This is the best ne…

Read more

I’m having a SALE: get 33% off for a year if you upgrade your subscription in July.

Who is Pat? What is Pat? Where did they come from? Where have they gone?

These questions may mean nothing to you, depending on your age and comedic tastes, but they mean a lot to the creators of a new documentary called We Are Pat. Directed by trans filmmaker Ro Haber, the film explores the complicated history of the SNL character Pat, created and performed by Julia Sweeney.

Pat first debuted on SNL in 1990, in a sketch called “Pat at the Office.” Pat is an annoying, off-putting character defined by odd mannerisms and social ineptitude. But, most notably, Pat is gender-ambiguous. Most of the skits involving Pat depict other characters trying to determine Pat’s sex and/or gender, and becoming increasingly frustrated when they can’t figure Pat out. In one sketch, a character played by Christopher Walken jumps out of a window because he’s so perplexed by the mystery of Pat’s sex. Pat’s theme song goes like this: “A ma’am or a sir / Accept him or her / For whatever it might be / It’s time for androgyny / Here comes Pat.”

Pat was an incredibly popular character at the time, appearing on T-shirts, at malls, and in an ill-fated feature film called It’s Pat in 1994. In the ‘90s, it seemed to Julia Sweeney that at least some folks in the queer community embraced Pat, as she was asked to appear as the character at various Pride events. Of course, Pat’s connection to the queer community is complicated, as they appeared on the scene before the term non-binary was popularized. In recent years, Pat’s legacy has grown contentious, as non-binary creatives like Joey Solloway have called the character transphobic.

In making the documentary, Haber set out to reckon with Pat’s legacy, and explore why the character has remained such a touchstone for them for so many years. “On one hand, I felt really fondly towards Pat...but I do think that Pat also was a little bit of, subconsciously, a cautionary tale about what would happen if you’re gender non-conforming or nonbinary or illegible to society, that people are always going to be obsessed with this one thing about you and will hound you and won’t leave you alone,” they told Entertainment Weekly.

Haber and a group of friends came together to try to answer some vexing questions about Pat. “Is it something that’s reclaimable? Is it something we can reinvent in a way that is trans? Is it even worthy of being a joke? Is it still funny?” Haber asks in the doc. The answers to these questions are more interesting and nuanced than most contemporary conversations about so-called problematic or outdated texts. As comedian River Butcher notes, “It is transphobic; it’s also funny, and Pat is a non-binary icon.” Musician JD Samson, who remembers watching Pat with her family at a young age, recalls “knowing that there was something there for me.”

As a way to consider reclaiming Pat or bringing them into the 21st century, Haber assembled a group of trans and non-binary comedians to create modern-day Pat sketches. The result is a series of funny, insightful conversations about what defines Pat as a character. Someone brings up Pat’s apparent neurodivergence and/or disability, and the comedians discuss whether or not Pat is fuckable. “I’m sure we could go in a room and figure out something,” Brontez Purnell responded when asked if he would fuck Pat.

Pat was both ahead of their time and very much of their time. In the 1990s, musicians, fashion designers, and models embodied androgyny with style and sex appeal. But for the most part, gender ambiguity wasn’t accessible to the layperson in the same way. Pat is what happens when a “normal” person has an illegible gender. When it comes down to it, the sketches are about the very real problem of gender panic.

Trans historian Jules Gill-Peterson compares the sociopolitical environment of the 1990s to that of today, noting a simultaneous uptick in visibility and backlash. In the 2020s, there has been a notable increase in trans comedy, which has gone hand in hand with increasingly transphobic legislation. Does Pat still make sense within this context? Should Pat be trans now?

The comedy of Pat is all about people’s inability to read their gender, and reading is a central thread in the documentary. JD Samson remembers realizing that she may have been reacting to Pat differently than her family. While they were laughing at Pat, she was feeling a connection to the character. Gill-Peterson calls Pat an “empty vessel” for viewers’ ideas about gender and embodiment. Purnell describes the queer and trans process of reading in between the lines of pop culture, noting “they give us so little, but we do a lot with that little.”

Though several of the participants in the documentary have criticisms of Pat, Haber’s project is ultimately an optimistic one. This work reminded me of the great theorist Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, who defined her theory of paranoid and reparative readings in the 2002 book Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity. Sedgwick argues that paranoid readings stem from a defensive place that seeks to define a text as good or bad as a means to prevent pain. On the other hand, reparative readings welcome ambiguity and foreground hope, nourishing the self and seeking pleasure. A trans reading like the one of Pat in this film is inherently expansive, as is the concept of transness and gender ambiguity itself.

One of the most interesting parts of the film is the inclusion of Julia Sweeney, who created Pat all those years ago. Sweeney is now familiar with the criticisms of Pat, and she actually appeared as herself in Abby McEnany’s brilliant show Work In Progress, atoning for the negative impact Pat had on McEnany’s life. Sweeney explains the origins of Pat to Haber, noting that she wasn’t really thinking about gender when she created the character until she realized that’s what audiences responded to. Ultimately, Sweeney says, playing Pat was empowering for her, because it gave her a chance to escape from the gendered constraints of womanhood placed on her at SNL and in the world at large. In essence, Pat was also a part of Sweeney’s own gender journey.

We Are Pat reminded me a little bit of Chasing Chasing Amy, another documentary about potentially problematic queer text. Both films grapple with the question of authorial intent, and whether a text’s negative impact can (or should) outweigh its potential for positive impact. Haber avoids generalizations and allows Pat to embody a multitude of meanings, some of which contradict each other. For a mostly comedic look at a goofy SNL character, We Are Pat is a surprisingly nuanced film, as heartfelt as it is inquisitive. Maybe the real Pat is the friends we made along the way.

You can watch We Are Pat on Kanopy via your local library, or rent it on Apple TV+, YouTube, or Amazon Prime.

What paid subscribers got this week

How ga…

Read more

I’m having a SALE: get 33% off for a year if you upgrade your subscription in July.

Hayley Kiyoko’s Girls Like Girls movie feels like a feature-length music video, and that’s not a bad thing. Of course, if you’re aware of the history of the project, that description makes perfect sense. Girls Like Girls began as a song on Kiyoko’s 2015 EP, This Side of Paradise. The music video, which the singer directed, became a massive hit, garnering her a devoted fanbase and earning her the cheeky moniker “Lesbian Jesus.” Kiyoko spent years trying to turn the video into a film, and eventually published a novel of the same name in 2023, which sent the project further down the production pipeline.

Girls Like Girls follows the plot of the book and expands the world of the music video. It’s the mid-2000s, and our heroine is Coley (Maya da Costa), a teen girl who moves to Oregon to live with her father (Zach Braff, atoning for the bisexual movie he made with Évelyne Brochu) after her mother dies. She befriends popular girl Sonya (Myra Molloy), and the two form an intense bond. As Coley struggles with the grief of losing her mother and reconnecting with her dad, Sonya must reconcile who she really is with who everyone expects her to be.

The film’s plot is minimal. It’s mostly about Coley and Sonya’s internal worlds and the sacred space of that golden summer. On an emotional level, the film is very effective at getting its message across. Girls Like Girls hones in on the confusing, overwhelming parts of being a gay girl; the physical and emotional intimacy that some might brush off as a virtue of close friendship, but that feels like the precipice of something more. The acting contributes to this atmosphere. Da Costa and Molloy both give raw, effectively youthful performances that ground the film in emotional truth. The moments of awkwardness between them lend themselves to the story.

Kiyoko uses all the coming-of-age tropes in the book, but it’s clear she intends to give queer viewers a chance to see themselves in this recognizable narrative. The film is fairly straightforward, but it still leaves space for emotions to speak louder than words. Notably, this is not a coming-out story, though it’s obvious the two girls are at different stages in their journey. We can surmise that Coley is aware that she’s gay and has been grappling with it for some time, while Sonya hasn’t ever allowed herself to think about it. This discrepancy is the crux of the conflict between the pair.

The film takes care to paint a distinct picture of queer first love, especially in an environment where you don’t feel safe to be yourself. The pain of being closeted simmers just beneath the surface, particularly for Sonya, who hates herself for behaving like a coward. Still, Kiyoko always maintains sympathy for Sonya (who is based on a lost love from her youth), even as she hurts Coley.

Unsurprisingly, Girls Like Girls excels at visuals and sound. A pleasant, warm orange palette ties the look together. The mid-2000s aesthetic shines through in every scene but never feels forced, and even aids in the storytelling. Coley and Sonya’s communication via AIM messaging works to build a tenuous connection between them but also emphasizes Coley’s isolation as she sits in her room, staring at her desktop computer, waiting for Sonya to come online.

The soundtrack delivers the goods. It includes original songs from Kiyoko and collaborators like Tegan & Sara and August Ponthier. This is some of the best music we’ve heard from the singer, and it helps set the hazy tone of the film. Needle drops also play an important role. One scene involving a particular Imogen Heap song is one of my favorite moments in the entire movie, and it soundtracks Coley’s burgeoning feelings beautifully.

Most of the beats of the music video are preserved, save for a memorable violent outburst, which aligns with the film’s mellow tone. However, an important note: it’s imperative that you stay for the post-credits scene, which turns a fairly abrupt ending into one with a more emotional climax. For fans of the music video, it’s a satisfying conclusion.

Seeing Girls Like Girls in the theater, and watching viewers cheer at the end, it’s clear that Kiyoko was successful in her mission to give folks a movie she wished she had seen when she was growing up. To put it another way — Kiyoko’s dream of witnessing her own story reflected on the big screen will surely impact others who long to be seen.

What paid subscribers got this week

Read more

The gay superhero discourse continues. In an interview for…

Read more

Recently, my girlfriend gave me an assignment for Paging Dr. Lesbian. She pronounced that I should write about Mary Oliver, the beloved poet of the natural world, who also happened to be a lesbian. To that end, she sent me a book. Published in 2007, Our World is Mary Oliver’s celebration of her life with Molly Malone Cook, published two years after the latter’s death.

Even if you don’t think you know Mary Oliver, you probably know Mary Oliver. Her poem “The Summer Day” ends with an oft-repeated refrain: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? In “Wild Geese,” she suggests, You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves, a sentence you may have seen on motivational moodboards and cheeky bumper stickers.

But who was Molly Malone Cook? Born in San Frasisco in 1925, Molly was a photographer and supporter of the arts. She moved to Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the 1960s, opening one of the first photography galleries in the country there. She sold prints from photographers like Edward Steichen and Ansel Adams. Later, she opened East End Bookshop, where the filmmaker John Waters worked as a clerk. She was friends with and worked with all sorts of important people, including Norman Mailer and Lorraine Hansberry. In the late 1950s, Molly met Mary at the home of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Our World features many of Molly’s black-and-white photographs and words from Mary. The final few pages include entries from Molly’s journals. Her photographs are brimming with personality and the suggestion of secrets. Mary describes Molly’s photographs as “images of vitality, hopefulness, endurance, kindness, vulnerability.” You get the sense that all of her subjects have a rich inner life, which Molly has attempted to unspool by capturing a moment in time. Mary keeps some of Molly’s secrets for her, while sharing bits of their life together. She describes Molly like this: “She lived sometimes in a black box of memories and unaswerable questions, and then would come out and frolic—be feisty, and bold.”

In their early years together, Mary and Molly had little in the way of money, though Provincetown provided abundant natural resources. They foraged for food, and delighted in creation. “M. was taking and printing her own photographs, I was writing poems at the kitchen table, and we were young,” Mary says. Later, the arrival of a new season. “Things began to change after that. And we didn’t disdain restaurants, the exquisite and dainty and plentiful foods. But neither did we forget the pleasure of our simplicity, our so-called hard years. When work was play and play so thoroughly entered our work.”

With great reverence, Mary describes the pleasures of watching someone you love work. Though the many hours Molly spent in the darkroom, inhaling fumes while smoking a cigarette, would eventually damage her lungs. While Mary paid close attention to the workings of the natural world, Molly was more interested in people. Mary believed she only truly understood the power of attention after observing Molly’s interactions with the world. “Attention without feeling, I began to learn, is only a report. An openness —an empathy— as necessary if the attention was to matter.”

Indeed, Molly and Mary looked at and existed in the world differently, though they found in their partnership an exquisite harmony. “Her world certainly wasn’t daises or birds or trees, as mine was; we each had our separate natures; yet our ideas, our influence upon each other, became a rich and abiding confluence,” Mary says. The book includes one of Molly’s journal entries, in which she explains that whenever she asks Mary for news after she’s been out, she’s hoping for news of humans, but Mary always tells her news about the animals, the trees, or the tides. Mary always knew that Molly wanted her to be more involved in the world of humans, and she got there, eventually. As for the journal entry? “What a gift to read about her wish for it, who never expressed impatience with my reports of the natural world, the blue and green happiness I found there. Our love was so tight.”

There is something / about the snow-laden sky / in winter / in the late afternoon / that brings to the heart elation / and the lovely meaninglessness of time. / Whenever I get home—whenever— / somebody loves me there.

— Walking home from Oak-Head

Writing about the poet in a 1997 article for the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review, Sue Russell said this: “Mary Oliver will never be a balladeer of contemporary lesbian life in the vein of Marilyn Hacker, or an important political thinker like Adrienne Rich; but the fact that she chooses not to write from a similar political or narrative stance makes her all the more valuable to our collective culture.” Indeed, Mary is best known for writing poems about her solitary, spiritual experiences in nature. But, as the poem above indicates, there was also someone waiting for her at home.

Mary Oliver’s lesbian relationship does not make her an inherently political poet, but the knowledge that she built an abundant life with another woman adds richness to her work. Thinking about Mary on one of her long walks along the beach while Molly stays home, tending to correspondence, the two of them feeding the dogs, making a simple dinner together, recapping that day’s highlights — it’s an image of great beauty, one that Mary shares with us as she excavates her memories in Our World.

In a rare interview with Maria Shriver, Mary is asked what she has done with her wild and precious life. “What I have done is learn to love and learn to be loved,” she responds. “That didn’t come easy.” What a gift, then, to witness that love on the page, through beautiful images and Mary’s simple words.

What paid subscribers got this week

Weirdo queen Björk is one of us. Musician Yara Polana indi…

Read more

The Tony Awards took place over the weekend, and obviously…

Read more

According to the movies, lesbians and bisexuals are always falling in love in the summertime. Usually it’s a first love, and it often involves a multifaceted awakening of some sort. Of course, summer love is a longstanding literary trope that isn’t exclusive to queer women, but this is Paging Dr. Lesbian, and we’re laser-focused on the gays here. With the upcoming release of Hayley Kiyoko’s Girls Like Girls movie, which has all the makings of a lesbian summer classic, I thought I’d delve into the concept in the most literal sense.

According to my research, there are (at least) eight lesbian movies with “summer” in the title, which seems like a high number to me. Most — though not all — of the movies take place in the summertime, and all of them highlight the outdoors and the sunshine in a significant way. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend all of these, so I decided to rate them (out of ten sunshines) to give you an idea of how you might prioritize your summer watch list. Two of these I haven’t seen, but I’ve added them to the list for the sake of accuracy. I’ve also included a few honorable mentions that don’t technically fit the brief, but align with the overall theme. See if you notice how similar many of these plots are. Happy summer and happy Pride to all!

Not rated: Summer (2014)

Summer is a Dutch coming-of-age film that centers on 16-year-old Anne (Sigrid ten Napel). Anne lives in a small town beneath the shadow of a power plant, and yearns for something more. She gets her wish in the form of Lena (Jade Olieberg), a cool girl who wears leather and rides a motorcycle. Anne’s feelings for Lena create tension between her and her peers, but it also forces her to grow up. According to several reviews (of which there aren’t many), this film appears to feature sexual assault, so keep that in mind if you plan to watch it.

Where to watch: For rent on Fandago and Apple TV+ in the US

Not rated: Summer of Mesa (2020)

Summer of Mesa seems a little bit like a low-budget lesbian Call Me By Your Name, though undoubtedly not as good. Directed by a 20-year-old Josh Cox, the film takes place in 1985 Cape Cod. Lily (Molly Miles) is a 16-year-old girl who vacations on the Cape with her family. One auspicious summer, she meets Mesa (Andrea Granera), who turns her whole world around. Lily thinks there’s no one else on the planet like Mesa because she’s pretty and seems confident — a classic tale of lesbian first love.

Where to watch: For rent on Amazon Prime in the US

The Beautiful Summer (2023)

I’ve written about The Beautiful Summer before, but here’s a summary. Directed by Laura Luchetti, it follows 17-year-old Ginia (Yile Yara Vianello), who moves from the countryside to Turin, Italy, in 1938. While working as a dressmaker, Ginia meets Amelia (Deva Cassel), a gorgeous brunette who models for local painters. Ginia falls hard for Amelia, but Amelia is difficult to pin down. Ginia was once a studious worker and a devout daughter and sister, but her obsession with Amelia leads her to ignore her responsibilities. She’s also so in love with Amelia that she’s totally oblivious to the rise of fascism, which is starting to become a pretty big problem for some of Ginia’s neighbors.

The Beautiful Summer uses every trope in the lesbian movie book to tell its story, but none of it adds up to a film worth writing home about. Ginia is naive, Amelia worldly and attention-seeking, and together, they embody a dynamic we’ve seen many times before. In fact, most of the films on this list use similar tropes. There are some pleasant scenes involving swimming and frolicking in the countryside, but nothing particularly memorable.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Good vibes: ☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Amazon Prime with a trial of Film Movement, for rent on Apple TV+, Fandango, YouTube, Google Play

My Summer of Love (2004)

Did you know that Emily Blunt’s first film role was in a lesbian movie directed by Oscar-winning Polish filmmaker Paweł Pawlikowski? It’s true. The film in question is My Summer of Love, which follows a mercurial teenage love affair in the Yorkshire countryside. Mona (Natalie Press) is a working-class girl living with her brother, Phil (Paddy Considine), who has just been released from prison and has found God while inside. Mona meets Tamsin (Blunt), a wealthy, rebellious young woman dying for attention.

The two form a close bond, and their connection eventually veers into toxic obsession. Phil reverts to his old ways, but Tamsin isn’t exactly trustworthy, either. Part innocent first love and part Heavenly Creatures, the movie is as volatile as their love affair, with some twists and turns that leave a sour taste in your mouth. Still, Emily Blunt fans will appreciate her alluring turn as a mean, spoiled lesbian horse girl, and there’s something interesting here about the restless afflictions of youth.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: For rent on Apple TV+, Amazon Prime, YouTube, etc. in the US

The Summer of Sangaile (2015)

The Summer of Sangaile is an odd movie, but it’s about teen lesbians, so it’s worth looking into. The Lithuanian film follows Sangailė (Julija Steponaityte), a 17-year-old who hopes to become a stunt pilot. Shy, withdrawn, and struggling with self-harm, Sangailė meets the exuberant Austė (Aistė Diržiūtė), who loves fashion. Sangailė’s piloting dreams are thwarted by her vertigo, which Austė tries to help her get over. Meanwhile, Sangailė models Austė’s creations.

This film about two eccentric young women is brought to life by dreamlike, at times sky-high (literally) cinematography that emphasizes the hazy, timeless nature of their summer love. Someone on Letterboxd wrote that this movie “feels like a lorde song,” which is an apt description. Nice to look at though light on plot, The Summer of Sangaile is mostly pleasant, if not entirely captivating.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Tubi, for rent elsewhere in the US

Summertime (2015)

Summertime is a lesbian period piece about an alluring blonde woman named Carole, which some of you may appreciate. Known as La Belle Saison in French, a much more evocative (and accurate) title, the film follows Delphine (Izïa Higelin), a lesbian who lives on a farm in 1971. Tired of her life there, she moves to Paris, where she meets a feminist collective, including a woman named Carole (Cécile de France). Despite her political affiliations, Carole has a boyfriend, and is initially hesitant to accept Delphine’s advances. But the two women soon begin a relationship, and when Delphine has to return to her family farm after her father has a stroke, Carole joins her.

Living on the farm is hard for the pair, as Delphine must remain closeted there and Carole isn’t used to farm life. It becomes apparent that while Carole talks a big talk, Delphine may be the braver of the two women. Given that it’s a period piece, Summertime is not without complications, and there’s no easy, breezy ending to this story — summer doesn’t last forever, after all. But it’s beautifully shot, and features two great performances from the leads.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Amazon Prime with a free trial of Strand Releasing, for rent on Apple TV+, Google Play, etc. in the US

My First Summer (2020)

My First Summer is a manic pixie dream girl story for the lesbian set, though it takes that archetype and grounds it in a darker reality. 16-year-old Claudia (Markella Kavenagh) lives in a remote house with her parents. One day, a strange girl named Grace (Maiah Stewardson) appears in her garden, seemingly with no parents and fearful of authority. Frankly, Grace is a bit feral, and Claudia introduces her to the comforts of the modern world, including candy bracelets and strawberry milk.

Their relationship turns romantic, though Grace’s troubled past comes back to haunt her. My First Summer is ultimately a very sweet movie, though it also features some serious themes. (Trigger warning for suicide in this one.) It might be a little too cute for some, but it manages to ground its overwhelmingly twee nature with some harsh reminders of reality.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: For rent on YouTube, Amazon Prime, Apple+ etc. in the US

Summerland (2020)

Summerland is far and away my favorite film on this summer list, and I’d definitely recommend a watch if you haven’t seen it. Gemma Arterton plays Alice, a reclusive folklore researcher who lives in a cottage above the sea in Kent. Harassed by the local children and rumored to be a witch, Alice is shocked to receive Frank (Lucas Bond), a young WWII evacuee from London. Alice has no desire to care for Frank, but no one else in town is available.

Alice slowly begins to warm to Frank, and we learn why she’s become such a cumeregon. She once had a great love in the form of a woman named Vera (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), but it didn’t work out. As Alice and Frank grow closer, Alice tells Frank the myth of Summerland, the pagan afterlife in the sky. Together, they may be able to re-write a happy ending.

Summerland is not totally a summer movie seasons-wise, though it is sunny for much of its runtime, a notable feat for rainy England. Most of the flashbacks of Alice and Vera have a distinctly golden, summer tinge, and Frank and Alice’s simultaneous growing up aligns in some ways with a classic summer narrative.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Acorn TV, Roku, Amazon Prime (Acorn add-on), for rent on Apple TV+ in the US

Honorable mention: Cocoon (2020)

Though it doesn’t have summer in the title, Cocoon follows the formula of a lesbian summer coming-of-age film to a tee. Nora (Lena Urzendowsky) is a 14-year-old living in Berlin. Ignored by her mother and only tolerated by her older sister, Nora longs for connection. She finds it with Romy (Jella Haase), a cool girl at her school. Nora learns more about herself with Romy and starts to feel confident in her own skin for the first time.

The film is rambling and lacks structure, like many indie films set in the summertime, but it features some great performances and succeeds in conveying both the feeling of insecurity and the rush of first love.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Amazon Prime with a free trial of Film Movement, for rent on YouTube, Google Play, Apple TV+ in the US

Honorable mention: Hearts Beat Loud (2018)

Hearts Beat Loud is my other favorite movie on this list. It’s a really sweet movie without too much tragedy, and it totally fits the summer theme. It also stars two out queer actors in the lead roles. Kiersey Clemons plays Sam, an 18-year-old spending her last summer in Red Hook, Brooklyn, before leaving for college. Her mom passed away, and she lives with her dad, Frank (Nick Offerman), who runs a record store. They make music together, and Frank wants them to start a band, but Sam is adamant about becoming a doctor. Meanwhile, Sam begins a relationship with a local girl named Rose (Sasha Lane). The cast also includes Toni Collette, Ted Danson, and Blythe Danner.

Hearts Beat Loud is a really warm film with great performances from Clemons and Offerman, who have wonderful chemistry as a father/daughter duo. The original songs in the movie are also really catchy. It’s a queer film where querness isn’t “the point,” which is refreshing in its own way. More of a coming-of-age story for Frank than for Sam, it hits all of the right notes for a summer watch.

Aesthetic appeal: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Summer vibes: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Overall score: ☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️/10

Where to watch: Xumo Play, Tubi, Roku, Fandango, for rent on Apple TV+, Google Play, YouTube in the US

Results of last month’s poll: 78% of you have worn a carabiner! Let’s go, lesbians.

Read more

What’s better than lesbians winning championships? Lesbian wives winning championships. Canadian hockey players Marie-Philip Poulin and Laura Stacey, sometimes called th…

Read more

The carabiner is an enduring symbol of lesbianism, affixed to Carhartt pants and baggy Levi’s for as long as anyone can remember. But where did this evocative accessory come from? And what does it mean today?

Like many aspects of lesbian style and culture, we can trace lesbians’ use of carabiners back to the mid-20th century, when it reflected the material conditions of the working class. In the 1940s and 1950s, many butch lesbians worked blue-collar jobs involving manual labor. This was the result of both the opening up of factory positions during WWII and the appeal of jobs that weren’t overtly feminine. As Christina Cauterucci writes in Slate, “without strict dress codes, women who worked as custodians, postal workers, and mechanics could stretch the boundaries of accepted gender presentations. They also needed easily accessible keys.”

Thus, carabiners emerged as a practical accessory for a portion of the lesbian workforce, one that was implicitly sanctioned by the gender-bending nature of their employment. This was an era in which butch and femme relationships were more than aesthetic choices; they were also economic imperatives, giving lesbian couples the means to pay their bills without the assistance of a man. Much of lesbian fashion, including carabeners, is at least partially the result of economic conditions.

What began as a functional adornment soon gained coded cultural connotations. For some, particularly those involved in the BDSM community, it became a symbol of “flagging,” indicating one’s sexual preference based on how it was worn. Wearing a carabiner on the left side means you’re a top, and on the right side means you’re a bottom. It’s often theorized, based on a gossipy piece in The Village Voice, that this carabiner code actually pre-dates the hanky code, in which gay men slip color-coded bandanas into their back pockets to communicate their sexual tastes.

Carabiners have since become a broader visual marker of lesbianism. In her excellent blog Dressing Dykes, Eleanor Medhurst writes that “clothes are an extension of the lesbian self, a conscious display (or, perhaps, a conscious veil). Because of this, the true question is not ‘what does a lesbian look like?’ but ‘what clothing is a lesbian signal?’” Carabiners have become lesbian signals, conveying unspoken messages. They have also aided in community formation. As Callen Zimmerman writes in Getting Located: Queer Semiotics in Dress, these fashion choices and aesthetic codes worked to “create an authentic lesbian sexuality appropriate to the flourishing of an independent lesbian culture.”

Subscribe now

Receiving these cultural messages can be impactful. In the 21st century, one of the most memorable carabiner references comes from Alison Bechdel’s 2006 graphic memoir Fun Home and the accompanying musical. In the memoir, she describes a powerful moment of recognition when, as a child, she sees a butch lesbian wearing a key ring in a diner. In the musical, this epiphanic moment becomes a song called “Ring of Keys,” in which the protagonist describes how she felt when she first recognized a lesbian in public. “[Key rings are] a phallic symbol—they’re all about potency, agency, capability,” Bechdel told Slate.

Though this history of carabiners isn’t widely known, the symbol has maintained its potency. Popular lesbian or lesbian-adjacent musical artists like MUNA, Towa Bird, and Sleater-Kinney have sold carabiners as merch, explicitly making these coded connections. Today, many associate carabiners with rock climbing, an activity popular amongst lesbians and bisexuals. While this connection doesn’t reflect the object’s cultural origins, it represents yet another instance of subcultural resonance.

This symbol is so powerful that it has persisted for several decades, even entering into the style codes of today’s Gen Z lesbians. The accessorized carabiner has taken on a new life on TikTok, where young adults are proudly showing off their gear. In particular, the femme carabiner has really taken off, including pink, heart-shaped carabiners. “POV: you’re a femme lesbian who wants to signal other gays without changing how you dress,” reads the text on a video depicting a lesbian with a carabiner clipped to her purse. “Wanted a way to signal that im lesbian so i a got a carabiner,” says a TikToker showing us her carabiner with a pink Tamagochi and lip gloss attached to it. Another user sells carabiners with charms on them, while others have used carabiners as a starting point for crafting projects.

Some younger folks have discovered the history of lesbian flagging via these TikTok videos. One popular lesbian TikToker with 1.7 million followers made a video referencing the carabiner hanky code, joking that you can hook the carabiner directly in the middle of your pants if you’re “vers.” It has entered fandom spaces as well. An X user created a thread imagining which carabiners the women on The Pitt would wear based on the vibes they give off. In a chapter in Queering Desire: Lesbians, Gender, and Subjectivity, Eleanor Medhurst discusses modern-day lesbians’ nostalgic interest in our cultural histories. She asks, “How better to translate a lesbian past into the present and the personal than to use clothing, accessories, and symbolism?”

Though a fandom-brained post about carabiners may not be the cultural stewardship our lesbian ancestors would have wanted, the carabiner’s digital footprint is worth noting. As Krista Brunton writes in a 2016 New York Times article titled “Lesbians Invented Hipsters,” there was a time when lesbians started to become invisible. “Since you now all wear carabiners as key chains, we lesbians no longer have any private signals to each other. We’re all screwed, except none of us are, because we can’t find one another anymore,” she jokes (semi-seriously).

So-called lesbian style has never been more mainstream than it is today (apart from, perhaps, during the ‘90s grunge era), yet it’s clear the carabiner has retained its prized cultural status as a lesbian object. It has utility, it has style, and it can exist anywhere on the spectrum between subtlety and swagger. These kinds of codes, style choices, and inside jokes are precisely what make up a robust subculture. The carabiner carries even more weight than advertised.

Have you ever incorporated carabiners into your personal style? Worn them for strictly practical purposes? Let me know in the comments below.

What paid subscribers got this week

Read more

Big news for weird gay people everywhere: Meg Stalter — th…

Read more

Last month, a nasty rumor spread around the lawless social media platform known as X. According to a series of increasingly distraught posts, the new film Mother Mary, starring Anne Hathaway and Michaela Coel, isn’t actually gay. “just found out from oomf mother mary isn’t even gay like the characters are supposed to be best friends and not exes. I’m gonna throw up. I’ve been waiting for this movie for YEARS this is the worst day of my life,” wrote one user.

Many folks responded to posts like this with outrage, claiming they felt “baited” because marketing materials made it seem as though the two protagonists had a romantic relationship. Several X users noted that the film’s official description seems to have changed over time, at one point referring to the characters as exes and later as former best friends. In one trailer for the film, their relationship is left ambiguous, though it does include a moment between Anne Hathaway and FKA Twigs where it looks like they’re about to kiss. To be fair to the marketing department and the film’s cast, it’s difficult to describe the film in a way that entices people without giving too much away — though what is there to give away, exactly?

In many ways, this discourse recalls the online discussion about Forbidden Fruits, which I wrote about several weeks ago. Notably, none of these indignant X users had actually seen the movie when they made these posts, and one user even rescinded their claim after watching the film themselves.

These disapproving posts didn’t go unrefuted. “Every single person who said this wasn’t gay watched this movie with their eyes completely shut and with noise cancelling headphones on. #STOPMISINFORMATION,” one user wrote. “Mother Mary is a very gay film. This shit is subtext heaven,” wrote another.

Critics didn’t agree about the nature of Mother Mary (Hathaway) and Sam’s (Michaela Cole) relationship either. Writing in The Film Stage, Jourdain Searles calls Sam “a woman haunted by love, her passion fueled by sustained, aching heartbreak,” and notes that “Though it’s never spoken, the queerness of [Director David] Lowery’s film is unmistakable.” On the other hand, IndieWire’s David Ehrlich writes, “You get the sense that all of her songs [...] are fundamentally about her friend break-up with Sam, even if they resonate with her fans on much different and more romantic terms.” In Rolling Stone, David Fear describes Mother Mary as Sam’s “ex-employer and close companion.”

So what is the truth? Mother Mary is a legendary pop diva returning to the stage after a breakdown of sorts. Sam is Mary’s ex-fashion designer and ex…something. Mary comes to Sam because she needs a new dress, and their years of history create a fraught environment filled with ghosts (literal and figurative) and hurt feelings. Most of the film is a two-hander, as Sam and Mary attempt to work it out on the remix through some extremely barbed words and a bloody seance. The intensity of their feelings is immediately apparent, and as one X user wrote, “The movie doesn’t even make sense if they’re not in love/hate with one another.”

Indeed, Mother Mary is a gay film, but not in a yaaas, queen! sort of way. It’s a gay in a demented, broody, lesbian sort of way. Their visceral emotional intensity, their deep wounds, their transcendence of the corporeal form, their shared haunting, even the unspoken nature of their relationship – these are all very lesbian-coded elements. The movie emphasizes queerness as a narrative framework, reveling in ambiguity and multiplicity, while lesbianism serves as an emotional anchor.

Still, the film may have benefited from more specificity and detail. It would have been enriching to learn more about who Mother Mary is, as a person, and as an artist. What’s her relationship to fame, and to this persona she created? Why did she end things with Sam, and where does the music fit in? How does race factor into their dynamic? The metaphors are grand and evocative, but the characters could have used some fleshing out.

This back-and-forth on X reflects the increasingly literal, black-and-white way people discuss film and other media, particularly in online spaces. Using words like “canonically” and “explicitly” to describe a character’s identity or the nature of their feelings elides the nuance and allegory that many of the best films traffic in. Mother Mary is comprised almost entirely of metaphors, making those terms irrelevant. The movie is more interested in symbolism than it is in reflecting reality. Refraction, maybe, but not reflection.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing that people want to experience films via their own experiences or understanding of the world. That’s a matter of human nature. But this film requires attention to symbols and metaphor, and a kind of surrender to ambiguity that can be hard to concede. Mother Mary leaves the viewer with much to chew on, and the gays are hungry.

What paid subscribers got this week

The dress code for this year’s Met Gala, hosted by our cap…

Read more

I hope Megan Thee Stallion knows she has an army of loyal…

Read more

Open the window and stick your head out — can you hear that? It’s the sound of a million lesbians screaming into the void. Today marks the final day of Lesbian Visibility Week, a time when lesbians celebrate themselves, each other, and raise awareness of issues facing the community. You may have seen folks posting about it online, but do you know anything about its history?

As far as we can tell, the first Lesbian Visibility Week in the United States took place in West Hollywood in 1990. Co-founded by the West Hollywood Lesbian Visibility Committee and the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center, the week was “a combination of cultural programming, workshops addressing current and impending needs, awards ceremonies, and social events.” Lesbian Visibility Week continued to be celebrated in Southern California for several years, but it didn’t gain national traction until the 2000s. (New Zealand and Canada supposedly held Lesbian Visibility Weeks as early as the 1980s.)

In 2008, activist Amy Ellis is said to have started the annual observation of Lesbian Visibility Day on April 26, though we have little evidence from this period. In its modern iteration, Lesbian Visibility Week was founded by Linda Riley, publisher of the UK’s DIVA magazine, in 2020. Riley came to the conclusion that lesbians needed more than a single day to celebrate and be visible. She was also concerned about the negative connotations surrounding the term ‘lesbian’ and assumptions about inclusivity. Speaking with The Advocate in 2022, Riley explained,

“I had noticed that more and more, the L in LGBTQ+ was becoming particularly marginalized. I am a proud cis lesbian and a proud trans ally. But many in the LGBTQ+ community were beginning to equate cis lesbians with transphobes, which is fundamentally untrue. I wanted to help create a narrative that shows once and for all that the vast majority of cis lesbians are inclusive. We are intersectional. We want to remove any negative connotations associated with that word. So this is why during Lesbian Visibility Week we celebrate and center all lesbians, both cis and trans, while also showing solidarity with all LGBTQ+ women and nonbinary people.”

In North America, Lesbian Visibility Week is sponsored by organizations like the Curve Foundation, an offshoot of Curve Magazine, as well as GLAAD. The theme for 2026 is Health and Wellbeing. “Our aims remain clear: to build public understanding of LGBTQIA+ women and non-binary people’s lives, to increase lesbian visibility and to create a legacy that benefits our community everywhere,” read the official Lesbian Visibility Week website.

Lesbian Visibility is celebrated in a myriad of ways. Curve Magazine publishes the Curve Power List, which honors influential lesbians in fields like STEM, entertainment, activism, and sports. In 2023, Lesbian Visibility Week made it to the White House, as The L Word stars Leisha Hailey, Jennifer Beals, Katherine Moennig, along with L Word creator Ilene Chaiken, joined press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre for a special press briefing. Unsurprisingly, the White House has not acknowledged Lesbian Visibility Week this year.

Though you may be primarily aware of it via online posts, Lesbian Visibility Week sponsors virtual and in-person events across North America and the UK. Events include a Queer Women in Sports Day, a lesbian speaker series, flag-raising ceremonies, an Earth Day Salt Marsh walk in Provincetown, a queer women’s history walk in the Castro district, a sound bath in Lily Dale, NY, a lesbian arm wrestling competition in Portland, OR, and The Great Lesbian Pie Eating Contest in Winnipeg.

Of course, most lesbians celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week by posting about it on the internet. On X, one user uploaded an iconic clip from The L Word depicting Jenny and Alice’s argument about artistic license and Monet, among other things. “lets celebrate amazing lesbian writing on our visibility week,” they wrote. A number of folks took the opportunity to post photos of themselves and/or their girlfriends/spouses. Others bemoaned the tragedy of celebrating Lesbian Visibility Week without a girlfriend. MUNA’s Katie Gavin celebrated lesbian visibility by posting nudes on main. On Bluesky, many users posted NSFW artwork or furry-related content to promote visibility.

Considering the centrality of fandom on social media platforms like X, it’s not surprising that many users celebrated Lesbian Visibility Week by shouting out their favorite fictional characters or couples. “Happy lesbian visibility week to them” or “happy lesbian visibility week to her” were common refrains as fans posted their favorite lesbian or lesbian-coded media. Posts included characters from Pluribus, 9-1-1, Adventuretime, Arcane, Agatha All Along, The Pitt, and House of the Dragon, to name only a few. Others interpreted lesbian visibility differently, such as the fan who posted a series of photos of Taylor Swift wearing the colors of the lesbian flag or the fan who posted a photo of someone holding up a “Lesbians for Louis” flag in front of former One Direction member Louis Tomlinson.

On Threads, a debate erupted about language. Some users posted lists of books to read for Lesbian Visibility Week, and others noted that some of these books — included under the broad umbrella of “sapphic book recs” — didn’t feature any lesbian main characters. Several users got annoyed about the concept of “sapphic book recommendations” during Lesbian Visibility Week because of how it contributed to lesbian erasure, while others took umbrage with lesbians not wanting to be called sapphic, claiming they were being exclusionary.

Clearly, queer language remains a hotly contested subject online, though one wonders if such debates would ever occur IRL, such as at a lesbian pie-eating contest, for example. Ironically, both the meaning and the origins of Lesbian Visibility Week lack visibility, though this isn’t surprising considering the myopic, often ahistorical nature of the internet. Being a lesbian means different things to different people, and visibility is a slippery subject. Watching gay movies or going on gay walks means being visible to some, while others stare longingly at their phones. It’s all equally lesbian.

How did you celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week? If you could plan any event for Lesbian Visibility Week, what would it be? Let me know in the comments.

What paid subscribers got this week

I hate to be the b…

Read more