When I first came to terms with my identity around the age of 10 and began to share it with others by 13, I found myself grappling with the various "aesthetics" associated with queer culture. Initially, I resisted these expressions, but I was unsure why.

My first encounter with the musical Cabaret was overwhelming; I immediately turned it off, unable to handle Joel Grey's flamboyant makeup. I might have claimed it was frightening, akin to my fear of Pennywise the clown, but deep down, I recognized it was simply "too gay" for my comfort.

Later, I watched Eddie Izzard's Dress to Kill, but struggled to engage with it. It wasn't until I observed my parents laughing uncontrollably that I began to understand that makeup and overt expressions of queerness were not something to fear. Since then, I have frequently quoted Izzard’s work.

Similarly, after a second viewing of Cabaret, I found myself captivated. What once appeared to be hyper-camp now struck me as deeply romantic and poetic—a profound celebration of life and art. It stands out as one of the few musicals that resonate with me.

The first time I watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was taken aback by Tim Curry’s striking appearance in pale makeup, dark lipstick, and a tight corset. I recall thinking, “Compared to this, Joel Grey seems so tame!”

In my discussions about queer allegory, I often reference films where the protagonist's journey subtly mirrors a shared queer experience. However, a search for "queer allegory movies" yields titles characterized by flamboyant divas or an exaggerated campy vibe, such as Death Becomes Her and Batman and Robin. I enjoyed both as a child, blissfully unaware of their queer undertones.

So, if I eventually embraced Cabaret for its sweeping romance, found humor in Death Becomes Her, and watched Batman and Robin multiple times despite its cheesy dialogue, what was I really resisting?

Part of it stemmed from the internalized homophobia that was prevalent in society, which I hope to forgive myself for now. Yet, there was also a strong desire to define my unique identity. While it was clear how I differed from the straight world, understanding my place within the gay community was an ongoing, often self-conscious journey.

I never intended to emerge from a closet only to be confined within a box.

Growing up—though it wasn’t that long ago—options for understanding what it meant to be gay were starkly limited and binary. When I came out to my father, he advised me to "be Will instead of Jack."

I soon realized I didn’t fit neatly into either category. I wasn’t overtly heterosexual in my presentation, but I also didn’t relate to the stereotype of the sassy, flamboyant gay man. This isn’t a critique of those who do embrace that identity; rather, it highlights my struggle to find my footing in the community, where that stereotype was the only representation I had in popular media.

Recently, I have gained a clearer sense of self through reflecting on films that inspired me in my youth, noting the thematic and tonal connections among them.

Each of these films—Gods and Monsters, The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Hours, American Beauty, Dead Poets Society, Pleasantville, and Philadelphia—expresses a genuine, poetic, and unabashedly romantic essence. The implicit queer spirit in some of these films, which disrupts societal norms with a vibrant heart, resonates more profoundly with me than portrayals of queer rebellion that lean towards cruelty.

Perhaps this encapsulates my initial resistance: I reject the association of queerness with cruelty, a sentiment that has persisted into adulthood, extending beyond film into real life.

I strive to believe that those who grow up feeling marginalized often develop defenses, and I consider it a blessing that I’ve managed to remain vulnerable and open. Still, the callousness I’ve encountered within the queer community has hurt me deeply.

The key is to remember that those who inflict pain on me are not part of my community. It was a heteronormative culture that led me to believe I had to fit into a small number of queer categories to belong anywhere.

As a sensitive, artistic individual, discovering my community—people who share my adventurous spirit and passion—has been a lifelong journey. I long to express my voice with exuberance rather than engage in hurtful critiques.

It's essential to differentiate between "cruelty" and "camp." While I can identify instances of queer cruelty in film, I wonder if I truly resisted it. Many campy films have genuinely entertained me!

Some argue that Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, penned by the renowned gay playwright Edward Albee, embodies camp and cruelty, yet I adore it! Every aspect of its artistry is remarkable.

Conversely, I’ll confess—barring Serial Mom, I haven’t been able to finish a John Waters film. They simply don’t resonate with me on either an artistic or personal level. However, since I haven’t watched them thoroughly, I won’t attempt to define their aesthetic.

I’ve come to realize that contrasting my tastes is less crucial than I once believed. Defining myself by what I don’t appreciate or who I’m not is a limiting mindset. My identity and preferences are not dictated by my dislikes.

Thus, while I began this piece aiming to articulate the queer aesthetic I resisted as a child, it may be more beneficial that I cannot. The queer aesthetic I connect with—found in the art I admire—defies definition.

My queerness is as unique and intricate as every other facet of my being. Now that I comprehend that queer community and art are what I make of them, I feel freer to engage with aspects of queerness that I once deemed overly stereotypical.

I hadn’t revisited The Rocky Horror Picture Show until last Halloween at a friend’s gathering, where he guided us through the audience participation elements. Lying together in laughter and joy, I experienced a beautifully vibrant queer community.

Despite my long-standing reservations about musicals, my "Covid quarantine jams" featured songs from Gypsy, Victor/Victoria, Come From Away, Hair, Les Misérables, Pippin, Sweet Charity, and La Cage Aux Folles.

... Girl!

This narrative is a response to the Prism & Pen writing prompt, (How) Have LGBTQ Film & Literature Shaped You?

In addition, here are other remarkable stories inspired by this prompt:

Prism and Pen Writing Prompt Stories: Films and Literature Stories inspired by the prompt: How Have LGBTQ Film & Literature Shaped You? :jonnymasters.medium.com