I’m fed up with “representation.”
As queer people continue to carve out our rightful place in onscreen storytelling, “representation” has become something of a perfunctory blanket term for all the work we’re doing: We sometimes talk as though we only need more LGBTQ+ characters, more LGBTQ+ actors, or both, and then we’ll have finally shattered the silver screen’s cisgender, heterosexual status quo.
But at this point, I think it’s clear that “representation” has become a hollow substitute for meaningful change. The nefarious underside of boosting LGBTQ+ “representation” is that it gives permission for the film and television industry to make shallow displays of tokenism, peppering LGBTQ+ characters and themes into larger, cis-het narratives.
Looking back now on the last ten years, it seems almost obvious what has happened: As soon as “representation” became a potentially profitable industry buzzword, it gave Hollywood an excuse to do less, instead of motivating the industry to do more.
I’m not saying that increased LGBTQ+ visibility in entertainment isn’t meaningful. Today, we can list off a ton of queer-themed TV shows and films that have smaller budgets or that are aimed at niche audiences. Like me, you’ve probably found yourself profoundly moved by queer characters in streaming and premium cable shows like Steven Universe, Vida, and Sex Education. When written well, portrayed constructively, and given space for their stories to develop, LGBTQ+ characters can have an indelible impact on viewers.
But consider this: There have been no trans characters in major studio releases for the past three years in a row, and no major film studio received above a “Good” ranking from GLAAD in 2020. (“Good,” which falls between “Excellent” and “Insufficient” in GLAAD’s rating system, would be roughly equivalent to a B in school.) In fact, GLAAD has seen a “significant decrease” in the representation of non-white queer characters in major film releases, according to their index. Intersex characters and stories are almost nowhere to be seen.
The discourse around “representation” has made it seem like much has changed at an institutional level when, in fact, the industry itself has mostly remained static, even worsening in areas like racial diversity and transgender representation, all while periodically queerbaiting viewers with just enough material to keep us hyped and tuning in. In this way, the goal of “representation” has functioned as a frustrating stopgap between the outmoded erasure of the past and the more substantive changes to the industry I would rather see happen.
Widely-acclaimed projects such as the 2015 films The Danish Girl and Carol were both heralded as strong representation for queer identities despite the casting of white, straight, cisgender actors in leads roles for both films. (Certain straight actors like Benedict Cumberbach have even made a career of playing unevenly-written queer characters, from the influential codebreaker Alan Turing in The Imitation Game to the garishly offensive caricature of a nonbinary model in Zoolander 2.) Is this the kind of representation we want or deserve? Because it’s the kind of clownery that’s still being served up in big-budget and high-profile releases.
Meanwhile, it’s quite rare for queer actors to be given the opportunity to be cast in their own stories for a wide-release audience. Many actors and behind-the-camera professionals are pressured to remain closeted or lowkey about their identities due to the industy’s steadfast prejudices. Even openly LGBTQ+ actors and crew need good, queer-themed material to work with, but scripts featuring fleshed-out LGBTQ+ roles are a rare commodity.
As I’ve observed before, out LGBTQ+ actors of color have an even more challenging path towards being cast in their own stories. Jeremy Pope, star of the Netflix mini-series Hollywood, in which he plays a fictional gay screenwriter named Archie Coleman who finds success in post-WWII Hollywood, best articulated these challenges in conversation with W Magazine last year.
“The conversation that I am open to having is, had we seen [Black talent rewarded] in the ’40s with someone like Archie Coleman, would we have had to wait so many years to see it [again] in 2018 with Jordan Peele?” Pope said. “I think those are the things we’re seeing the world ask of the industry, of systems and institutions, because it’s not a full representation of the people that lived in those communities.”
Pope’s observation sheds light on the industry’s tendency to pay lip service to LGBTQ+ actors and LGBTQ+ roles while rarely allowing truly groundbreaking queer creativity to reach the screen.
It’s especially telling that even in imaginative science-fiction films featuring the wildest possible scenarios, Hollywood still can’t stretch its plane of creative vision to include queer people. In the 42-year history of the Star Wars franchise, which features glowing energy swords and talking swamp aliens, the only explicity queer moment in the central film saga came in the form of a blink-and-you-miss-it celebratory kiss between two nameless Resistance fighters in 2019’s The Rise of Skywalker, both of whom happen to be women.
Similarly, Marvel’s version of the Norse god Loki recently murmured an acknowledgement of his bisexuality in a single line of dialogue on the namesake Disney+ show, but then the showrunner immediately followed up that reveal by saying the character’s sexual orientation wouldn’t receive any further treatment.
These crumbs of acknowledgement might be seen as evidence of the industry’s glacial yet ongoing evolution towards inclusive storytelling, but even the optimist in me can’t shake the feeling that the banner of “representation” has given studios an excuse to sprinkle in an LGBTQ+ character here or there and collect media praise for it, all while maintaining the existing state of affairs in front of — and perhaps most crucially — behind the camera.
Indeed, it’s the people behind the curtain — the producers, the network heads, and the studio executives — who are really responsible for the relative stagnancy of LGBTQ+ storytelling. There are very few openly LGBTQ+ directors working across film and TV, and an overwhelming proportion of them are white. The Hollywood Reporter’s list of LGBTQ+ power players is very performer-heavy, and the producer-directors who hold the most clout tend to be the handful of names who have already gained power in the industry, like Greg Berlanti, Ryan Murphy, and Darren Star.
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If Roland Emmerich’s whitewashed debacle Stonewall evidenced anything, being a gay man is not always enough to ensure that queer stories are told with respect and accuracy.
Until we see more LGBTQ+ people, from a wider array of backgrounds and life experiences, given the power and privilege to actually fund productions, make casting decisions, and greenlight shows, we’ll continue to get the same stale combination we’ve been served for the last decade: A light drizzle of great streaming shows atop a deluge of film and TV that has remained mostly unaffected by demands for change.
I have seen some signs of hope in recent years. Indie productions like 2016’s Spa Night by out gay director Andrew Ahn impressed me; it followed a queer person evolving into their identity while navigating their family’s stringent traditions, offline cruising culture, and dealing with American capitalism as a non-white citizen.
Port Authority, the debut film by queer director Danielle Lessovitz, is another bright spot. Released on May 28, the feature stars Leyna Bloom, the first trans woman of color to star in a movie screened at the Cannes Film Festival.
In the television world, certain power players have been able to leverage their leadership to give us the kind of innovative material I want to see: Producers Steven Canals and Nina Jacobson brought Pose to life, which features the largest cast of trans actors ever on a television show. Similarly, writer Angela Robinson helped bring the queer protagonist Annalise Keating into our hearts and homes on the groundbreaking show How to Get Away with Murder.
But although movies like Spa Night and shows like Pose are important cultural upgrades, these examples are too few, largely targeted at smaller audiences, and appreciated mostly by critics and avid viewers. More (and more intensive) queer participation behind the scenes will be essential for building a truly authentic and visionary media landscape. Only then can we move beyond the vacuous and near-subliminal “representation” of the current day.
I eagerly look forward to more stories from queer talent behind the camera like Justin Simien, Paris Barclay, and Marja-Lewis Ryan. I’m ready for us to soar above paltry tokenism and halfway steps. What I want to see is actual change.
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