Television
Warner Bros. cancels Batgirl, along with first trans character
Regardless of movie quality, the cancellation of Batgirl causes an irreversible loss of a rare LGBTQ+ character.

Warner Bros. on Tuesday canceled the “Batgirl” film, both in theaters and on HBO Max, marking the erasure of the first trans character in the cinematic universe, Batgirlβs best friend Alysia Yeo played by Ivory Aquino.Β
The cancellation of “Batgirl” marks the loss of a rare LGBTQ character. According to Variety, the role is groundbreaking since “this is the first time a live-action feature film adaptation of a DC Comics title will feature an openly trans character played by a trans actor.”
Known for work in “Lingua Franca,” “When We Rise,” and “Tales of the City,” Aquino had officially headed into the DC universe but now her performance will likely never come to light.Β
The change of leadership at Warner seems to be the main drive behind the cancellation. After the project was approved in 2021, David Zaslav took over as the Warner Bros. Discovery CEO. Instead of focusing on streaming projects as previous CEO Jason Killar did, Zaslav shifted emphasis to cost-cutting measures and theatrical productions.
On the other hand, the budget of “Batgirl” increased to $90 million because of COVID-19 protocols, $10 million above the initial estimate. Warner also shelved “Scoob!: Holiday Haunt,” with a budget of about $40 million.
βThe decision to not release Batgirl reflects our leadershipβs strategic shift as it relates to the DC universe and HBO Max,β said a Warner Bros. spokesperson in a statement. βWe are incredibly grateful to the filmmakers of Batgirl and Scoob! Holiday Haunt and their respective casts and we hope to collaborate with everyone again in the near future.β
Despite Warner clarifying that the cancellation was not due to its poor quality, New York Post reported that the moviegoer feedback in the screening tests was so bad that “Batgirl,” if released, would be βa DC disaster.βΒ
Television
For Gaiman fans, βSandmanβ is a βDreamβ come true
Netflix series offers fantasy space where all feel welcome

For the millions of fans who have embraced Neil Gaimanβs βThe Sandmanβ and its darkly beautiful, queer-inclusive mystical universe since it debuted in comic book form more than three decades ago, the arrival of a new Netflix series based on it is a very, very big deal β even if, for the uninitiated, it might be hard to understand why. After all, the streaming giant has already unleashed such a vast array of LGBTQ-friendly fantasy movies and shows that one more, welcome though it may be, hardly seems like anything new.
As any of the above-mentioned fans will quickly tell you, however, βSandmanβ is not just any fantasy series. Initiated by DC Comics as a revival of an older comic book of the same name, it was handed over to Gaiman β then still a budding writer of comics with a few promising titles under his belt β with the stipulation that he keep the name but change everything else. The comic series he came up with went on to enjoy a 75-issue original run from 1989 to 1993, an era when an expanded literary appreciation for such works gave rise to the term βgraphic novelβ, and it joined βMausβ and βWatchmenβ among the first few comics to be included on the New York Times Best Seller List. Arguably more important, it also generated a huge and diverse fan following, and its incorporation of multiple queer characters and storylines has inspired subsequent generations of comic book creators to envision new and inclusive fantasy worlds of their own.
Despite that success, itβs taken 33 years for it to finally be adapted for the screen. Beginning in the late β90s, attempts were made to develop βThe Sandmanβ for film, but though a few scripts initially managed to win Gaimanβs approval, creative differences inevitably led to a dead end, and the Hollywood rumor mill began to buzz that the story was ultimately βunfilmableβ β until 2019, when Netflix and Warner Brothers (parent company to DC Comics) officially reached a deal to bring it to the screen as a series, with Gaiman fully on board and a creative team in place that was determined to faithfully adapt the much-loved original for a contemporary audience.
The show that came from that decision, which premiered on Netflix Aug. 5, makes it clear that the long wait was more than worth it.
βThe Sandmanβ of the title refers to the storyβs leading figure β Dream (known also as Morpheus, among other names), one of seven elemental siblings whose mystical realms overlay and intertwine with the human world. As ruler of the dream world, he holds hidden power over all mankind β until a human sorcerer manages to trap him and imprison him on Earth for more than 100 years. Finally freed, he returns to his kingdom to find it in disarray, and he sets out to restore order and undo the damage done β a quest that will require him to enlist the aid of numerous (and sometimes less-than-willing) allies, both human and immortal, to save the cosmos from a chaotic force that has been unleashed in his absence.
Like any good myth cycle, itβs both an epic story and an episodic one, making it a much better fit for the long-form storytelling capacity of series television than for any of the one-off film adaptations that it almost became. In his sweeping, unapologetically allegorical saga of the ever-dueling forces within our human psyche, Gaiman uses broad strokes in composing his plot, recycling and reinventing timeless motifs and themes while relying on our comfortable acceptance of the familiar tropes of myth and magic to get us all on board; the narrative is a massive structure, but itβs not hard to follow the basics. Where βSandmanβ becomes complex β and exceptional β is in the details Gaiman gave himself room to explore along the way, the human moments caught in between the monumental cosmic drama.
Itβs these parts of the story that have made his graphic novel iconic, more even than its gothic melancholy or its layered personification of primal forces into complex human archetypes; itβs there, too that he was able to explore a broad and diverse range of human experience, including many queer characters in a time when comic book literature was far from a queer-friendly space. It’s these things that made Gaimanβs comic a touchstone for a wide spectrum of fans β and they would have been the first things that would have been jettisoned had any of the potential βSandmanβ films seen the light of day. Because Gaiman has held out for so long to make sure it could be done right, series television has finally given him the chance, as co-creator and co-executive producer (alongside David S. Goyer and Allan Heinberg), to make it happen.
The big-budget Netflix production values certainly help, too, allowing the striking visual aesthetic of the comic β in which even the horrific can be exquisitely beautiful β to come thrillingly alive. The showβs many baroque and gruesome deaths bear testament to that, as does a fourth episode sequence when Morpheusβs quest requires him to descend into a Hell that evokes the macabre beauty of Doreβs illustrations for Danteβs βInferno,β the very landscape itself made up of the writhing and tormented souls of the damned. The artfulness of this showβs scenic design lingers in the memory, appropriately enough, like images from a dream.
Still, itβs all just scenery without the players, and βSandmanβ assembles a top-drawer cast capable of bringing Gaimanβs characters to life with the level of depth they deserve. Tom Sturridge makes for a compelling leading figure, capturing the titular characterβs complex mix of coldness and compassion without ever losing our loyalty; heβs supported by an equally talented ensemble of players, including heavyweight UK stalwarts like Charles Dance, Joely Richardson, David Thewlis, and Stephen Fry among a host of less familiar faces, and thereβs not a weak performance to be found among any of them.
As to whether the showβs writing does justice to the original, different fans will surely have different opinions. The story has been remolded to fit the modern world, and many elements of the comic have been reconfigured in the process. This is particularly true in terms of representation; though queer characters were always a part of the βSandmanβ universe, the comic debuted 34 years ago, and much has changed since then. In bringing the story to the screen, the author and the rest of the creative team have brought things up to date, bringing more nuance to its queer representation even as it expands it wider, and reimagining many of its characters to reflect a more diverse and inclusive vision of the world. Inevitably, these choices may upset some die-hard fans β thereβs already been the inevitable toxic outcry against the showβs gender-swapping of characters and the decision to cast actors of color in roles originally depicted as white.
Still, for those who loved the original for providing a fantasy space where ALL could feel welcome β exactly the way Neil Gaiman intended it to be β itβs hard to find a reason to complain.
Arts & Entertainment
Neil Patrick HarrisΒ is βUncoupledβ in new Netflix sitcom
Show lampoons queer NYC social sceneβs mores and manners

Summer of 2022 might just go down in history as βThe Summer of the Queer Romcom.β With movies and shows like βHeartstopper,β βFire Island,β and βAnythingβs Possibleβ already gracing our screens, and upcoming projects like Billy Eichnerβs much-anticipated βBrosβ still on the horizon, it seems like Hollywood is trying to make up for all those years of content in which LGBTQ people were only allowed to be shown as tragic victims or comic relief β when we werenβt being erased altogether, that is β by giving us a glut of the kinds of happily-ever-after stories we never got to see about ourselves. Itβs about time, and nobody is complaining.
Still, with all these feel-good romances heading our way, it was inevitable that we would eventually get something that looks at the flip side of that coin β a story about breaking up. What we might not have expected, however, is that it would be a comedy.
βUncoupled,β the new Netflix series from Darren Star and Jeffrey Richman, is exactly that. It stars Neil Patrick Harris as Michael, who β as a successful Manhattan real estate broker with a close-knit group of friends and a 17-year loving relationship with the handsome Colin (Tuc Watkins) β seems to be living every gay manβs dream. He gets a rude awakening, however, when Colin, on the eve of his 50th birthday, blindsides him by abruptly packing up his things and moving out of their apartment, leaving him to face two nightmares he never saw coming β the loss of a person he believed was his soulmate, and the reality of being a 40-something single gay man in New York City.
Fortunately, he doesnβt have to do it alone. His business partner and confidante Suzanne (Tisha Campbell) is at his side to walk him through the painful stages of dealing with a breakup, as are his two closest friends, TV weatherman Billy (Emerson Brooks) and high-end art dealer Stanley (Brooks Ashmanskas). While itβs true that none of them are exactly qualified when it comes to giving relationship advice, he needs all the help he can get β especially when he begins to awkwardly fumble his way back into a dating scene that looks a lot different than he remembers.
As written by Star and Richman, with director Andrew Fleming at the helm, the showβs deep dive into the funny side of breakups doesnβt have much time for tears and regret. Playing out in the upscale, glamorous world of New Yorkβs high gay society, it keeps the tone light and lifted, moving beyond the heartbreak as quickly as possible and setting its sights on the rich comedic territory to be found in the frolics and foibles of the privileged set. It’s a milieu that should come as no surprise considering that co-creator Star is the man responsible for βSex and the City,β not to mention βBeverly Hills 90210β and βMelrose Place,β all of which banked on similar currency. Indeed, itβs easy to see Michael and his trio of compadres as natural successors to the iconic gal pals of βSex and the Cityβ β more diverse and openly queer, perhaps, but recognizably kindred in spirit.
Starβs co-creator brings his own pedigree into the mix, too. As an executive producer and writer on βModern Familyβ (and similar duties on shows like βFrasierβ and βWingsβ before that), he doubtless has much to do with the whip-smart sitcom sensibility that both undercuts the showβs βguilty pleasureβ appeal and enriches it. Indeed, much of the fun of βUncoupledβ comes from its lampooning of the queer social sceneβs mores and manners β the shallow obsessions with youth and hotness, money and status, and all the other interpersonal dynamics that enable us to judge each other β and letting us laugh at the attitudes and pretensions we love to hate about ourselves. It allows us to let its characters off the hook, and ourselves, too, by reminding us that we are all only human, and that humans are sometimes ridiculous.
In service of that, βUncoupledβ has a stellar cast that not only has the comedic chops to sell its farcical goings-on but the nuance to go a little deeper. At the forefront, of course, is Harris, who deploys the confidence of a seasoned sitcom star to give us a fully realized leading character, and whose eternally boyish looks and persona have aged just enough to make him an ideal centerpiece for a story that is, in many ways, about growing up. Campbell more than holds her own next to him β their BFF chemistry makes them one of the more interesting platonic pairings in recent television memory β and Brooks and Ashmanskas turn their roles into much more than mere side characters. Itβs a likable cast, across the board; yet the showβs most impressive acting turns might just come from two of its recurring supporting players β Oscar-winner Marcia Gay Hardin as a high-profile (and high maintenance) real estate client, and Broadway legend AndrΓ© De Shields as Michaelβs elderly-but-regal neighbor β who bring some much-needed weight to the proceedings and make their scenes among the most memorable of the season.
Still, all the superficiality on display does sometimes wear thin, and some viewers might begin to wonder if Michael and his friends really are as vapid as their priorities often make them seem; and while all the characters get some hard lessons as the season progresses, itβs by no means certain they will learn from them, and these moments can feel like lip service in a show that sometimes seems to celebrate self-absorbed vanity even as it satirizes it.
Still, Star and Richman know their audience, and theyβre not interested in wagging fingers at them. βUncoupledβ is not meant to be social criticism; itβs about learning how to live again when your heart gets broken. To that end, instead of turning Colin into just another stereotypical hated βexβ to be treated as an enemy and subjected to bitter scorn, or simply letting him leave and forgetting about him, they keep him in the picture. They never let us forget that their series, ultimately, is about a relationship; it may have changed, but it still exists, and there are overlapping threads between two lives that can never quite be untangled. Thatβs a decidedly un-shallow level of understanding, handled with a refreshing lack of maudlin sentiment or rancor, and itβs more than enough proof that the show has much more going for it than just shallow characters, sexy situations, and soapy plot twists.
More than that, it makes us interested in seeing where things might go in season two.

The first thing you need to know about watching the new βQueer as Folkβ is that seeing the old βQueer as Folkβ first β either one of them β is unnecessary.
Peacockβs reboot of the groundbreaking LGBTQ series features none of the originalβs characters; it takes place in a different city and a contemporary era that feels far further removed from the previous setting than the mere two decades that have actually passed. Despite the participation of original writer/creator Russell T. Davies, who joined forces with new writer/creator Stephen Dunn, among others, to make it happen, to watch it is essentially to watch a new and entirely unrelated series.
That doesnβt mean it doesnβt carry all the hallmarks of the much-beloved franchise, from its messy and infuriating cast of characters to its sensationalistic emphasis on sex. It just means that anyone new to the party can rest assured they wonβt need a recap to know whatβs going on.
The new narrative centers on Brodie (Devin Way), a free-spirited college dropout who has just returned to New Orleans, and the tight circle of friends and chosen family that surround him. Thereβs his best friend Ruthie (Jesse James Keitel), a trans high school teacher who is starting a family with her non-binary partner Shar (CG); thereβs also Noah (Johnny Sibilly), a former longtime lover with whom he is still close, and Daddius (Chris Renfro), another former flame who is entangled with them both. For his first night out back in his hometown, Brodie β with his newly out gay brother Julian (Ryan OβConnell) in tow β heads off to meet them all at Babylon, a queer neighborhood club, where local legend Bussey Horewood (Armand Fields) runs a drag show that has also drawn underage aspiring queen Mingus (Fin Argus) to try their hand at performing for the first time. With each of these principal players gathered under one roof, the stage is set for a horrific act of violence that will devastate the entire community and serve as a catalyst for each of them to confront the traumas in their personal lives and relationships as they struggle to heal in its aftermath.
We like to avoid spoilers, so weβll just say that what happens at Babylon during the first episodeβs climactic scene has a cultural resonance to it that is only deepened by recent headlines in America, and the timing of the showβs premiere evokes an eerie synchronicity that is hard to ignore. Nevertheless, QAF remains rooted in the queer lives of its queer protagonists, and what it sets out to accomplish is only amplified by the added social significance bestowed by coincidence β and thatβs a good thing, because this QAF, just like the other QAFs, is all about queer visibility.
This time around, that visibility extends to more than just white cisgender gay men. In QAF 2022, people of color are decidedly in the majority, and there are other underrepresented identities in the mix, too β queer people who have disabilities, who live with HIV, who are sex workers, who are adoptees, who come out late in life. We get versions of family that go against the cultural grain, supportive mothers of queer kids, and queer parents forming new family constructs for which there are still no blueprints. We get an enthusiastically sexy depiction of queer bodies, often naked (or nearly so) even when theyβre not actively coupling with each other β which they do frequently. All in all, itβs kind of glorious: a portrait of a queer generation forging a sex-positive path through uncharted territory where acceptance is given, not earned, and thereβs room for every nuance of identity.
This positive cultural modeling might seem at odds with the dysfunctional image it presents of most of its protagonists, who tend toward the self-centered, self-destructive, and judgmental. They avoid their problems with hedonistic sex, or drugs, or both; their behavior is often ill advised and reckless, and their relationships play out like slow motion train wrecks. These are hardly role models β but none of us are perfect, and part of the reason QAF has garnered such a loyal legion of fans is that it gives us characters who reflect our flaws back at us. We identify with them, even if we sometimes donβt like them very much.
Similarly, QAF 2022 follows the originalβs playbook by featuring an abundance of queer sex, weaving tantalizingly explicit scenes of intimacy throughout the series like an erotic thread. Some viewers will inevitably find this unfettered sexuality lurid, or even exploitative, but it goes without saying that heteronormative sexual shenanigans have been regularly delivered to our screens for years; itβs only fitting that ours should be afforded the same treatment.
In any case, QAF has always had a βTrash TVβ flavor that has endeared it to its fans. Unlikable characters and gratuitous sex have never stopped the franchise from finding an audience, and theyβre unlikely to do so now. Ironically, a bigger obstacle to this installmentβs success could well be its aspirational vision of a united queer community, which might feel authentic to inhabitants of a large urban hub like New Orleans, but for the millions of LGBTQ people not lucky enough to live in such a place might seem a little too good to be true.
There will inevitably be viewers who see the world of QAF 2022 as a βwokeβ progressive fantasy; for someone still struggling with βthey/themβ pronouns, a show in which most of the characters lay claim to multi-hyphenate identities is likely to stretch the boundaries of believability, and older audiences with all-too-vivid memories of a queer community plagued by its own lack of tolerance around issues of race and gender may be tempted to write the whole thing off as just another Hollywood attempt to brush aside cultural inequity by framing the world through a rose-colored lens; finally, even for many who laud the effort at providing the much-needed inclusion for which so many corners of our community have long been thirsty, the showβs determination to pull off the impossible task of representing everybody might just feel like trying too hard.
Thatβs not to say, however, that the new QAF doesnβt capture the same irresistible charm that made it a touchstone for a whole generation of LGBTQ audiences β even if the old fans may have some trouble adapting themselves to the change of cultural climate. It features an attractive cast, with standout performances from Sibilly, Keitel, OβConnell, and Argus (not to mention showy turns from queer fan favorites Kim Cattrell and Juliette Lewis), and it succeeds in immersing us so deeply into their world we feel like a part of it. Most important, perhaps, it emphasizes the importance of coming together in our queer diversity to stand against the hate directed against us from outside β something that stands even today as the biggest existential threat we face as a community.
For all those reasons, itβs essential viewing β and even if you end up with too many qualms to connect as wholeheartedly with it as you may wish, thatβs OK.
It may be trash TV, but itβs OUR trash TV, and that makes all the difference.
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