Queer as Folk has an almost totemic place in queer culture. The original show, which aired on Channel 4 in 1999, is often evoked by gay men, and others, as something that introduced them to a metropolitan gay life that existed beyond the trappings of a regional existence. There is a recurring image presented by gays on Twitter of the young queer watching it on TV in secret with the sound turned as low as possible, resting one hand on the remote control ready to switch to any other channel. 

I first watched the show when it was uploaded to 4OD (or All4 as it is apparently called now, though I don’t know a single person who calls it that.) It was filled with sex and unapologetic gay men. It was soapy at times, yet always wore its specific brand of humour well, a type of humour that would continue into its creator, Russell T. Davies’, later projects too. The original series followed Stewart, Craig, and Nathan, three gay men living in Manchester who spent their weekends out on Canal Street. Even when I watched it, in 2008, that seemed radical. Perhaps, as a symbol of how groundbreaking it really was, nearly two decades later, very little has come close to it. There were men kissing on screen, something I’d very rarely seen, and they were often naked, in the throes of sex, and, heck, the show even featured a discussion of “rimming” in the first episode. Outside of sexually progressive American shows like Sex and the City, which, like Queer as Folk, often found itself at the receiving end of moralistic diatribes, the sex on Queer as Folk was like nothing I’d seen before and that’s one of the reasons, I think, the show was so popular with the aforementioned closeted teens; it showed them what gay sex looked like. 

Since 1999, however, few shows have followed in its footsteps. There was the American remake of Queer as Folk, which aired on Showtime, that followed the same basic plot of the original but ran for five seasons rather than the two produced in the UK. It expanded the two female characters from the original show, making them integral in its main cast. There was, of course, Will and Grace, which premiered a year before Queer as Folk, but, though groundbreaking in its own way, this still found it necessary to place its gay lead opposite a straight woman and relegate its femme character to a supporting comedic role. In 2004, Showtime introduced us to The L Word, a show about a group of relatively wealthy lesbians living in Los Angeles and, in a post-Lena Dunham world, HBO’s Looking tried to ground a queer experience into something more realistic and millennial, but was unfortunately cut short. Most recently, Netflix’s Heartstopper has drawn significant attention for focusing on a gay love story between two teenagers but, other than that, very few shows since Queer as Folk have focused exclusively on gay characters. Especially when you think of many how shows and movies regularly feature all-heterosexual casts. Instead, we mostly see shows like Glee, Skins, Riverdale, Downton Abbey, Scandal, and Grey’s Anatomy including queer characters within their regular cast and giving them storylines which, despite a few exceptions, deal with coming out, hiding their sexuality, or being bullied. 

Now, in 2022, Stephen Dunn has revivified Queer as Folk for a second time, creating a new version of the iconic show this time set in New Orleans. Shades of the original show remain, however, and it hits similar beats. In the first episode, for example, a baby is born and the baby’s father is our queer leading man who has donated his sperm to his friends. There’s a high school student who becomes infatuated with an older man, and a character who dies early on, making our lead characters question their own mortality. Yet the fact that Dunn is at the helm of this reimagining always meant that this Queer as Folk was going to be a little different. Just like his brilliant debut feature Closet Monster, which featured talking hamsters and body horror influences, this version of Queer as Folk is trippy, filled with dream sequences, haunting flashbacks, and one long shrooms-induced hallucination that fits excellently within Dunn’s wheelhouse. The show, too, features heaps of sex, pushing the boundaries for NBC’s streaming service Peacock that made it. Its sex is radical, too. Not only centering cisgender bodies but offering up narratives around sex and disability, as well as looking at sex and gender. Beyond its bold style and radical sex, Dunn, who serves as writer, showrunner, and director for three episodes, has assembled a cast that is less white and less cisgender than its predecessors. It also features a predominantly queer cast.

At the heart of the show is the potentially toxic friendship between Brodie (Devin Way), a queer black man who has recently dropped out of Med school, and Ruthie (Jesse James Keitel), a trans English teacher who is about to be a mother yet doesn’t want to give up the party lifestyle that has maintained her thus far. The two enable the worst in each other, whilst also proving to be loyal and robust sounding boards for the other’s problems. Ruthie’s partner, Shar (CG), is non-binary and is facing the complex emotions that come with giving birth to two twins while panicking that Ruthie might be having second thoughts. Elsewhere, Devin’s brother Julian (Ryan O’Connell) has trouble reconciling his desirability and capacity for love within a community that continually others him for his cerebral palsy, and Marvin (Eric Graise), is a wheelchair user who tries to navigate a deepening relationship with a sex worker named Ali (Sachin Byatt). There’s also an excellent and tender performance from Armand Fields as Bussy, a local drag queen inspired by Dunn’s friendship with Chi Chi Devayne, best known for her appearance on season eight of Ru Paul’s Drag Race who unfortunately passed away in 2020. It also features Juliette Lewis as the mother of a young queer boy, a role inspired by Dunn’s own mother, and a scene-stealing turn from Kim Cattrall as Devin’s mother who, as one Twitter user wrote, really throws “her whole pussy” into the role.  

Outside of expanding the “queer” of Queer as Folk, the most drastic change to the source material is the show’s new ripped-from-the-headlines premise. During the first episode, while Mingus, a young, gender fluid drag performer is making his debut performance on stage at the local gay bar Babylon, an unnamed shooter with an assault rifle forces his way into the club and opens fire. This, a scene intentionally reminiscent of the horrific mass shooting at Orlando’s Pulse Nightclub in 2016 and, eerily, has similarities with the recent shootings in Norway last week, hangs over the rest of the series. Over eight hour-long episodes, those who were there as well as those who weren’t grapple with the effects of that traumatic event. They attend corporate-sponsored benefits in which the grieving families are given brand new cars, and, in retaliation, start up their own radical queer party night called “Ghost Fag”. 

At times, the show’s attention to this grief waivers. It seems to come and go when the story demands it.  But it’s a bold choice that might silent naysayers who question why there needs to be Queer as Folk reboot in 2022, when we’re seemingly in a post-gay world. “Post-gay” is a politcal illusion that looks only at white, middle class queerness, and doesn’t consider intersectionality. So a show that explores the messy, interconnected qnd community-driven stories of a group of queer people is perhaps, and please excuse the cliché, more necessary than ever.

After all, last week, when the US Supreme Court overturned Roe Vs Wade, the law that granted women and pregnant people access to legal and safe abortions, Judge Clarence Thomas wrote that it was also time to review the laws around gay marriage, the right to sexual privacy, and access to contraception meaning that, in the coming months, many other rights in the US have the potential to go the same way as Roe. It should also be noted that, in 1991, Thomas was accused of sexual harassment by Anita Hill during his confirmation hearing and the case was famously mishandled at the time in what was seen as a back door deal between Republicans and then-Senate Judiciary Committee chair, Joe Biden. Before Thomas’s statement, various US states had already introduced nearly 240 anti-LGBTQ+ bills including the so-called “Don’t Say Gay Bill” in Florida and many others specifically targeting Trans and non-binary communities. Here in the UK, it isn’t much better, with the media classes and Conservative elite becoming obsessed with transness and routinely attacking any attempts at progress. The Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, in an attempt to gain favour after a series of scandals, recently waded into the discussion around trans people in sport (a transphobic dog whistle around a situation that, in actuality, bears little relevance to the lives of most trans people in the UK). There have also been attacks on trans healthcare in the UK, routine pile-ons orchestrated by so-called “gender criticals”, and continued manufactured outrage over menial issues, such as inclusive language and misrepresented policies within workplaces. 

As such, at home and in the US, the rise of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment and the specific, cruel focus on trans people means that this latest version of Queer as Folk is still, unfortunately, as groundbreaking as its previous interactions. It’s still just as entertaining, too. After all, no matter whether it’s 1999, the early noughties, or the present day, there is nothing as queer as folk.

Queer as Folk (2022) is availble to stream on Stars UK now.

Also Read: How Film Changed Me: On Queerbaiting

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

The post How Film Changed Me: On Queer as Folk appeared first on Big Picture Film Club.

This, something I’ve seen many queer people my age do, leads to a lot of denial and judgement. I still remember claiming I wasn’t interested in feminine boys because “I’m gay so I like men,” when really, it was about separating myself from visible queerness, propping up a structure that idealises masculinity, and internalising homophobia in the process. However, now, in my late twenties, I strive to be visibly queer and not to frame my desire or existence through a hetero lens. This came from an understanding of queer history and a grip on what it all meant politically.

In my early twenties, I began to uncover the history of AIDS within the queer community. The Normal Heart, Larry Kramer’s seminal play, was adapted into a film in 2014 (my second year at university) which created an entryway through which Angels in America, Parting Glances, Buddies, Longtime Companion, and 120 Beats Per Minute walked. The latter introduced me to the global political group ACT UP, something I’d heard referenced on the Original Broadway Cast Recording of Rent (yes, I’m that kind of gay) but had never delved into. Documentaries followed this; How to Survive a Plague, We Were Here, and United in Anger, to name a few.

Which brings us to It’s A Sin, Russell T. Davies’ latest drama currently airing on Channel 4 and available to stream, in full, on All4. The show follows a group of friends, mostly gay men, in 1980s London as they shed the skins of their small towns and dive head-first into the hedonism of queer life as it was at the time. Of course, slowly, a disease starts to emerge – referred to as a “gay cancer” – caught through having sex. Some of the characters reject this, seeing it as too perfect an illness when sex is what most homophobes linger on, but nonetheless, the reality becomes ever more apparent.

Overall, my Twitter feed has been divided on the show. A lot have heaped praise onto it, calling it a “masterpiece”, “important”, and “vital”. People spoke of watching it with their husbands, or they reassured teens (watching, in the dark, with the volume down) that it would “get better” (though, whether this was necessary is up for debate). I saw friends talk about how educational the show was, how it filled the cavernous gaps school left, and they were beginning to understand how bad it had been. Others, admittedly a smaller group, voiced valid criticisms; where are the queer womxn? Trans people? Sex workers? Those who were crucial in the political fight against government ignorance and were also infected by the virus? For four years, as Sarah Schulman notes in her book The Gentrification of the Mind, AIDS was not considered a disease that affected womxn. As such, they couldn’t gain access to treatment, which at the time took the shape of experimental trials, because they were considered “unreliable” by pharmaceutical executives. People have also asked what about intravenous drug users, gay and straight, who were significantly affected by sharing needles? Are these stories not worthy of dramatization too?

It made me wonder about how queer history is told on screen, or, indeed, history at all. If I wanted to learn about other historical events, like the World Wars or 9/11, there is a lot that can be found. But the AIDS epidemic is so rarely dramatized that there are significantly fewer places to look. Of course, each time any new show or film comes out, there are inevitably those who like it and those who don’t. But LGBTQ+ content, which still feels few and far between, falls under a specific microscope. Whether that’s due to conversations about queerbaiting, sanitisation of experience, or too much consideration being given to a straight viewer, they have felt lacking and, almost always, overwhelmingly white, cis-gendered, and male-oriented. Yet because queer life and, more specifically, the widespread impact of the AIDS epidemic on various cultures and communities, is so varied, there is still so much left to look at. 

In recent years, TV and film have made attempts to spotlight those areas left uncovered. For example, Pose examines the effect on the New York Ballroom scene, primarily frequented by black and brown, queer and trans folk, as well as sex-workers. While there has been growth, there has been significant backlash against the homogenisation of queerness too. The Prom faced backlash for James Corden’s performance, The Boys in The Band for being potentially outdated and too white, Happiest Season for being too middle-class and also too white. The question that so often arose was: who it was for? The answer: white gays and straights.

The idea that only dramas centred around cisgender (often, but not always, white) gay men and women are considered the history of queerness on film and TV leaves a lot to be desired. It simplifies the actual history. The boys of It’s a Sin, for example, are all likeable, young, attractive men, but history is more complicated than that. It feels like positioning experiences outside the white cultural experience (either gay or straight) as central is not an option. To air at primetime on a Friday night on terrestrial television you need straight people, and so it will always be watered down. 

I’m not advocating for queer folk to court the mainstream – in fact, I’d rather they didn’t. But it corrupts the narrative of queer history when a particular type of queer story is the only type of queer story that most people see. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy It’s A Sin. I did. I liked its performances, its emotion, and its representation of how people coped in the face of a crisis. It’s more that it is an example of what I’m trying to articulate. Just because it is a certain type of queer story, doesn’t mean it isn’t good or doesn’t have its merits. It just can’t be the only type of queer story. 

It’s A Sin is available now.

Also Read: Is Queer Autobiographical Cinema Subtly Political?

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

The post How Film Changed Me: On It’s A Sin appeared first on Big Picture Film Club.