by Abbie Langmead
#SaveWarriorNun.
I Am Not Okay With This canceled after One Season.
League of Their Own cut down by several episodes.
If you watch TV shows that prominently feature lesbians, queer women, or sapphic (romantic attraction between women or nonbinary people) relationships, chances are you know how difficult they are to find. If you actually find a show that has positive portrayals of sapphic relationships, chances are it will be canceled.
As someone who seeks out women-led and sapphic media, this has generated a cycle of disappointment. I get attached to good writing, to great cinematography, sometimes just to attractive actresses (shallow, I know), only for these stories to be incomplete. As someone who would have benefitted from seeing queer people in a positive light growing up, and would have loved to see queer people getting to tell their own stories, I’m watching cancellation after cancellation and becoming apathetic.
In this article, I want to talk about the stories worth telling, and hopefully find some peace despite the cancellations of these shows I enjoy.
To limit the scope of this article, I am only going to discuss television shows that:
- Have main characters that are confirmed within their show to be sapphic (women or nonbinary people attracted to women or other nonbinary people).
- I have watched and recommended to others before writing this article.
- Were released in 2022 and canceled within a year of their release. (Note: 2022 and 2023 have been great years for short-lived sapphic television, but I didn’t watch First Kill and don’t intend to now that it’s been canceled.)
SPOILER ALERT: Minor spoilers ahead for the series I mention during this post. I highly recommend watching all of the shows I’m going to mention here, so if you haven’t already, now might be a great time to do so.
Queer As Folk
How could I navigate the 2020s media landscape without talking about a reboot? In actuality, most of the shows that I am writing about here are reboots of older media, all of which added sapphic storylines when there previously weren’t any. The first of these adaptations I want to discuss is Queer as Folk, a 2022 American reboot of a Canadian show from the 2000s, which was in fact a reboot of a British show from the late 90s. Convoluted? Yes, but that’s the name of the game in modern television.
Each of these adaptations showcases a specific lens of Queerness that captures its time. The 1999 British version of Queer as Folk centers two white gay men and one gay teenager, all of whom are sexually active, and all of whom are living in Manchester, England. Think “The L Word,” but for gay British men. The sapphic characters are relegated to the sidelines of these men’s stories, specifically as a beneficiary of one of the main characters’ sperm donation. In this version, queer life is seen through its complexity and subversion of typical familiar norms. The 1999 Queer as Folk ignores queer struggles like the AIDs epidemic, and instead highlights the normalcy of queer people through how all families look different, including straight relationships. We know this story, we’ve seen this story, it was the dominant narrative of queer content in a world before gay marriage.
The 2000s Canadian version had many similarities to the previous, only it’s longer lived than its predecessor and successor. It’s set in Philadelphia rather than Manchester, and was the first show to portray two gay men having sex on American TV. While the teenage character is aged-up (thankfully), many of the same contrived stereotypes from the original British version and early 2000s media as a whole remain true. The sapphic relationship in this version of Queer as Folk still becomes intertwined with the main cast through family planning practices, but its extended run allows for these characters (Lindsey and Melanie) to become even more fleshed out. They are allowed to be jealous (although even that is a stereotype about bisexuality), they are allowed to struggle with their families and interfaith concerns, and they are allowed to resolve those tensions as they build their lives with each other. In terms of representation, these are some crucial first steps compared to the previous show.
Two decades later, the 2022 Queer as Folk riffs on the complicated sense of community as the previous two dramas. The leading cast is almost entirely nonbinary, and has way more non-white characters than either of the previous versions. The conversation around queer identity has changed, and even the word “queer” has shifted away from being used to portray weirdness to more of a label of intermediacy. The dramas of the main cast pivot from familiar themes (although still present through the sapphic relationship between Shar and Ruthie) and portray issues that face all of America—gun violence, drug abuse, and bad breakups. Yes, one of those things is nothing like the others, but it is difficult and real in a way that reflects our current times.
Then, like most other sapphic shows, it was canceled. Reception was mixed from the start, which is true for all of the content I’m going to discuss here. However, sapphic media being viewed poorly before cancellation seems to be a trend. “Review-bombing” also plays a role in this negative reception, but since I’m an individual who doesn’t engage in that, I don’t feel like I can speak to it.
I don’t have much hope for another Queer as Folk reboot any time soon, especially considering how quickly this current version was canceled. However, there are notes to highlight the representation wins that these writers and producers are carrying to their next projects. Russell T. Davies, the originator of Queer as Folk in the early 2000s, returns to Doctor Who at the end of this year. With him, he brings openly queer actors like Yasmin Finney as one of the Doctor’s companions, Jinkx Monsoon as a still unknown main antagonist, and Ncuti Gatwa as the first Black Doctor. Queer as Folk’s writers like Roxane Gay (yes, that Roxane Gay) and Brontez Purnell continue to make waves for queer and BIPOC writers in the literary sphere. The cancellation of Queer as Folk isn’t the end for sapphic identity and representation in media, but certainly a mark of concern.
Willow
Willow would be what would happen if my friends’ Dungeons and Dragons campaign was filmed and televised. After the kidnapping of the kingdom’s prince, a ragtag group of nobles, rebels, and the unwilling “chosen one” band together to fight evil. I loved it even before I found out that one of the writers, John Bickerstaff, graduated from Emerson in 2014. Learning that fact made me love it even more, because not only was I supporting my college community, I also understood the sort of energy that was coming into the room. Willow was fantastically cliché, fun, and irreverent despite all its heart. It was a story that discussed ableist discrimination, the villainization of marginalized communities, and generational trauma.
Notice that I said all of this in the past tense. This is the part that hurts. Willow premiered in late 2022, a fact that I used to motivate myself into finishing a fifteen page paper before watching the first episode (and the 1989 movie that inspired the series). Six months later, a week before Pride Month started, Willow was removed from Disney+ without a trace. The writers, on strike at the time, would no longer receive residuals for their work on the fairly popular production. Neither could the actors, who would go on strike two months later (although the British actors in the cast were continuing to work under a different union agreement). All the while, Disney+ lost out on a show that was honestly worth watching, with stories worth telling.
Willow was spectacular representation of the complicated and awkward line between “female friendship” and “lesbian lovers.” Kit and Jade had complicated feelings for each other, made more complicated by their roles in society as a princess and a knight (and even more complicated with Jade’s identity crisis further in the story). They were allowed to love each other unequivocally, but additionally cared for and nurtured their friendship with another woman, initially known as Dove (fans of the original 1989 film might have an idea of her true identity based on the hints in my introductory paragraph).
Many of the side characters are queer, and although several of them die at the hands of the wicked crone, their queerness is not something stigmatized in the story. In a world of fantasy, women are allowed to be leaders, queer people and BIPOC characters are allowed to be centered, and the issues of our contemporary day fall into the rear view for something so much better. Willow lets women be strong, be in positions of power, and also be emotionally complex. They are allowed to be wrong, to make mistakes, to be unlikable at times, but also so endearing and loving to each other. Willow did good work for communities usually left behind by the fantasy genre (featuring disabled, POC, and queer actors in almost every leading role). Even the actors involved in the project like Amar Chadha Patel and Erin Kellyman discussed how much this representation would have meant to them in a now-removed documentary about Willow. Yet now, the space that Willow created no longer exists, and the series experienced the same trend of review-bombing and cancellation as so many of these other sapphic shows.
Willow’s showrunner still hopes that Willow will make a comeback, and claims he even has plans for a season two at some point. For now, however, I will be satisfied with my gif compilations of Kit and Jade smiling at each other. I have to be.
Rise of the Pink Ladies
What a surprise, this one is a reboot! This time, Rise of the Pink Ladies is a prequel to the story of Grease, and contains all the fun musical numbers, bright colors, and female-led stories of the iconic Olivia Newton John film. Rise of The Pink Ladies forwards the girl-power of its predecessor though, creating a diverse leading cast with varied interests and identities. “Girl-Power” might be the best way to describe this show, although “what if Glee did original music, and was set in the 1950s” might be the second best way to describe it.
For the purposes of this article, the most important of these characters is Cynthia, whose coming-out story culminates in the sapphic love song, “Crushing Me.” Ari Notartomaso (who according to their Instagram bio, is “not a girl, just play[s] one on TV”) embodies the character of Cynthia, fitting queerness into the cookie-cutter 1950s retrospective world of Grease. As the song title explains, Cynthia is crushing on another girl in their class, Lydia, who doesn’t see a place for herself within this queer narrative yet. Lydia’s apprehensions to dating Cynthia feel natural, especially in such a camp environment. When Cynthia tells her friends that she is queer, there’s not a whole lot of judgment and absolutely no shame. The kiss between our two queer characters, Lydia and Cynthia, feels earned, but also unexpected in the world of Grease.
Queerness existed in the 1950s. It has always existed. However, the space for a sapphic relationship placed within such a stereotypical 1950s environment is unique, and feels incredibly needed when adapting these older stories to a new day. This is not “going woke,” it’s a recentering of erased narratives. Sure, it’s not heavy hitting. It’s silly. It’s camp. I think that sapphic relationships deserve that sort of joy in their representation.
The executives at Paramount seemed to disagree, however, as the show was pulled from streaming services at the end of June 2023. The series hadn’t even been released in its entirety for a month. Unlike Willow, Paramount is now selling DVDs of Rise of The Pink Ladies, so it is not completely wiping the legacy of the show. However, it is doing the same sort of work to limit the payments of actors and writers in the process. Like every other show we’ve mentioned, the sapphic shows seem to get the short end of the stick. Rise of The Pink Ladies’ fate feels almost expected against this backdrop of other queer media.
Paper Girls
Paper Girls is a show about kids on bikes in the 1980s learning about horrors beyond their comprehension. If you think that sounds familiar, or anything like Netflix’s most-watched series of all time, you would be correct. To be more specific, Paper Girls is an Amazon Original series inspired by the comic series of the same name, written by Brian K. Vaughan and illustrated by Cliff Chiang. It follows a cast of four paper delivery girls (Erin, Tiff, Mac, and KJ) as they try to get back home after accidentally getting wrapped up in a multidimensional time-travel war. This plot seems somehow straight forward after talking about all those previous reboots of reboots, but I assure you it’s anything but.
Unlike Stranger Things however, Paper Girls’ cast is led by four young people coming into their queerness. It’s not spoken, at least not early on in their stories, but it is felt. Tiff, the team’s most scientifically minded member, grows up to identify as bisexual, but the group never judges her when they discover her future self’s identity. Mac, the team’s “tomboy,” is almost archetypal in her butch exterior. Erin’s relationship to queerness is never explicitly stated, however she, like the others, doesn’t have the heteronormative lifestyle they expected themselves to have in their youth.
Above all else though, Paper Girls’ sapphic identity soars with the final member of the main cast. One of the most poignant moments in the series is when middle school KJ comes across her future, college-aged self coming home for the Jewish holidays. Young KJ hides in the closet to avoid herself, and ends up watching as College KJ and her girlfriend make out in her childhood bedroom. Young KJ had never considered her queerness up to that point, but is thrust into queer identity by who she will become. It is beautiful, and nostalgic, and made me (a Jewish-American Lesbian, just like KJ) have to walk away from my laptop to cry a little bit. I saw my story being represented, although I thankfully wasn’t hunted by time-traveling armies (at least, not that I remember). It was a moment that still sits with me now, about a year after watching.
Clearly that moment of resonance didn’t sit with Amazon’s executives, however, because Paper Girls was canceled. I had hopes for it moving to a different streaming service (I thought it would fit in great with HBO’s current productions), but many of those hopes have been extinguished. The series ends on a cliffhanger, the team divided, waiting for what happens next.
Fortunately, for fans of the series like myself, the final issue of the Paper Girls comic was released in 2019. We get to know how this story was intended to end, unlike the other projects mentioned above. While there are some moments I like better on screen (KJ’s awakening is handled very differently), and moments that I can predict they were going to intentionally cut for the screen, I’m considering the final version of the comic to be my “canon” ending to the franchise. Without spoiling anything, it’s a perfect case of closure for both the canceled television adaptation and the comic series itself. Also, my favorite ‘ship is canon, albeit tragic. While I wish we could have more time to spend in the world of KJ, Tiff, Mac, and Erin, the time that we had was truly fantastic.
And in short, I guess that is how I feel about all these sapphic shows. We didn’t get enough time to truly enjoy these characters, and I know their stories meant so much to the performers that took on their roles. I would love for a show like Willow to be as popular as a show like The Witcher, or for Paper Girls to be the next Stranger Things. Instead, I had moments of representation that weren’t sexualized or over-dramatized. I got to see queer women be the heroes, be messy, and be present in the narrative. The truth is, no matter how much time we had, it would never have been enough for me.
Watch these shows if you haven’t already. Support the writers and performers who tell these stories in their future projects, especially while these communities are fighting for their labor to be respected. As creators, make the representation you wish to see in the world, and know that it is appreciated, no matter how short-lived it may be.