The power of queer BIPOC representation in cinema

In what is now one of the most acclaimed queer films of Hollywood, Brokeback Mountain (2005) by Ang Lee depicts Jack and Ennis’s forbidden affair where they meet while herding sheep and start a clandestine homoerotic relationship that lasts for decades. However, Jack and Ennis are bound by the societal expectations of their time in the 1960s and both end up in straight marriages; it is heartbreaking to see their love kept secret and eventually buried. The film was a commercial success, grossing over $178 million worldwide and winning Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Original Score at the 78th Academy Awards, securing its status as one of the best gay love stories of the twenty-first century. With this being said, what would Brokeback Mountain have looked like if Jack and Ennis weren’t male or white? What would queer films today look like if the first influential stories featured non-male BIPOC?

The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) reported that out of the 118 films produced by major studios in 2019, only 22 films (18.6 percent) had queer characters. Women made up just 32 percent of the queer characters, and there were zero transgender or non-binary characters in all mainstream releases. In addition, only 34 percent of all queer characters were BIPOC: 22 percent were Black, 8 percent were Latinx, and 4 percent were Asian and Pacific Islander. The face of queer representation and critical acclaim in film is still a white, gay man; Call Me By Your Name (2017) won Best Adapted Screenplay at the 90th Academy Awards, while Love, Simon (2018) made headlines for being the first gay teen romance produced by a major studio. Even the minority of films portraying non-MLM queer relationships are still predominantly white; some of the most famous non-MLM movies, such as Blue is the Warmest Colour (2013), Carol (2015), and Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), all star white women. There are rarely non-MLM relationships that feature BIPOC in both roles. So, what does this mean? What are the implications of little to no representation of queer non-male BIPOC in film? 

When imagining my future as a child, I wanted a house with a pool, a dog, a tight-knit group of friends, and a boyfriend-to-be-husband to share all these moments with. I watched my fair share of Disney movies and learned romance from fairytales. A true love’s kiss and a happily ever after promised by a handsome prince! Even after I realised at 14 that I was queer, I saw love with non-men as temporary. They were reserved for hookups and whirlwind summer flings. My future would still be centred around a man, for only a husband could promise me a happily ever after. Inadvertently, I had sealed my own ending before the story had even begun.

Some might think this thought pattern is a reflection of internalized queerphobia. However, I, along with many other queer POC, am in a position where I risk one of two outcomes: settling down with a man potentially against my desire, or pursuing a partner regardless of gender at the risk of losing my connection to my family. The latter choice is especially precarious as my family is my sole connection to my culture. This informs how I see white queer culture: two-dimensional and shallow. Queer identity cannot be reduced to listening to Mitski, liking frogs and mushrooms, or the aesthetic of ‘looking gay’ (this itself is predicated on how white queer people use symbols to identify with one another). Many white queer people hold onto their queerness to align themselves closer to marginalisation despite benefiting from white supremacy. Whiteness is security and power. Queer BIPOC aren’t guaranteed that safety in the same spaces. There are already problems within the queer community, such as the police being present at Pride Toronto and Pride Toronto creating a land acknowledgement that did not acknowledge Indigenous peoples. The queer movement has been whitewashed and Pride month feels like an exclusive celebration for white people. White queer people must acknowledge the harm they cause in the suppression and subjugation of queer BIPOC. I myself am privileged as a cisgender person who benefits from colourism; there are many BIPOC who are at greater risk for discrimination. When white queer people talk about being oppressed or being discriminated against, I wonder if they think about their white privilege, the amount of space they dominate in queer spaces, and how horribly ignorant it comes across to queer BIPOC. 

Queer representation in film is in desperate need of complex, well-rounded non-MLM and BIPOC characters. Their stories also cannot be limited to just coming out. I’ve come out multiple times in my life, but I have also had many important and fulfilling life experiences that have shaped me today that have nothing to do with coming out. It’s so important for queer BIPOC to see themselves on screen in a diverse range of narratives. Queerness cannot be synonymous with trauma; queer BIPOC need to see that their lives can be filled with freedom, expression, and love. 

With that being said, I have never felt represented in film until I watched Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022). The film focuses on the relationship between mother Evelyn and her daughter Joy. Joy has a girlfriend, but Evelyn deliberately ignores their relationship, which leads to conflict between the mother-daughter duo. Everything Everywhere All at Once reflected my own experience. When I attempted to come out, there was no big screaming match, just a resolute assumption that this ‘phase’ would end. At the end of Everything Everywhere All at Once, Evelyn accepts both Joy and her girlfriend. I have yet to experience this, but it was incredibly powerful to see an immigrant mother-daughter duo navigating queerness. I may be coming out again and again knowing the risk, but seeing Joy and Evelyn crying together and reconciling in the parking lot after their fight sparked hope. I cried alongside Joy because I was her. I am her. And I will continue to be her.