Aimee Goldblum
The final season of Netflix’s Stranger Things saw Will Byers come out as gay, and while this isn’t the show’s first attempt at such a scene, the backlash has been intense and widespread. Despite Robin’s poignant coming out in season 3, which garnered praise from queer and non-queer communities alike, the writers seem to have lost the spark that made that scene so great. So why are we seeing less nuanced, emotional representation than we were six years ago?
While his queerness is not explicit until season 4, Will Byers has always been subtextually gay
Both scenes were written for a similar target viewership; by season 3, Stranger Things had long shed its initial niche horror audience, favouring bright colours and slapstick comedy to enrapture Netflix’s masses. While the audience may have gotten bigger over the last half-decade, the demographics have stayed static – everyone and anyone.
Beginning as the driving force of Stranger Things, Will is a quiet, sensitive child who loves art. His kidnapping launches the supernatural plot of the show, as he is taken to an alternate dimension. While his queerness is not explicit until season 4, Will Byers has always been subtextually gay. When talking about Will’s disappearance, small-town Hawkins spreads rumours of a hate crime, of him being ‘killed by some other queer’. In the very first episode, we learn that Will’s dad, Lonnie, called him homophobic slurs as a young boy.
At its inception, Stranger Things does not shy away from the attitudes towards queerness prevalent in 80s America and grounds the show in its historical context. As the story progresses and Will’s LGBT identity transforms from subtext to fact, the writing still centres on a specifically 80s gay experience. Will says that he ‘feels like a mistake’ in a heartbreaking speech to his love interest, and best friend, Mike. We also see his brother, Jonathan, comfort him about his feelings of alienation. Season 5 completely upturns this authentic portrayal.
Any empowerment that Will and queer people watching may get from this scene is minimal
In what feels like a humiliation ritual for queer people everywhere, Will is forced to come out by Vecna, his abuser, to a group of around fifteen people, some of whom he has never interacted with. We don’t see what Vecna shows Will that makes him come out, but we can assume it is traumatic. He isn’t even allowed the courtesy of saying the word ‘gay’; he tells the group that he ‘doesn’t like girls’, a shallow callback to a pivotal scene in his journey, where Mike tells him that ‘it’s not [his] fault [Will] doesn’t like girls’. Instead of rushing to comfort him, the group engage in a Disney Channel-esque sequence, all piggybacking off Jonathan’s initial support. Mike hangs back, and Will’s unrequited feelings for him are never addressed. Will’s mother does not directly comfort him, and Robin, who has assisted Will’s journey of self-acceptance in season 5, is similarly emotionally absent. We see a boy faced with a large crowd, like a press conference, forced to come out by his allegorical assaulter. Any empowerment that Will and queer people watching may get from this scene is minimal. It is not a brave facing of attitudes towards queerness in the 80s, but a fearful, forcible outing to the entire cast.
This would be less egregious if Will had any semblance of a happy ending. Sure, he lives – as does everyone else – but Will’s arc in season 5 seemed to promise something more. While self-acceptance is an important aspect of his queerness, romance is an equal share. Season 3 opens with Will’s assertion that he is ‘not going to fall in love’, a clear attempt at foreshadowing the opposite. And when Will does fall in love, it is with his best friend – an extremely widespread queer experience, especially for closeted teens in the 80s.
In season 5, Will watches Robin with her girlfriend Vickie, clearly desiring a similar intimacy with Mike. He asks Robin for signs to look out for and asks how to make a move on someone. However, not only do his feelings for Mike ostensibly evaporate after his coming out (‘he was just my Tammy’, Will explains to a crowd of people who have no knowledge of Tammy), but he never experiences any actual romance at all.
Stranger Things is not the only Netflix show that suffers from this issue
This makes Will the only main cast member not to have a romantic arc – a sour thought when compared to the numerous heterosexual relationships that the show depicts. His ‘epilogue boyfriend’ is a figment of Mike’s imagination, and this ten-second scene features none of the queer flagging or signalling foreshadowed by Robin. So, what’s the point? Will gets to grab a man’s arm at a bar. Mike and El, at age 14, get to make out on screen. Steve and Nancy have sex at 16. There’s a clear double standard.
Defenders of Stranger Things’ queer representation will call on Robin as an example of well-written identity. Her coming-out scene to Steve is everything Will’s wasn’t: intimate, historically accurate, and loving. But Robin also ends the show single; her relationship with Vickie acts as a plot device for Will’s arc, and once that resolves, Vickie disappears from the narrative without a trace. Wider diversity in Stranger Things is also mishandled. Lucas’ arc entirely revolves around his relationship with Max, despite the complex racial dynamics and discrimination he experiences from characters like Billy and Jason. Both antagonists die, and their biases are used entirely for shock value. Dustin’s disability is used only as a punchline. As Stranger Things’ audience grew, the authentic representation that defined the early seasons of the show and the social context around it was demoted in favour of cheap gags and generic storylines.
Stranger Things is not the only Netflix show that suffers from this issue. Known for being a steamy Regency era romance, Bridgerton takes a different view on diversity than we may be used to; in this world, racism does not exist. Unlike Stranger Things, a show I have been a fan of for almost ten years, I had not seen any of Bridgerton until season 4. The only real question I had for my housemates, who drew me in with the promise of on-screen lesbianism, was ‘what’s the deal with race, here?’
Why set it in this era at all, other than for aesthetics and dresses that have fashionable push-up bras sewn into them for a classy sex appeal?
They explained to me that racism had been solved through a singular royal marriage. The most baffling element of the whole thing, to me, was the clear homophobic subtext around Benedict Bridgerton. His bisexual love affairs happen underground, shamed out of ‘polite’ society. Which begs the question: why does homophobia exist in Bridgerton, but not racism? Any research into either reveals the intersectional relation between the two, and the key concept of the ‘other’ which drives them. By eliminating one, the other seems out of place. It would make more sense to completely disregard historical context than to pick and choose.
Looking at these two shows reveals a specific issue with Netflix’s representation. Diversity merely exists to stimulate conflict; I call it an ‘angst generator’. The only reason Will is in love with Mike is that it is painful. It ultimately has no narrative payoff other than to make the audience feel for him. Never mind the socio-political context of the AIDs crisis – these issues are quickly shoved to the side. Stranger Things did not, ultimately, aim for authentic or loving representation. Bridgerton, similarly, selectively chooses issues that will cause tension for its romances. So why set it in this era at all, other than for aesthetics and dresses that have fashionable push-up bras sewn into them for a classy sex appeal?
By using diversity to create conflict, Netflix shows eschew any historical context. Issues of homophobia, racism, classism, and ableism cannot be too ‘real’. Will cannot live in the context of the growing AIDs crisis, and Sophie cannot experience real-world racism. Neither Stranger Things nor Bridgerton are about discrimination – one is sci-fi, and one is a romance – but each alludes to these issues in historical settings that require interrogation.
By sidelining these issues to plot devices, it feels silly at best and offensive at worst
Early seasons of Stranger Things built its reputation on being authentically 80s, and for a while, it lived up to these expectations. But as homophobia and racism grow in the US, Netflix may see presenting these realities as not in its best commercial interests. Bridgerton is a different case – I don’t think anyone is under the impression that it is historically accurate, and the very premise of the show lends itself to ridiculousness. It seems silly to me that subtextual homophobia underlies Benedict’s story for no reason other than to create his persona of the ‘Rake’.
Do we really need more tragic stories? Queer and Black media have a long historical tradition of tales woven around the tragedy and pain of existence. Maybe Netflix is sparing us from facing the pain of our realities – TV is a form of escapism, after all. The issue is that there is some attempt to present accuracy. Will is bullied for his sexuality, and Bridgerton makes an explicit reference to the ‘solving’ of racism. Both homophobia and racism do exist in these universes – in the subtext of Stranger Things and the past of Bridgerton. So, by sidelining these issues to plot devices, it feels silly at best and offensive at worst. With Netflix’s reputation for cancelling shows centring lesbians, it’s not a surprise. We can’t expect authentic diversity from a multi-media conglomerate focused on generating income in Trump’s America, but maybe we deserve to live in a world where we can.
Aimee Goldblum
Featured image courtesy of TopShere Media via Unsplash. Image license found here. No changes were made to this image.
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