Why We Need A Queer Film Festival
I grew up in a small eastern North Carolina college town in the 60s and 70s, which for a gay boy could have been a traumatizing experience. Fortunately, I had cool hippy musician parents who were progressive in a time and place when that wasn’t the norm.
They were artists, and as such they encouraged me and my brothers to explore all the artistic endeavors our hearts compelled us to. For me, that was the movies. As luck would have it there was a movie theater right across the street from my house and at 12 years old I would go to a movie every weekend (admission 50 cents).
I remember the comfort of sitting in a darkened theater with strangers and allowing the film’s narrative to take me where it would. Some of my favorite films from that time were thematically reminiscent of what I was feeling: the sense that I didn’t fit in. I found comfort and, in many ways, recognized myself in films such as Dog Day Afternoon, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Saturday Night Fever, Taxi Driver, The Bad News Bears, and most impactful, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Rocky Horror was an eye-opener. For the first time I understood the power and the possibilities of self-expression. That film turned its after-hours screenings into interactive cosplay gatherings designed for a communal experience, and I was all in. This sort of expression appealed to my burgeoning gayness, and when Frankenfurter camped it up as “a sweet transvestite, from Transsexual Transylvania,” I knew I wanted to put on those leggings and pearls and be that outrageous.
That’s the power of film for anyone struggling with their identity. Over the years, I’ve experienced how LGBTQ films have not only helped me accept who I am, but more importantly, how they have helped move our society forward into a somewhat fragile but joyous place of acceptance.
As I grew into a young man, I started seeking our LGBTQ–themed films, and in the 80s and 90s reviewed many of them for my college paper and City paper.
Films such as the 1983 Oscar winning documentary The Times of Harvey Milk were groundbreaking. I was vaguely aware of Milk’s impact on queer activism, but this film surprised me with the depth of his commitment to equality and shocked me with the hatred that ultimately killed him. I think that was the moment I decided to push that door all the way open, live authentically, and be an activist in my community.
When Longtime Companion debuted to PBS in 1989, I knew people who were dying and had died of AIDS, and this film was the first realistic depiction of how terrible that time was. It also demonstrated what I already knew: that the bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of joy and respect in each other’s lives. It is a spot on commentary about how the LGBTQ community takes care of its own in times of crisis when blood relatives have turned their backs on us. To this day, it impacts me on a visceral level.
In 1994, I saw The Birdcage for the first time in a packed movie house in Raleigh. As the closing credits rolled, the entire audience stood up and applauded for a solid five minutes. All I could do was sit there and cry because it gave me such hope that maybe my community was going to make it after all.
In 2005, Brokeback Mountain came along at a time when I was wholly out, but as I immersed myself into the story of unrequited love, I was immediately taken back to the dark days of high school and college when I was in the closet, depressed and ashamed of my sexuality.
In 2017, Moonlight offered me an understanding of the queer black male experience and how toxic masculinity, familial abuse, trauma, and homophobia can derail a queer person’s life—but could ultimately leave them in a better place.
Filmmaking is a unique form of storytelling, and the story is at the heart of any good film. Unless there is an engaging tale to be told, the special effects, setting, and actors are meaningless. Every culture and community has its own unique stories and narratives. When they are shared through the medium of film, they can have a profound effect on the viewer and on society.
Harnessing that power to tell the stories of the LGBTQ+ community is impactful in many ways. It can be an effective agent of change, and in a time when visibility is vital to our very survival film can and has paved the way to a deeper understanding of the many facets of the LGBTQ+ community.
That trend is reflected in the increasing number of mainstream films featuring LGBTQ+ characters. In 2022, GLAAD reported that 28.5% of 350 films released featured an LGBTQ+ character, more than in any other year in the survey’s history
That’s why I am thrilled that the Virginia Queer Film Festival is now embarking on its fourth year.
Groundbreaking films such as these this is why independent festivals like the Virginia Queer Film Festival are especially important for queer filmmakers. They give burgeoning creators an opportunity to get their work in front of audiences and, hopefully, ultimately, in front of production companies that can offer wider distribution.
Depictions of queer and trans people have been present in the film medium since its inception more than 100 years ago, but due to censorship and varying degrees of prejudice against the LGBTQ+ community at different points in time, onscreen representation has a long, complicated, and often coded history.
Fortunately, we live in a different time which, while feeling tumultuous at times, is still much more accepting of queer people than it was 50 years ago when I was struggling with my identity. I like to think that much of that has come from on-screen representation of our lives as they are–out, proud, joyous, and unique.
