There’s a scene toward the end of Ryan Coogler’s
record-smashing hit Black Panther in which Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) cuts a woman’s throat. The woman is a member of the Dora Milaje, an all-female special forces unit tasked with protecting the African utopia of Wakanda and its royal family. In a moment that’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick, Killmonger uses the woman’s body as a shield, while the other Dora Milaje surround them. The woman only has time to say “Wakanda forever” before he kills her and her body hits the ground.
It’s rare to see Okoye (Danai Gurira) — the general of the Dora Milaje and Wakanda’s fiercest warrior — falter in battle, but for just a second, her face crumples in anguish. Then her despair quickly transforms into rage, and she lunges at Killmonger with renewed ferociousness, brandishing her spear.
Though Okoye is romantically involved with W'Kabi (Daniel Kaluuya), and the strength of their relationship saves Wakanda from a bloody civil war, there’s still something about the way Okoye mourns the death of the woman that suggests she might have meant more to her than just a fellow fighter or friend.
Or maybe I’m just reading way too much into this scene just because it reminded me so strongly of other moments from two other major superhero blockbusters over the past year. In Taika Waititi’s
Thor: Ragnarok from last fall, a flashback of a battle between Tessa Thompson’s Valkyrie and the movie’s villain Hela (Cate Blanchett) ends with Valkyrie reaching desperately for one of her fellow female Asgardian warriors, who’s just been killed; there’s a look of agony on Valkyrie’s face. And in last summer’s
Wonder Woman, directed by Patty Jenkins, when Robin Wright’s Antiope dies early in the movie’s first act — killed by a bullet shot by German soldiers who’ve invaded the mythical all-women island of Themyscira — her right-hand woman, Menalippe (Lisa Loven Kongsli) screams and runs to her side, crying into the sand.
All three movies have been not only
celebrated contributions to the renaissance of the superhero film, but also praised for featuring more women and people of color both in front of and behind the cameras than many of their predecessors. They also all invoke the mythology of exclusively women warrior tribes — tribes that, according to the comics from which the movies were adapted, featured a number of queer characters. But you probably wouldn’t know that based on the movies alone — not unless you know where to look. Strong warriors mourning the deaths of their fellow female soldiers, who sure
seem like they might have been more than friends, is the kind of subtle queer coding that LGBT viewers have come to expect (a lot of the lesbian and bisexual characters in film and TV these days
wind up dead).
Getting queer characters into a movie isn’t as simple a matter as casting. As the critic Mark Harris
wrote for Film Comment in an essay about stalled LGBT representation in today’s American cinema, a character isn’t queer unless “a writer figures out a way to make it known.” Mourning a lover can be one of those ways, subtle enough not to rankle the international markets, but significant enough that queer viewers might take the bait. The ever-popular dead-lover trope, whether intentional or not, is one of the laziest sorts of queerbaiting, and beyond its obvious offensiveness — why are so many lesbian or bisexual characters still relatively anonymous, killed, or both in 2018? — at this point it’s mostly just plain boring. Even the more pleasant little maybe-queer moments we’re starting to see in some blockbusters lately (a touch or a glance, a flirty line) amount to pretty lame attempts at LGBT inclusion, which Hollywood is
getting outsize credit for. When will we stop seeing the same tired tropes recycled over and over again?