happiest Season is sedate enough that it might creep into the average home but, just like Love, Simon it’s queer enough for young folks to get it. These films might reach the young queer kids who aren’t able to see the more radical or bold queer cinema such as Kajillionare or Ammonite (both of which premiered this year too.) It might act as their gateway to seeing themselves on screen, which in turn will feed a curiosity in other representations. It might lead them to bigger and better things.

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On Nicole Kidman

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As for in the UK, the government offered no such suggestion – although,  having Chris Whitty or Boris Johnson dictating the specifics of my sex life would kill what little libido I have left – and thus, we were told we wouldn’t hug a stranger until 2021. So whether it was organising a sex buddy with the precision of a NASA Space Launch or being forced into celibacy by government restrictions, for most single people, sex has become, well, unsexy. 

This has become increasingly harder to deal with when watching movies with sex scenes. The touching, the kissing, the licking, the panting, the sweat; all of which feel both dangerous and off-limits now. Recently, I watched Matt Bomer and Andrew Rannell’s get it on in Joe Mantello’s The Boys in the Band remake. It’s only for a few seconds, but the two beautiful men kiss, drenched in sweat and passion, and all I could think was they’re definitely not six feet apart. I couldn’t find it hot (which objectively it was) because all I could think of was all the germs that might be passed around in their hot breath. 

The pandemic has made sex unsexy and has made even watching sex scenes tough because it requires a physical closeness that most of us fear now. We can’t be near people, but when we see actors on screen, in movies filmed sometime last year, getting too close, it’s hard to un-train the brain to not panic at the sight of their touching. 

As Raven Smith noted in Vogue earlier this week, it’s not only the closeness but also the current climate stopping us from “feelings super-duper horny” these days. News of Trump, Brexit, Boris Johnson, death tolls, tiered lockdown systems, social unrest, racism, violence, and corruption are not exactly subjects that lead to being turned on. It’s hard to spend all day on Zoom taking in news updates, and rumours of impending lockdowns, and still have the mental capacity for sex – if the option is still available to you. Plus, any sex scenes I watch just serve to mock me. Not only because I wince at the touching but because they say to me: Look at all the fun you could have been having if you weren’t in the throes of a major historical event. 

I used to see sex scenes as a marker of boldness, especially in queer cinema. Whether that was Jake Gyllenhaal bottoming on a stomach full of baked beans, or Taron Edgerton, as Elton John, getting into bed with Richard Madden, it often signified a film’s willingness to “go there”. Was the filmmaker unafraid of alienating a straight audience by showing queer sex? Rachel Wiess spitting in Rachel McAdams mouth in Disobedience, Josh O’Connor and Alec Secareanu rolling round in the mud in God’s Own Country, or the sandy-handy on the beach in Moonlight set them apart from the “straight-friendly” LGBTQ+ movies that tried to toe the line. 

I hope, soon, I can return to that mindset. One in which I’m excited by sex scenes again and take pride in the unabashed sexiness. In fact, I’m just as keen to enjoy sex scenes as I am literal sex. Still, as my neighbours taught me at 7am last Thursday, not everyone is in the same boat.

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On the Value of Youth

Your contribution to Big Picture Film Club will allow us to continue to produce content. No matter the amount your contributions are greatly appreciated.

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In some ways Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) does better. Sure, it approaches the bisexuality of Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn with an easy-to-miss millisecond in the film’s opening animation and the much-talked-about relationship between villains Black Mask and Victor Zsasz (played by Ewan McGregor and Chris Messina, respectively) is nothing to write home about (even if Zasaz’s bleach-blond dye-job screams ‘gay man in distress’.) All that being said, it does have Renee Montoya, played by Rosie Perez; a jaded queer cop with a penchant for speaking in 80s cop clichés. It’s revealed, in voice-over, that Montoya has an ex-girlfriend (played by Ali Wong) who works for the DA in Gotham. Montoya is far more rounded and substantially queer than anyone in those movies mentioned above but it still doesn’t quite feel like enough. I’ve seen countless muscled white dudes kissing different skinny white women in almost every superhero film ever. I’ve seen men and women, in all kinds of romantic scenarios, kissing while they run from volcanoes, spaceships, or supervillains. I was even recently subjected to Rey and Kylo Ren’s horrendously odd kiss in The Rise of Skywalker. It’s all there, right in your face, all the time. So why, when it comes to LGBTQ+ characters, does it all feel so, well, casual? 

Whether it’s categorised as queerbaiting or seen as studios trying to ‘toe the line’ for the elusive and hard to define ‘Middle America’, it always comes down to money. If not for those in ‘the middle of the country’ then the problem is outsourced to other countries, like Malaysia or China, who won’t spend their hard-earned cash on LGBTQ+ content. It seems the big studios, and those in charge of franchises, want to have their Queer Cake and eat it too. A little deniable queerness please, they say, but not too much that it might genuinely mean anything. Mass appeal is the driving force but ultimately that means that queer people, who are so used to watching straight folks copulate on screen, get a whole lot of nothing.

LGBTQ+ relationships, romances, and experiences are frequently side-lined in this system. They’re never central to a film’s plot so it can be recut and still make sense. But what is the overall effect? A feeling of being second-class to heterosexuality? A lack of worth? When queer characters exist on the fringes, in fleeting moments, in the subtext, it sends a message: these stories, these people, are not worth the airtime compared to their straight counterparts. I mean, the most prominent TV show of the last decade, Game of Thrones, featured a substantial amount of straight sibling-on-sibling action. How does incest play in ‘the middle of the country’ I wonder? A whole lot better than a two-second gay kiss, I guess.

Is there hope for the future? Who can say? Patty Jenkins has been spotted filming scenes featuring the ‘Silence = Death’ protest signs for her upcoming Wonder Woman 1984 and Kevin Feige has promised an LGBTQ+ character in The Eternals, a story about God-like entities from space. While recent Oscar-winner Taki Waititi has teased that Tessa Thompson’s Valkyrie will finally take flight as a fully-fledged, and explicitly acknowledged, bisexual woman in Thor: Love & Thunder.

But hope, well hope is a dangerous thing for a queer like me to have. These promises, the big studios waving their rainbow flags on the horizon, don’t inspire much trust. I know we have Ryan Murphy on Netflix with his adaption of Boys in the Band, featuring an all-gay cast of actors. We also have Murphy’s grander adaption of the Broadway musical The Prom, with a (mostly straight) all-star cast including Nicole Kidman, Meryl Streep, Keegan-Michael Key, and Kerry Washington to name a few. Actual real-life queer woman Kirsten Stewart is also set to star in a Thanksgiving-themed lesbian Rom-Com from Clea Duvall, and Britain promises to unveil its film adaption of the drag based musical Everybody’s Talking About Jamie this Autumn but who can say how big any of these films will hit. It doesn’t feel obtuse to suggest that it won’t be on the level of any major franchise.

At the 2020 Independent Spirit Awards, a clip of the Gay Men’s Choir of Los Angeles singing about ‘The Gayest Moments in Other Films You May Not Have Realised Were Gay’ went viral. Its appreciation of the queer lens, of Jennifer Lopez in Hustlers and Laura Dern’s entire career was funny, accurate, and unmistakably the product of Gay Twitter. Even so, it was a little sad to think that so many queer people are, out of necessity, watching and claiming things that weren’t made with them in mind. Of course, there is power in reclamations, in queering the narrative, in forcing yourself into a place that didn’t consider you and making it your own, but it shouldn’t have to be that way every time LGBTQ+ people watch a blockbuster. Will that ever change? I’m not holding my breath.

Also Read: Where Are All The Young Moviegoers?

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However, a dominant swell of independent cinema (sometimes called New-Wave Queer Cinema) that took on identity, the intersection between sexuality and race, homophobia, our collective history, the AIDS epidemic, sex, and so much more came to the forefront. Yes, LGBTQ+ independent film left few stones unturned over the past ten years as it portrayed varied and nuanced experiences. Even so, there is still a significant lack of representation of disabled LGBTQ+ folk, as well representation of trans folk and people of colour is still substantially lower than it should be which will hopefully change in the decade to come.

These films from the past 10 years grappled the challenging decade it has been and found hope, anger, and desire in the process. Here are some of the highlights…

‘Pariah‘, dir. Dee Rees (2011) 

Dee Rees’ has become one to watch over this past decade, with her work on HBO’s Bessie and Netflix’s Mudbound, her hazy and fresh style landed her an adaption of Joan Didion’s The Last Thing He Wanted (scheduled for release next year). But it all began with Pariah, adapted from her earlier short film, it is a story of a teenager in Brooklyn navigating identity, first love, and familial pressures. 

‘Weekend‘, dir. Andrew Haigh (2011) 

In this early indie hit, Russell and Glen men meet at a bar and go home together. Over the following days the two battle with the idea of commitment, monogamy, intimacy, and love in Andrew Haigh’s debut film that is simple, subtle, and modern with a mixture of pathos and joy. 

‘Stranger by the Lake‘, dir. Alain Guiraudie (2013)

A French sexual thriller that dared to be bold and vivid, the film utilised graphic portrayals of sex and violence. The film revolves around a murder in a prime cruising spot and a sexual relationship that is complex and dangerous, passionate and risky. Featuring stark nudity, rising tension, and gorgeous cinematography, Stranger by the Lake is a sultry and dangerous ride. 

‘Tangerine‘, dir. Sean Baker (2015)

A genuinely original independent production shot entirely on iPhones, Tangerine is a brash, bold, and initiative film filled with humour and struggle. Kitana Kiki Rodriguez and Mya Taylor star as two sex workers looking for an ex-boyfriend on Christmas Eve in LA, and their performances are deeply grounded and light up the screen with a flurry of energy and presence. Also, it’s the best queer Christmas movie to date!

‘Carol‘, dir. Todd Haynes (2015)

The slow, cold, burn of Todd Hayne’s Carol whipped people into a frenzy in 2015. The adaptation of famed lesbian author Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Price of Salt, the film saw Cate Blanchett’s housewife fall for Rooney Mara’s sensitive shop-girl in a wildly cinematic romance that could put classic cinema to shame. 

‘In Between‘, dir. Maysaloun Hamoud (2016)

The story of three women who share a flat in Tel-Aviv who have to navigate their conservative families and the cultural divide. One that leaves them influenced by the West but living in the Middle East – a situation that brings into question things like religion, sexual violence, tradition, sexuality, and female kinship. The director, Maysaloun Hamoud, had a fatwa issued against her for her frank depictions of sexuality, drugs, and womanhood.

‘Moonlight‘, dir. Barry Jenkins (2016) 

Taking the Best Picture Oscar at the 89th Academy Awards, Moonlight cemented itself into cinematic history. The film explored queer longing and desire from the black masculine perspective in a way that was tender with cinematography that firmly placed male beauty and black men at its centre.

‘120 BPM (Beats Per Minute)‘, dir. Robin Campillo (2017)

Boldly political and deeply enthralling, Beats Per Minute follows the Parisian branch of ACT UP in the 1980’s as they fight for visibility and recognition. It’s an elegy for the people who were lost and visceral protest for them too. Enthrallingly rich, sexual, personal, and queer BPM is queer cinema at its most perfect. 

‘A Fantastic Woman‘, dir. Sebastian Lelio (2017)

Sebastian Lelio brings his hazy glow to the story of Marina (Daniela Vega), a waitress and nightclub singer, who is grieving the loss of her boyfriend while also facing suspicion from the police that she was involved in his death. Vega’s performance is one of the best this decade with nuance and anger rolled into a mish-mash of jubilation and sadness.

‘God’s Own Country‘, dir. Francis Lee (2017)

Set in the Yorkshire countryside, Francis Lee’s protagonists find romance amongst premature lambs and blistering cold. Decidedly dark and moody, the film is beautifully tender with erotic sex in the mud, self-sabotage, and questions of commitment, xenophobia, and love. 

‘1985‘, dir. Yen Tan (2018) 

1985 flew mostly under the radar but packed an emotional punch into its short runtime. Adrian, (Cory Michael Smith) returns home to his family with some news he’s reluctant to tell them. Smith and Jamie Chung, who plays Adrian’s high school best friend, are superbly matched in this tribute to a generation of LGBTQ+ people who were abandoned. Brutally emotional and superbly considered, 1985 is a true revelation.

‘The Miseducation of Cameron Post‘, dir. Desiree Akhavan (2018) 

The decade brought with it a Vice President of America who believed in conversion therapy. Akhavan’s sweet, harrowing, mature, and underrated tale about a group of young people finding each other at that one of those camps was the perfect antidote. Both politically and emotionally engaging, Akhavan blends the format of a teen comedy with the prevalent spectre of right-wing bigotry as the film found joy in the kinship of queer folk, the awkward nature of teenage sexuality, and examined the evil within those that want to convert them.

‘Pain and Glory‘, dir. Pedro Almodóvar (2019) 

No list on Queer Cinema would be complete without Pedro Almodóvar and his deeply personal 2019 film about legacy, mortality, and memory was extraordinary. Through the vessel of Antoni Bandaras, Almodóvar creates a portrait of himself, his losses and his relationships with supreme precision and emotion. It is a master working at the height of his craft and it’s thrilling to watch. 

‘Portrait of a Lady On Fire‘, dir. Céline Sciamma (2019)

Radical and tender, Portrait of a Lady on Fire oozes with longing and passion. It’s part gothic novel and part feminist reclamation of the past. There is a trend of ‘repressed lesbian period dramas’ of late, but this film feels more modern than most movies released in 2019 with its approach to examining female autonomy and gaze, with an exceptional retelling of a famous Greek myth to-boot. A true must-see!

Honourable Mentions: And Then We Danced (2019) / End of the Century (2019) / Can You Ever Forgive Me (2018) / Sauvage (2018) / Paris 5:59: Theo & Hugo (2016) / Certain Woman (2016) / Nasty Baby (2015) / Grandma (2015) / Pride (2014) / Love is Strange (2014) / Lilting (2014) / Keep The Lights On (2012) / Kaboom (2010) 

Also Read: Rebel Without A Pulse, Art Without A Soul

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