The news of HBO dropping Gentleman Jack hit me hard. It actually brought me to tears. I had only just discovered the show a couple short weeks ago and I quickly grew obsessed. I fell in love with the story, the characters, and how beautifully and carefully the creators chose to weave it all together.
As a nonbinary, queer person, I resonated deeply with this show. I saw myself in this show, my identity and my experience. Suranne Jones’ portrayal of Anne Lister, this unapologetically queer woman, was a breath of fresh air. Although I wish queer characters were played by queer actors, Suranne Jones and Sophie Rundle, who plays Ann Walker, bring a tender authenticity to the screen that is breathtakingly believable. Lesbian representation in television as a whole has left much to be desired, even in shows like The L Word or Orange is the New Black, both of which offered unique, varied lesbian and queer characters. These shows embraced queer identities into the main storylines, sure, but they failed in giving lesbian audiences the nuainces of lesbian love that Gentleman Jack presented.
Gentleman Jack is more than just a story about a lesbian looking for love. It’s queer history, lesbian history. It’s visibility in both time and space where queer is otherwise invisible. This show gave validation to a whole community of women who rarely receive such. Probably most importantly, this show challenged the expectation that media storytelling is presented first and foremost for the cis, heterosexual male audience. This show was for us, for lesbians and queer women. We didn’t have to fight to find ourselves in the secondary storyline or in sideline moments. We didn’t have to analyze glances or comments to find queer undertones. We were at the center of this story. This one was for us and only us.
No where is this clearer than in how Anne and Ann’s relationship unfolds on screen with the same care and attention that is usually only afforded heterosexual relationships. We see this in how the actors move around in the space with a sort of effortlessness, of freedom, to explore the story with each other. In romantic scenes we linger on facial expressions and pause in the silence of sweet moments. The camera pushes in close, inviting the audience to witness and experience the tenderness between these two women as they navigate their relationship. These scenes breathe and move in ways lesbian audiences have been longing for since the beginning of media as we know it.
Through Gentleman Jack we see two mature women navigate the unfamiliar landscape of queerness during a time in history when deviating from societal norm was dangerous. And while the story is set two hundred years ago this struggle feels all too familiar for the present day queer community. The fact that this story is based on, and follows as accurately as possible, the real life of a queer woman is empowering for those of us still struggling to accept ourselves. This kind of visibility is life changing and rarely, if ever, seen on mainstream platforms.
So for it to be dropped by HBO just a few days after Pride Month ended felt like a sucker punch. It was a slap in the face to all of those who felt seen by the show. And it’s hard not to get emotional, to feel like this isn’t personal. But of course it is. Sure, it’s about business and the money a show brings in, but it’s also personal. Canceling a show that is unapologetically, authentically queer–specifcally lesbian–is an attack on queer stories. It’s reminding us that our stories, our experiences, are not as important as others.
Of course there are other gay, lesbian and queer characters on television and on HBO in particular. But none presented through a purposefully lesbian lens. Coupled with the fact that promotion for the show in the United States was lackluster to say the least, it’s hard to believe business was the only motivating factor. And not patriarchy or misogyny or homophobia.
Thinking this, I’m reminded of the scene where Anne Lister confronts Christopher Rawson about stealing her coal. She says, “But when you systematically, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, steal my coal, that is not drunk. That is not a rogue decision of a stupefied moment. That is a very definite decision between you and your brother to steal.” Rewatching that scene in the wake of the cancellation announcement evokes a new perspective. It’s hard not to see Lister fighting for her coal as we, the queer audience now left in the cold, are fighting for our stories. Failing to promote the show and canceling it just days after a month-long celebration of LGBTQ+ community, one that the company profited from participating in, feels like a very definite decision made by HBO executives. And it was likely a very definite decision because Gentleman Jack challenged the status quo. It challenged the patriarchal structures that helped make it happen–and that probably made the people at the top uncomfortable or, at the very least, indifferent.
The irony is in the fact that Anne Lister’s very story is that of demanding to exist freely in the world without harassment, or persecution, or shame. Her entire life she rose above comments and jeers from bigots and never wavered in her confidence in herself. If the show accomplished nothing else, surely it succeeded in helping us to remember our own self worth. As queer women, as lesbians, we deserve stories like these. We deserve tender, complicated, raw stories that showcase us in all our variety and beauty. We deserve to take up space and own that space without needing to appease the male gaze.
I’m angry. And devastated. Because once again we’re cast aside. Lesbian and queer narratives are hard enough to bring to the screen as it is, let alone one rooted in history and brought to life with such care and reverence for those who need it, for those whose stories echo in its wake. This story, told in the way and manner that it has been up to this point, made visible the invisible. This story reminded an entire community of people who otherwise felt forgotten that they matter and are seen. As someone who has had to search for themselves in fragments, across characters, across stories, losing this was heartbreaking.
For those who don’t understand this kind of loss, I implore you to think about how you’d feel if you couldn’t see yourself in the stories you love. Think about a character in a movie or television show, someone that you resonate with, someone who you identify with and then imagine that character not existing. Or existing for a moment and then, without warning or justifiable reason, being discarded. After you’ve had time with them, saw yourself in them, saw your struggle in their struggle, imagine that character’s story ending just as quickly as it began.
If you can’t imagine that, count yourself lucky that you don’t have to fight to see your very being validated and honored through the immortalizing nature of storytelling. I envy you. And I ask that you show up for the rest of us. Because we deserve that too. Our history matters. Our visibility matters. Our representation matters. We matter.
