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.