“Queer cinema has always been about questioning the norms—of storytelling, of identity, of desire.” — Todd Haynes
WELCOME TO part two of my nostalgia-driven journey through my Top 12 favourite gay films! I hope you enjoyed Part One! Now, dive into four more unforgettable movies about the many layers of gay/queer relationships and experiences. Get ready for more heartfelt moments, powerful storytelling, and films that truly leave a lasting impact; they certainly did for me.
From stories of first love to explorations of identity, community, self-discovery, and even loss and betrayal, each film brings something unique to the table. Some are sensual, bold, and provocative, challenging social norms and expectations, others are comedic, intimate, and introspective, inviting viewers to step inside the characters’ hearts and heads. Yes, there’s a mix of tragedy with laughter, but nothing bleak; I don’t do bleak. Collectively, these films demonstrate the power of cinema to reveal the diversity of gay/queer experiences and the range of story possibilities, including our resilience.
Jeffrey (1995)
Jeffrey, directed by Christopher Ashley and adapted from the off‑Broadway play by playwright Paul Rudnick, is a romantic comedy that explores love, homosexual desire, fear, and self-discovery amid the AIDS crisis. The film follows Jeffrey, a witty and introspective gay man (played by Steven Weber) living in New York City, who becomes paralyzed not only by anxiety over his fear of contracting HIV, but also the difficulty in navigating sexual freedom with other gay/queer men who are also full of anxiety over contracting the virus.
Determined to protect himself emotionally and health-wise, he chooses to focus solely on his work as an actor (*cough* waiter), swearing off sex entirely. He navigates his friendships, social life, and the gay dating scene with sarcasm and a reactionary level of avoidance. The film blends comedy with heartfelt moments, using Jeffrey’s sharp observations and fears to highlight the complexity of “out of the closet” modern gay relationships.
Jeffrey’s resolve is challenged when he meets Steve (played by the hunky Michael T. Weiss), a charming, sexy, and confident man living with HIV who he’s immediately attracted to (and who can blame him?!). Despite his fears, Jeffery finds himself drawn to Steve, which forces him to confront the tension between his desire for intimacy, not just sex, and his fear of loss, even death. Along the way, Jeffrey seeks guidance and support from his closest friends: Sterling, a flamboyant interior designer with absolutely zero patience for bad taste (played to camptastic perfection by Sir Patrick Stewart) and his partner, Darius, a dancer in Cats who is HIV+ (played by Bryan Batt). They offer both witty commentary and emotional insight. Their interactions provide a window into the ways people, particularly friends and lovers, cope with vulnerability, grief, and hope, creating a balance between comedy and poignancy throughout the story.
The film stands out for its candid portrayal of gay life in the 1990s (which I lived through to the best—and worst—of my ability in my late teens and 20s) and for its endeavour to address serious topics through humour and warmth. Jeffrey’s journey is both deeply personal and widely relatable to many gay men of a certain age, illustrating how fear can shape our choices and how courage often emerges in moments of connection. Ultimately, Jeffrey celebrates resilience, love, and the human need to take risks despite uncertainty, if you truly want love, passion, and romance.
Seen through today’s LGBTQ+ eyes, some of the film’s humour could be seen as problematic. But as this film, like much of Rudnick’s humourist writing (especially in the 90s), was meant to be seen as irreverent, political, and tongue-in-cheek, but never malicious, I think we have to watch it with consideration for the era in which it was made. But you can decide this for yourself.
Now, I mentioned before that I quote a lot from To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar… well, I’d arguably say I quote from Jeffrey even more. This film is absolutely packed with clever witticisms, reads, and quips. Most come from Patrick Stewart (“The earring—fun… last year.”), but also from Sigourney Weaver’s character of Debra Moorhouse, the world’s hottest postmodern evangelist (“Why was there a Hitler? — Why are these acrylic?!”). I wholeheartedly, unapologetically adore this film, even with its occasionally dated humour. This is my 20s.
Beautiful Thing (1996)
Beautiful Thing, directed by Hettie Macdonald and adapted from Jonathan Harvey’s play, is one of the most thoughtful, heartfelt, and authentic portrayals of adolescent closeted gay teens I’ve ever seen on film. For me, this film is far more satisfying than another 90s British film with a similar theme, Get Real (1998). Although the ending is believable, I found it less gratifying than that of Beautiful Thing. And while Get Real is enjoyable overall, it feels more like a “produced” teen drama and ultimately, for me, it resonates less authentically than Macdonald’s film.
Despite the movie’s very specific cultural, economic, and geographic setting—closely tied to its characters’ lives—Beautiful Thing remains deeply relatable on many levels. It’s a story of adolescence, vulnerability, and self-discovery, both sexual and emotional, that resonates far beyond the South London council estate where it takes place.
Until the end scene of the film, our two gay protagonists’ sexuality is never openly declared to their classmates, yet the social environment around them has already marked one of them as “different.” I’ve been there; many of us have. The film carefully captures how schoolyard cruelty often operates on suspicion rather than fact. Jamie (played with sweetness and vulnerability by Glen Berry), possesses a gentle temperament, shyness, and visible discomfort with masculine norms—especially his dislike of football (I get that!)—that make him an easy target for bullying. In this way, the story reveals how homophobia can function even before sexuality is explicitly named. The trope of self-actualization and, eventually, acceptance appears across many genres, from cinema to queer fiction to poetry. Here, however, the narrative is rendered with a particular emotional precision: understated when it needs to be and deeply felt when it matters most.
Naturally, Jamie’s concealed homosexuality becomes central to the emotional texture of the film. He exists in a space of quiet observation and guarded longing, even desire. And that, too, feels important, as it’s entirely normal and healthy for gay/queer youth to experience attraction or lust, regardless of whether they act on it. The presence of desire does not require action in order to be valid; it simply affirms the reality of human feeling. The whole, “How do you know you’re whatever if you’ve never had sex with blah blah” interrogating statement. Well, even in youth, when feelings are still emerging, the heart and mind seem to intrinsically know what they desire, and they inform you whether you’re ready to deal with these new sensations or not—or fully understand them.
Importantly, nothing in the film is overtly sexualized. Instead, affection unfolds through glances, brief touches, and quiet words spoken in moments of spatial safety. Jamie’s introverted nature contrasts sharply with the loud, performative masculinity expected by his peers, reinforcing how deviation from gender norms can provoke hostility. Yet the film refuses to define Jamie solely through being a victim, a target.
His growing relationship with Ste (portrayed with equal emotional adeptness by Scott Neal) transforms
secrecy into intimacy. The boys’ nighttime conversations and hesitant gestures of affection become small acts of resistance and comfort against the hostility waiting outside the flat. When Ste comes to stay with Jamie in order to escape a violent home environment, the emotional closeness between them—and the desire both boys struggle to keep at arm’s length—becomes especially palpable.
Aside from the film’s conclusion, it is these quiet moments in Jamie’s bedroom that most strongly connect the viewer with the story’s emotional core. In this context, coming out is less about public declaration than about finding someone with whom one can safely exist. That shared solitude becomes, quite literally, a beautiful thing (pun intended).
What ultimately makes Beautiful Thing effective both as entertainment and as an exploration of human connection—shaped by the added dimension of queerness—is its insistence on warmth, joy, and hope within a narrative that could easily have been framed as tragedy. Bullying could lead to violence, to self-hatred, or to something worse. Instead, the film situates Jamie’s sexuality within a small but meaningful network of support, particularly through the compassionate presence of his mother (Linda Henry) and her on-again, off-again boyfriend (the always amazing Ben Daniels). This allows the coming-out arc to culminate in affirmation rather than punishment.
By foregrounding Jamie’s softness, kindness, and emotional openness, the film quietly challenges the rigid masculinity that fuels the bullying he experiences. Rather than portraying homosexuality as a problem to be solved, Beautiful Thing celebrates the fragile, exhilarating moment when a young person realizes that being different can still lead to acceptance and love. The two, the film gently reminds us, are not mutually exclusive. And with the inclusion of music from legend Mama Cass Elliot, we are reminded that we can “make our own kind of music.”
Lilies (1996)
Lilies, directed by John Greyson, adapted from Michel Marc Bouchard’s play of the same name, is a strikingly layered work that blends theatricality, memory, profound love, and devastating loss into something that feels both intimate and fantastical. This film is less a straightforward narrative than a premeditated act of long-overdue confrontation, one in which revenge is neither explosive nor sudden but slow, deliberate, and deeply entwined with grief.
When I saw this film in the theatre (the first time), I was blown away by its quiet intensity. I own several copies of this film, each with a different cover, and even though I know it like the back of my hand, I’m still emotionally struck by its beauty, poignancy, and tragedy every time I watch it. And no, this isn’t your standard gay love story that, of course, ends in tragedy. This is a masterfully written story about gay/queer love, betrayal, and revenge. This is a thriller, wrapped in a period melodrama, inside a doomed gay romance. Layers and layers.
Set in a Quebec prison in 1952, Lilies follows Bishop Jean Bilodeau (Marcel Sabourin), who is summoned to hear the confession of the dying inmate Simon Doucet (Aubert Pallascio), only to discover that Doucet has orchestrated a play—performed by fellow prisoners—revisiting their shared past in 1912 as childhood friends. This framing device immediately signals that what unfolds is not just storytelling, but a carefully orchestrated moral indictment. Revenge here becomes not merely performative, but almost ritualistic, definitely judicial, as the past is resurrected not merely to accuse, but to force recognition and confession.
The play recreates the love story between Simon and Vallier (played by Jason Cadieux and Danny Gilmore), which lies at the emotional center of the film. Their relationship is not framed as transgressive in itself, but rather as something pure that is soon violently distorted and assailed by external forces, chief among them is religious authority and internalized shame (though sweet Vallier feels none of this). The tragedy is not simply that they are in love, but that their love exists in a world that simply won’t accommodate it.
This is where jealousy and repression intertwine most powerfully, particularly in Bilodeau’s character (his younger self played by Matthew Ferguson, who is also in Love and Human Remains). His envy is not seen as romantic pining but existential suffering; it reflects a self-denial so profound that it mutates into treachery. The film suggests that the greatest violence comes not from desire, but from the refusal to acknowledge it (let alone embrace it) and from jealousy of those who do.
Religious interference operates as both a thematic and structural force in the film. The Church isn’t
portrayed as overtly monstrous, but rather as insidiously restrictive, shaping the characters’ understanding of themselves in ways that lead to ruin. Bilodeau’s eventual complicity in the central tragedy of the film (there’s more than one) is inseparable from his inability to reconcile his faith with his homosexual desires, ones directed toward Simon.
This tension gives the film its emotional weight: the idea that self-denial, when enforced by rigid moral systems, can lead to irreversible harm. The revenge enacted by Doucett, through the medium of the play, makes this plot more than just his need for remembrance and Bilodeau’s admission of guilt—it’s ideological, exposing the devastation wrought by institutionalized repression and suppression.
The film’s use of gender performance deepens its exploration of identity and illusion. Because the story is staged within a men’s prison, female roles are played by male inmates, creating a deliberate blurring of gender boundaries. This isn’t played for novelty, but instead becomes paramount to the film’s aesthetic and thematic look and feel. Gender, like memory, can be fluid and constructed, shaped by context and performance. The result is a kind of heightened reality, a true contemporary fantasy, where emotional truth takes precedence over literal realism.
Brent Carver as Countess de Tilly and Alexander Chapman as Lydie-Anne deliver standout performances. They approach their roles with precision and absolute conviction, and because they don’t rely on exaggerated femininity, their portrayals never feel like drag or parody, you simply believe in the characters’ authenticity. They inhabit these women’s lives so fully that their performances feel completely real.
Finally, the film’s movement between past and present gives it a strong sense that time—and guilt—don’t really move in a straight line, as I noted above. The prison keeps us grounded in the present (1952), but the play keeps pulling us back to 1912, blurring the line between what’s happening now and what happened then. It becomes clear that the past, particularly when dealing with true love lost and lingering trauma, is never truly behind us; it sticks around, unresolved, refusing to be ignored. By the time the performance reaches its climax, the boundaries between actor and character, past and present, have basically fallen away. What’s left is a powerful reflection on love, betrayal, and the cost of denying who you are.
Edge of Seventeen (1999)
Edge of Seventeen is directed by David Moreton and written by Moreton and Todd Stephens (based on Stephens’ own experiences as a gay teenager in Sandusky, Ohio, in the ‘80s). I saw this film at the 1999 Toronto Inside Out Festival with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, and a couple of gay university friends (shout out to Mark and Adam!). My ex-boyfriend also happened to be there and sat right behind us—awkward. Anyway…
This was the movie I was most eager to see because it resonated with many of my experiences as a closeted (not that successfully) gay alterna-teen in the ’80s. Watching this film for the first time as a gay man who’d been out for years felt bittersweet, nostalgic for both the good and the bad, and warm all at once. I have a real love/hate relationship with the 1980s. On one hand, I’m nostalgic for the music and culture, but on the other, it was a difficult time to grow up knowing I was gay. The bullying, for one. There’s a scene in the film, during a house party, that hits very close to home.
Edge of Seventeen follows a year in the life of 17-year-old Eric (Chris Stafford—great hair!) as he begins to accept being gay. It starts with a summer fling with a co-worker at the amusement park they work at, named Rod (Andersen Gabrych), a college dude a couple of years older, who sports the classic Kurt Marshall 80s bleach-blonde hair. Eric’s exploration of his identity continues from summer through the school year with casual sexual encounters once he discovers the local gay bar and begins to embrace his sexuality. There, he finds a chosen family, led by his former boss at the park, an older lesbian named Angie (Lea DeLaria, who is FABULOUS). She becomes a mentor figure, offering guidance and experience while reminding Eric that there are no easy answers or straightforward paths to being gay/queer.
What the film does really well is capture the messy reality of “coming out” to family and friends, but especially to your parent(s). That said, I have to admit something: I never actually “came out.” I just decided to start living authentically, and if people got it, great. The whole melodrama of the coming out experience is lost on me. Plus, my parents didn’t care. I pretty much always did what I wanted, anyway. My parents did have two rules regarding my teenage self-expression. I couldn’t dye my hair black because my mom was worried I would look too pale and people would think she wasn’t taking care of me. However, she was perfectly fine with my hair being stark white-blonde or the darkest brown, which made no sense. I also wasn’t allowed to have a mohawk. Of course, I inevitably broke both rules. (I need a wicked grin emoji here!) Love ya, mom!
Okay, I’m getting off-track here…
In the film, Eric’s gay experiences are neither idealized nor unrealistic. The mix of excitement and fear,
desire and panic, along with the pangs of eventual rejection, all feel deeply recognizable. His moments of intimacy, both emotional and physical, are depicted with a genuine honesty that doesn’t shy away from the awkwardness and uncertainty of teens exploring themselves and the world around them.
Where this movie differs from one like Beautiful Thing is that it has moved past the innocence part of recognizing and coming to terms with one’s sexuality. Eric is already there, and he thinks he’s ready for more adult queer experiences. It’s refreshing to see a gay teen’s desire, mistakes, and self-expression treated with the same depth and nuance as the many 80s and 90s teen films (and TV shows) centred on heterosexual characters. John Hughes, I’m speaking of you.
The 1980s setting isn’t used as gimmicky window dressing; it amplifies every aspect of Eric’s story. His gradual transformation from a more conventional teen to a flashy New Wave rebel is a visual and thematic delight. His spikey hair, edgy clothing, and small acts of defiance are more than just style; they’re Eric’s way of carving out space for himself in a world that insists on conformity. I felt a thrill watching him assert his individuality through fashion and music, and how these elements, in some way, help him embrace his (homo)sexuality. This really resonates with me. The film perfectly captures the tension between suburban pressures to “blend in” (as Eric does at the beginning of the summer) and the desire to be yourself. I was a goth-punk teen, though one time this guy had the audacity to tell me who I was, that I was “more New Wave.” Ya, sure, you understand alternative style in your brown penny loafers and Lacoste shirt. Get bent.
For me, Edge of Seventeen delivers a profound sense of catharsis with each viewing. This isn’t a story that wraps up neatly with perfection, but it celebrates the small victories: self-acceptance, the courage to be seen, and the tentative steps toward a future where Eric can truly live as himself. As a gay man, seeing a character so unapologetically explore his sexuality and individuality as a teenager in the 1980s was thrilling. This is so much more than just a coming out/coming-of-age film; it’s Stephens’ love letter to the messy, thrilling, sometimes painful experience of growing up gay.
