“Art should give pleasure, and pleasure is often radical. For gay cinema, that pleasure can be a declaration of existence.” — Derek Jarman
REWATCHING God’s Own Country the other night reminded me that certain gay/queer films just stay
with me over the years. It’s one of those movies I can return to again and again—and have, many times—and still feel the same emotional connection I did the first time I saw it. Sometimes the feeling is even stronger on a rewatch, either because I notice something I missed before, or because a particular moment in the film, or a line of dialogue resonates differently this time around—more powerful. I often find that I connect with a film more profoundly during the second viewing, especially if I’m alone.
Why one film over another, though? Well, there’s obviously something about a film’s atmosphere, the intimacy, and the way the relationships unfold that makes it endlessly rewatchable for me. Every viewing draws me back into its dynamic world. Finishing God’s Own Country again this time made me realize just how many films like that I’ve collected over the years, movies that feel familiar and comforting, yet still emotionally resonant each time I rewatch them.
That’s what got me thinking about putting together a personal TOP 12 list of my favourite gay/queer films. I tried for 10, but I could have done 20. So 12 it is. Oh, and I’m dividing these blog articles into three sets of four because, let’s be honest, if I didn’t, you’d be reading for ages with my loquaciousness. I’m focusing specifically on narrative films—mostly dramas or the occasional comedy—so no documentaries (like 1995’s The Celluloid Closet; excellent—highly recommend) and no horror. Horror, including erotic thrillers, really deserves its own category, and it’s a long list. I absolutely love dark, queer films like Dracula’s Daughter (1936), The Hunger (1983), and Hellbent (2004), arguably the first overt “gay slasher.” They are just a few examples of the many entries in the genre that I own, have a heart-on for, and have watched many times.
Now, I’m not claiming these are the “best gay films of all time,” not in any objective sense. These are simply my favourites, the ones that have stuck with me over the years, even decades for some. These are movies I can throw on at any time and instantly fall back into; cinematic “comfort food,” you could say.
Now I realize that these films are primarily about gay/queer men, but they were the ones I sought out as I grew into my own sense of “gay identity” over the decades, and that connection still resonates strongly with me. At the time, seeing even small reflections and aspects of myself on screen, even when exaggerated, felt meaningful and powerful. They became more than just entertainment; they offered a sense of recognition and helped me understand myself a little better through the stories and characters I encountered. It was really through horror films that I began to learn about the nuances of sexuality, including lesbianism, bisexuality, and fluidity. I will showcase more of those films in the horror entry I mentioned earlier, which I promise I will get to one day. Halloween, perhaps?
So, in year of release, here’s part one of my Top 12. Let’s go!
Maurice (1987)
Maurice is a British romantic drama directed by James Ivory, adapted from the acclaimed 1971 novel by E. M. Forster. Starring James Wilby as Maurice, Hugh Grant as Clive, and Rupert Graves as Alec, the film paints a poignant portrait of forbidden love in Edwardian England. Against a backdrop of social rigidity and hidden desire, Maurice Hall struggles to reconcile his heart with a world that refuses to accept his full, authentic self. From the intellectual halls of university to the private turbulence of forbidden romance, he experiences passion, heartbreak, and self-discovery.
This is also one of the first films I saw depicting full-frontal male nudity, which definitely added a flush of desire and fascination in a reticent gay teenager. (I’m talking about myself if that’s not clear. Oh, it is? Nevermind.)
This film is a remarkable exploration of loving authentically in a time when being gay was not only taboo
but illegal. It delves deeply into themes of repression and self-denial, especially through the character of Clive. His struggle with his sexuality in light of the times and his ultimate choice to conform to an inauthentic heterosexual life starkly contrasts with Maurice’s courage to embrace his homosexual desires. The cinematography is breathtaking, complemented by exquisite period costumes that make Edwardian England feel vividly alive. The sensual chemistry between James Wilby and both Hugh Grant and Rupert Graves is electric, particularly with Graves, creating moments of intimacy that feel both seductive and tender.
Perhaps most importantly, the film’s positive ending offers a sense of hope—that two men from different social classes could find love and a life together, even if made to be lived quietly, in a society that would never openly accept them.
Longtime Companion (1989)
Longtime Companion is a romantic drama directed by Norman René and starring Bruce Davison, Campbell Scott, Dermot Mulroney, Patrick Cassidy, and Mary-Louise Parker. It was the first widely released theatrical film to address the AIDS crisis. The title comes from a euphemism used by The New York Times in the 1980s for the surviving same-sex partner of someone who had died from AIDS.
The film follows the early years of the AIDS epidemic through the lives of a group of urban gay men and the straight friend (Parker) of one of them. Presented in chronological segments marked by dates, the film beautifully and realistically—even when it hits hard—illustrates, without melodrama or caricature, how the disease transforms relationships, challenges the gay/queer community, and leaves a lasting impact on the lives of the survivors, particularly the lovers, partners, friends, and found family who cared for their ailing loved ones.
Even though I watched Parting Glances (1986) first, another movie revolving around gay relationships with an AIDS storyline, Longtime Companion is the one that stuck with me. The cast is amazing and memorable, especially Davison, Scott, and Mulroney, and I love how it presents a wide spectrum of gay relationships, not solely casual, sex-based ones, but also romantic, monogamous, and platonic ones. The film features a wide array of believable gay/queer characters, and no performance feels forced or clichéd. The ending, especially, is beautiful, even in the face of incredible loss and grief. It shows that remembering those who have impacted our lives is both a gift and a powerful responsibility, as is educating ourselves about AIDS. Longtime Companion is a movie about love, not judgment, and about gay/queer men who felt finally free to live authentically, even as disease impacted their lives.
Love and Human Remains (1993)
Love and Human Remains, a Canadian film directed by Denys Arcand and adapted from Brad Fraser’s stage play Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love, could be categorized as a thriller due to its serial-killer subplot. However, the film’s real power lies in its unflinching exploration of queer urban life in the early 1990s. The film follows David, a single, young gay man (who is an actor/waiter), as he navigates the “gay scene” while contending with emotional detachment and the superficiality of urban connections.
The film foregrounds gay/queer sexuality unapologetically, portraying desire, intimacy, and vulnerability in ways that were still rare for mainstream cinema at the time. This is unsurprising as both Fraser (an outspoken gay man) and Arcand are known for pushing the boundaries of sexual and social conservativeness. This candid representation is central to the film: the queer characters—including David’s “heterosexual” female roommate, who experiments sexually with a lesbian—aren’t side notes or moral lessons; they’re fully fleshed individuals negotiating love and desire, aware of the uncertainty of the future and compelled to live fully in the moment, as the young tend to do, anyways.
Beneath the thriller veneer, Arcand’s film scrutinizes the social walls that gay men construct around themselves. The urban setting of Edmonton, Alberta (though I assumed for years it was Vancouver, as the city is never explicitly named) amplifies a sense of isolation. Apartments, gay clubs, and streets feel simultaneously populated and lonely, reflecting how connections exist but require effort and are often blocked by fear and mistrust. The presence of AIDS is also felt, though largely compartmentalized or denied, especially by David. This invisible threat runs parallel to the active serial killer, with both capable of striking indiscriminately—though the killer primarily targets women—heightening the film’s tension and underscoring the fragility of life and connection.
David’s interactions often feel performative, though not predatory, emphasizing a landscape of emotional
detachment where true intimacy over escapist pleasure is scarce. While his friend and fuck-buddy Sal, a man his own age, shows interest, David’s pursuit of Kane, a younger, inexperienced guy, speaks volumes, though no moralistic judgments are made about this. Is Sal, a party-goer, less appealing now, riskier? Does David see Kane as intrinsically safer, even purer?
By juxtaposing intimacy with ennui and desire with fear, the film exposes the loneliness and anxiety beneath the vibrancy of urban gay culture. It challenges the audience to look past the thriller genre elements to the subtler commentary on human connection. The serial killings and suspenseful moments certainly heighten tension, but perhaps they function more as narrative devices that underscore the stakes of isolation as opposed to providing just a conventional erotic whodunit. At its core, the film (and the play it’s based on) is about the difficulty of finding genuine intimacy in a world where desire is expressed but emotional self-protection is utilized as a survival tool.
Oh, so my fave lines from the movie?
“So… Candy tells me you’re a lesbian. – David
That’s right. – Jerri
I’m queer myself. – David
I know. [CHUCKLES] – Jerri
Well, we seem to have exhausted that particular topic. -David”
This is a really great Canadian film that doesn’t get its flowers nearly enough. Plus, it plays Snap’s “Rhythm is a Dancer” in the beginning, at the club. I mean…! How more gay club scene 90s can you get?
To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar (1995)
One could say that To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar brought the art of drag into mainstream cinema (along with 1994’s Priscilla, Queen of the Desert). The film, directed by Beeban Kidron and written by Douglas Carter Beane, follows three drag queens—Vida Boheme (Patrick Swayze), Noxeema Jackson (Wesley Snipes), and Chi-Chi Rodriguez (John Leguizamo)—as they journey through small-town America, spreading glamour and wit wherever they go. The movie foregrounds drag as not just entertainment but a deeply expressive form of identity, allowing its protagonists to negotiate their gender and sexuality in a world that too often misunderstands and demeans them.
Yes, it’s unrealistic for gay men to stay in drag THAT LONG (as many of my friends back when this came out ranted on about ad nauseam), but it’s a mainstream comedy, and we’re meant to connect more with the “entertaining” drag personas than with the men out of drag. One of my favourite elements of the film is the moments when one personality bleeds into the other, as when Vida asserts her manliness when dealing with two male antagonists, or when she loses her wig and the man underneath is exposed. That’s where the humour and the humanity of the film truly lie, IMHO.
The film’s costumes and makeup, along with the actors’ exaggerated gestures, emphasize that drag is both art and armour, a way of presenting many different sides of oneself to the world while simultaneously separating (maybe even protecting) one’s personal life, outside of drag. Humour is used as a fabulous flourish and a weapon. Though all the lead actors are straight men, they never performed their roles with a mocking or degrading tone.
Building on this train of thought, beneath the glitter and humour, the film explores secrecy and performance as mechanisms of self-preservation. In navigating a largely conservative environment on their journey to Hollywood, including dealing with a racist, sexually-assaulting Sheriff out to get them, the characters constantly balance authenticity with concealment, highlighting the tension many LGBTQ+ individuals experience between personal truth and social safety; lamentably, something we still have to do this day.
This duality underscores the performative nature of gender itself, suggesting that all people, drag queens and non-queens alike, engage in varying levels of daily performance to navigate society. The film’s comedic tone softens this serious theme, showing that the act of performing can be both joyous and strategic, a shield against prejudice while also a means of self-expression. This is an American comedy, after all, not a Derek Jarman film. Don’t look for too much depth.
Equally central is the film’s exploration of friendship across lines of age, ethnicity, and gender. The bonds formed among the three drag queens are strengthened by shared experience, mutual respect, shade as humour, dependability, and vulnerability. At the same time, their interactions with the townspeople of Snydersville, particularly the women, demonstrate the possibility of deep alliances beyond the LGBTQ+ community—what we call “allyship.”
By emphasizing empathy, solidarity, and respect for our differences, even in some instances, appreciation, the film celebrates chosen families and cross-cultural/social connections, portraying friendships as spaces of affirmation and safety where differences in experience and identity are met with understanding rather than judgment. In this way, To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar not only elevates drag as an art form but also as a vehicle for emotional connection and social transformation for all forms of gender expression and sexual orientations.
And on a purely superficial, entertainment level, this movie is funny as hell. My husband and I—well, mostly me—quote from this film daily. “Oh, what in gay hell?” “I’m a comin’. I’m a getcha!” “Gurl, did you just do a uey?!” “Your mother… Thank you.” “Ohhh, the seats are like buttuh.” “Why, her daddy used to call her ‘baby ugly.'”
Okay… I’ll stop!
