Deadpool’s Whimsy vs. Marvel’s LGBTQ+ Milestones

Last month, Deadpool 3 made its grand debut with Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman back in action, aiming to rejuvenate the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which has been grappling with superhero fatigue and declining box office returns. The film’s attempt to rekindle excitement, reminiscent of the buzz surrounding Spider-Man’s multiverse encounter in Spider-Man: No Way Home, brought together Deadpool’s irreverent humour and Wolverine’s brooding allure. However, the film’s treatment of humour, particularly in relation to LGBTQ+ themes, has sparked mixed reactions.

The marketing campaign for Deadpool 3 hinged on a singular, and at times tiresome, gag: Deadpool’s exaggerated infatuation with Wolverine. From the very first poster, which depicted Deadpool and Wolverine’s masks as parts of a broken heart necklace with the tagline “come together,” it was clear that the film was leaning heavily into a joke about their supposed romantic connection. This imagery, reminiscent of outdated internet humour, suggested a bromance with a twist that felt more like a throwback to less enlightened times.

Deadpool’s humour, characterised by its boundary-pushing and self-aware nature, might seem well-suited to handling irreverent jokes about his own pansexuality. The film’s running gag about Deadpool’s flirtatious advances towards Wolverine fits within his established persona of absurdity and meta-commentary. For fans, these jokes might represent a continuation of Deadpool’s cheeky humour, mixing absurdity with playful jabs at traditional masculinity.

However, this approach has not been without its critics. Observers have noted that while the sexualized bromance is not overtly homophobic, it leans into tired stereotypes. The humour often relies on the premise that close male friendships must romanticize, implying that men expressing affection is inherently comedic. This reliance on such clichés risks reducing the complexity of male relationships to mere punchlines, potentially coming off as outdated or insensitive.

In contrast, Marvel’s handling of LGBTQ+ characters like Iceman, Hulkling, and Wiccan provides a more substantial and nuanced representation. Iceman, one of the original X-Men created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, was revealed as gay in 2015’s All-New X-Men #40. This development added a profound layer to Bobby Drake’s character, offering a relatable and thoughtful portrayal of self-acceptance and personal growth. Iceman’s coming out story represents a significant milestone in LGBTQ+ representation within mainstream comics, showcasing a mature and impactful exploration of identity.

Similarly, Hulkling, introduced in Young Avengers #1 in 2005, is known for his superhuman strength and shapeshifting abilities. As an openly gay character, Hulkling’s relationship with Wiccan has become one of Marvel’s most prominent LGBTQ+ romances. Their partnership adds depth to both characters and highlights a loving and complex relationship within the superhero genre, contributing significantly to positive LGBTQ+ representation.

Wiccan, also introduced in Young Avengers #1, is a powerful magic user and the son of the Scarlet Witch. The comic portrays his openly gay identity and relationship with Hulkling with nuance and affection, positively depicting LGBTQ+ love and identity. The portrayal of Wiccan’s romance with Hulkling enriches Marvel’s roster of characters, providing readers with a meaningful exploration of love and super-heroism.

While Deadpool 3 may entertain with its whimsical and exaggerated humour, particularly regarding LGBTQ+ themes, it achieves this by being irreverent. Deadpool’s brand of comedy, rooted in pushing boundaries and eliciting laughs, contrasts sharply with the more respectful and impactful portrayals of LGBTQ+ characters like Iceman, Hulkling, and Wiccan.

The Uncompromising Legacy of Queer as Folk: 25 Years On

Ah, 1999. The year of Tony Blair’s still-shiny premiership, Y2K panic, and Queer as Folk, a show so unapologetically audacious that it seemed to smack the British public across the face with its unvarnished depiction of gay life. It was as if Russell T. Davies decided that if TV was going to tell gay stories, it wasn’t going to tiptoe around with tea and biscuits—it was going to shout about it in all its messy, sexy, gloriously chaotic glory.

It wasn’t exactly a gentle climate for a show like Queer as Folk to waltz onto our screens. The age of consent for gay men was still being thrashed out in Parliament, and Section 28, that ghastly bit of legislation banning “promotion of homosexuality” in schools, was still stinking up the statute books. But in the midst of this, Davies, with the brazen audacity of a man who’s seen enough polite repression to last a lifetime, birthed a show that was anything but polite.

Canal Street, Manchester’s queer epicentre, was the backdrop for the story of three men navigating a world of thumping basslines, snogging in dark corners, and, yes, rimming on the first date. This wasn’t just another drama to be tucked away in the post-watershed hours; this was a celebration, an unflinching portrayal of gay life that made no apologies for its explicitness. And oh, did it ruffle feathers.

The casting process for this game-changing show was as fraught with nerves as you’d expect. Aidan Gillen, Craig Kelly, and a pre-Sons of Anarchy Charlie Hunnam stepped into roles that would come to define them, and, in some cases, haunt them. Kelly, in particular, nearly walked away from it all—”gay porn” was how some of his fellow actors sneered at it—but instead, he went on to embody Vince, the shy, sweet, and sexually tentative heart of the show.

And then there was Hunnam, barely out of his teens, and walking onto the set with the kind of raw magnetism that made everyone in the room pray he could act. He could, of course, and as Nathan, he electrified the screen—a beautiful, brazen 15-year-old exploring the world with a mix of awe and reckless abandon.

Davies knew exactly what he was doing when he made Nathan so young. It was a choice that could have ended the show before it started, in a cloud of outrage and moral panic. But Davies wasn’t about to create a queer show that played by the rules of straight respectability. Nathan wasn’t just a character; he was a mirror for a whole generation of young gay men who were discovering their sexuality in a world that still wanted them to feel ashamed.

The sex scenes were notorious—and rightly so. While other shows might throw in a bit of nudity for titillation, Queer as Folk made sex integral to the story, exposing both the thrill and the complexity of desire. Aidan Gillen’s Stuart, cool and aloof, rimmed Nathan in the first episode, a moment that still reverberates through TV history for its audacity. But it wasn’t just about shock; it was about showing a sexual act that wasn’t even on most people’s radar, pushing the boundaries of what TV could depict, and what audiences could accept.

Critics, predictably, clutched their pearls. The press largely ignored the show in the run-up to its debut—until it aired, at which point the gloves came off. Stonewall and other gay rights groups condemned it for not being responsible enough, for daring to show gay men having fun, falling in love, and—heaven forbid—having sex without an educational pamphlet on HIV slipping out of their pockets. Meanwhile, the gay scene in Manchester was torn between pride and indignation, with some regulars on Canal Street muttering that the show had set them back decades.

Yet despite—or perhaps because of—the controversy, Queer as Folk left an indelible mark on British television. It was a show that refused to behave, that insisted on showing gay life as it was—messy, joyful, tragic, and yes, sometimes crude. And while the actors have gone on to varied careers, from Hollywood blockbusters to voiceovers that paid the mortgage, they all carry a piece of Queer as Folk with them. It wasn’t just a show; it was a lightning bolt that lit up the dark, showing a generation of queer people that their lives, their loves, and their stories were worth telling—loudly, unapologetically, and without a hint of shame.

And as for the possibility of a reunion? Well, Davies might dismiss the idea with a wave of the hand and a quip about middle-aged men, but the legacy of Queer as Folk is too potent to ever really fade. It’s a touchstone, a reminder of a time when television dared to push boundaries, and when a group of brave actors and creators decided that the world needed to see gay life as it was—not as a cautionary tale, but as a celebration. Perhaps it’s time to light that spark again.

People have tagged God’s Own Country as “Yorkshire’s Brokeback Mountain,” but honestly, that’s like calling a fine single malt just another whisky. Sure, they’re both love stories between men in the rugged countryside, but Francis Lee’s film digs its muddy boots into the Yorkshire soil and refuses to be neatly pigeonholed.

The Yorkshire countryside is as much a character here as the humans trudging through it—beautiful, yes, but also brutal, a place where the landscape mirrors the loneliness that hangs in the air like a damp mist. “It’s beautiful here,” one character muses, taking in the rolling hills and moody skies, before delivering the kicker, “But lonely, no?” And there it is, the melancholy heart of God’s Own Country, beating quietly beneath the surface.

Enter Johnny Saxby, played by Josh O’Connor with the kind of brooding intensity that makes you want to give him a hug—if only you thought he wouldn’t shove you off in disgust. Johnny’s life is all early mornings, mud-caked boots, and the relentless grind of keeping the family farm afloat. His father’s gruff and his nan’s as weathered as the stone walls that crisscross the hills, and Johnny himself is spiraling into a pit of loneliness, booze, and furtive hookups that leave him as cold as the Yorkshire drizzle.

One of those hookups happens in a cattle truck with a vet, and it’s as quick and unromantic as you’d expect. This is not a man looking for love; he’s looking for an escape, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Romance? Johnny practically recoils at the thought, his life too entrenched in hardship to allow for anything as frivolous as feelings.

And then along comes Gheorghe, a Romanian farmhand who’s here to help out but ends up doing a lot more than just mending fences. Johnny greets Gheorghe with a spiky hostility, laced with the kind of casual racism that’s as much about self-loathing as it is about anything else. But up in the hills, away from prying eyes, something shifts. The mud, the cold, the hard labor—they all start to dissolve as Johnny and Gheorghe’s relationship moves from grudging respect to something deeper, something that feels like warmth in the otherwise unforgiving landscape.

Their first encounter is rough, primal, and covered in mud, yet somehow it carries the weight of something far more tender. Back at the farm, their relationship continues in secret, a series of stolen moments and loaded glances that speak volumes. There’s a restraint here, an Englishness, if you will, that’s more Brief Encounter than Brokeback Mountain. This isn’t all about grand declarations of love; it’s about the quiet, almost imperceptible shifts in a man who’s spent his life shutting everyone out.

And while this love story unfolds, the farm work doesn’t stop. The drudgery of agricultural life in Britain today is unflinchingly portrayed—this is not the romanticized countryside of picture postcards. When Johnny’s father suffers a stroke, leaving the future of the farm in Johnny’s hands, O’Connor delivers a gut-punch of a performance. You see the realization dawn on him that he’s staring down a lifetime of back-breaking labor, and for a moment, it’s as though all the air has been sucked out of the room.

Yet, amid the grit and the graft, there’s something undeniably hopeful about God’s Own Country. It’s in the tentative romance between Johnny and Gheorghe, in the way they slowly, carefully, let each other in. It’s in the moments of quiet connection, as rare and precious as a ray of sunshine piercing through the relentless grey of a Yorkshire spring. This isn’t just a British Brokeback Mountain—it’s a film that stands on its own, unflinching in its portrayal of rural life, yet quietly, achingly romantic at its core.

There’s something utterly irresistible about Miriam Margolyes, and it’s not just her knack for dropping F-bombs on live TV or her unfiltered, jaw-dropping anecdotes. In an entertainment world overrun by meticulously polished, PR-approved clones, Margolyes is a gloriously unfiltered beacon of chaos. Her charm? It’s her gleeful refusal to conform—an anarchist’s delight in an industry that worships decorum.

Take, for instance, her views on her love life: “I’ve had sex with almost all of the women I’ve met. Why not? I enjoyed it, and so did they.” Who else but Miriam would say that? Or the time she met Martin Scorsese and brazenly told him, “You’re the only man I’d leave my girlfriend for.” Her boldness isn’t limited to the bedroom, either. When Prince Charles asked what she did, she didn’t hesitate: “I told him I was the best reader of smut in the world, and he looked a bit shocked.” And that’s the beauty of Margolyes—she’ll say what we’re all thinking, or more likely, what we wouldn’t dare to think.

But it’s not just the shock value that makes Margolyes so compelling. Beneath the salty language and eyebrow-raising comments, there’s an undeniable warmth, a sense that she genuinely loves life in all its messy, unpredictable glory. She’s the rare public figure who seems to be living her life, not curating it for Instagram. When she talks about being cast in Harry Potter, she quips, “I was delighted to be Professor Sprout. She’s a fat, jolly woman—a bit like me, minus the jolly.” It’s this kind of disarming self-awareness that makes her not just a character, but a deeply relatable one.

And let’s not forget her take on weight loss: “I’ve always been fat. I can’t say I like it, but I don’t have the willpower to change it. The only exercise I get is when I serve other people.” In a world obsessed with body image and fitness fads, Margolyes’ honesty is a breath of fresh air. She’s the anti-celebrity celebrity, a woman who’s managed to stay relevant by being unapologetically, unrepentantly herself.

Miriam Margolyes has become a national treasure not in spite of her unruliness, but because of it. In an age of relentless self-promotion and carefully managed personas, her chaotic authenticity is incredibly refreshing. Honestly, in a world of beige, thank goodness for a splash of Miriam Margolyes.

Jade Thirlwall has officially said goodbye to playing it safe, and thank goodness for that. Angel Of My Dreams isn’t just a debut; it’s a riotous pop explosion that makes you sit up and mutter, “What the actual…?” It’s like Jade took all the bottled-up energy from Little Mix’s wildest moments, shook it up like a can of fizzy pop, and let it burst out in a technicolor spectacle of sound.

Let’s not mince words here—Little Mix were a force of nature, a pop juggernaut that dominated the UK charts and stages for a solid decade. When they called it a day in 2022, there was an undeniable void. The solo ventures that followed? A mixed bag, to say the least. But then comes Jade, sweeping in with her debut single Angel Of My Dreams, and suddenly, all bets are off.

This isn’t just a song; it’s a three-minute adrenaline rush that defies pop’s typical boundaries. Think of it as an album’s worth of ideas, squashed into one gloriously chaotic package. Crafted in the studios of Los Angeles with Steph Jones and Pablo Bowman, and produced by the ever-brilliant Mike Sabath, the track has Jade front and center—no backup, no distractions, just pure, unfiltered Thirlwall. She’s the driving force here, and boy, does she drive hard.

Now, let’s talk about that music video. Eleven costume changes? Filming surreal scenes on the streets of East London? It’s a full-blown visual feast that perfectly matches the audacity of the track. Jade isn’t just dipping a toe into the waters of solo stardom; she’s doing a cannonball into the deep end, and she’s making waves.

In a world where pop can often feel like it’s playing by the rules, Jade has scrawled her name in giant, glittery letters across the rulebook and then promptly tossed it aside. She’s not here for “nice”; she’s here to make you wonder what just hit you. As she herself puts it, Angel Of My Dreams is a “huge pop punch to the face,” and honestly? It’s exactly what we needed.

In an era where pop is sometimes too careful, Jade Thirlwall has arrived to remind us all that chaos, color, and creativity are still alive and well. And thank heavens for that.

Directed by Charlie Di Placido, the video for Angel Of My Dreams is a kaleidoscopic adventure through East London, with Jade at the center of it all. From the moment the video begins, it’s clear that this isn’t just another pop release. Jade is playing with imagery, symbolism, and a sense of nostalgia that’s deeply personal yet universally relatable.

One of the standout moments in the video is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to Jade’s Little Mix days. For longtime fans, the video is a treasure trove of memories—tiny details that call back to the iconic group’s decade-long reign in the pop world. It’s a subtle but powerful way for Jade to acknowledge where she’s come from while also signaling where she’s headed next.

But it’s not just about the past. The video is also a celebration of the future, with Jade confidently stepping into new territory. The visual style is both dreamy and edgy, blending surreal elements with a gritty, urban backdrop. Costume changes galore and dynamic scenes keep the energy high throughout, reflecting the frenetic pace of the song itself.

And then there are the Easter eggs—little hidden gems scattered throughout the video that offer deeper meaning to the imagery. Whether it’s a symbolic gesture, a piece of wardrobe that has a story behind it, or a scene that feels like it’s straight out of a dream, every frame of Angel Of My Dreams is carefully crafted to tell a story that goes beyond the lyrics.

Jade herself has said that she wanted her debut single to make a statement, and with Angel Of My Dreams, she’s done exactly that. It’s a bold, unapologetic introduction to Jade Thirlwall, the solo artist—one who isn’t afraid to push boundaries, challenge expectations, and create something truly unique.

In a music industry that often values conformity, Jade’s Angel Of My Dreams video is a breath of fresh air. It’s not just a visual accompaniment to a song; it’s an artistic statement in its own right, full of layers and meaning that invite multiple viewings. For Jade, this is just the beginning, and if Angel Of My Dreams is any indication, her solo career is going to be one hell of a ride.