I’m drafting this post fresh off of finishing Netflix’ Norwegian show, Ragnarok. By all accounts it’s an amazing show. The writing is tight, the acting is excellent, the production values are fantastic. It’s a show loaded with social commentary about big corporations poisoning the planet and the young activists who stand against them, and at the same time is also a modern retelling of the old Norse myths as the titular Ragnarok — the apocalyptic final battle between the Æsir gods and the Jötunn giants — draws ever nearer. The story is a rollercoaster of emotions as the characters’ personal dramas become tangled together with their world-ending destinies. But as modern and progressive as the show tries to be, there’s one aspect in which it continually falls short: its queer representation and its use of every bad gay trope.
The very first queer character we meet is Isolde. Her sexuality is treated as a big reveal — not the worst trope in itself, though it does nicely highlight that being gay is ‘not normal’ and is therefore othering. This is, however, quickly followed by the much worse ‘bury your gays’ trope. She is killed off in a martyring event very shortly after her orientation is revealed; her entire role in the show boiled down to being a catalyst so that Magne (Thor), a cishet white man, could have a compelling reason to hate his enemies, the giants. The second queer character we meet is Laurits, who, even from season one, couldn’t have been anyone but Loki. He isn’t given much focus in season one, but is often depicted as sneaky, mischievous, and frankly, an asshole.
At the beginning of season 2, however, I naively hoped that things might change. Laurits is seen hitting it off with a male cashier right at the beginning and his character appeared to be getting both more screen time and more sympathy. Laurits plays with his gender throughout the season, whilst simultaneously being a constant victim and a person of dubious loyalties. He is consistently betrayed by everyone he cares about, he is beaten by his giant half of the family (who also try to murder and humiliate him numerous times), and he weasels out of every situation by pledging loyalty to whomever will give him the time of day in that moment. He’s lonely, hurt, and, in his own words, ‘a freak who looks more like a pretty girl than a man.’
Hoo boy. Is that a lot to unpack.
On top of that, we also see the bi woman Iman use her supernatural powers to mind-control her female principle into kissing her and giving her better grades (said principal also suggests Iman is using her status as a person of colour to manipulate her; ‘playing the minority card’ as it’s been not-so-kindly dubbed). Oh, and remember the cashier Laurits was flirting with? Yeah, he was just toying with Laurits — stringing him along while hooking up with someone else.
Every queer character in the show is depicted as either a martyr, a victim, manipulative, duplicitous, or a combination thereof. Women are constantly belittled and shown their place. People of colour aren’t depicted any better. And I wish that wasn’t something I was used to, but it’s a story that plays out in mainstream media again and again. I’m sadly accustomed to the same old, same old: queer-baiting, bury your gays, queer-coded villains. Every now and then, we’re thrown a side character who doesn’t have an unhappy ending, but only if they fit that over-the-top fashion-obsessed drag-queen stereotype that fits the comfortable mainstream narrative of what all gay men must be like. From the slap-in-the-face ending of Supernatural, to BBC Sherlock’s Johnlock tease, to Disney’s long history of totally not gay villains modelled after drag queens, it seems like every piece of mainstream film I love does not love me back. And that feeling is hardly unique to me; every queer person out there is constantly, sharply reminded that we’re not supposed to be happy, or simply, just to Be.
This is one of the reasons the indie scene has such a high proportion of queer creators. I’ve had a few people astutely ponder out loud to me over my 15 years in the world of webcomics: ‘I’ve noticed a lot of webcomic authors are female’ and ‘I wonder why gay webcomics are so popular’. The answer is achingly simple: the indie scene exists because those demographics are not welcome in the mainstream.
I love the indie world. I love the raw, indulgent, incredibly imaginative works that come out of individuals and small teams writing whatever the fuck they want. There’s a saying that gets passed around our communities fairly often: ‘write what you want to read.’ I want to read a story about queer teens with supernatural powers and talking wildlife, and so that’s what I’m writing. Children of Shadow is an off-the-wall concept and it was always going to be a niche interest. But the fact that even a handful of people are interested in it means it’s a story worth telling. It’s a bonkers mash-up of genres. The mainstream would never want it. That’s okay. That’s why it’s a webcomic instead.
Unfortunately, the indie scene also has its drawbacks. When you’re a one person team, often without any formal training or any financial backing, it takes a long time to produce a work. You don’t have the benefit of editors, or the wisdom of a professional. Most of the time, you’re making it up as you go, learning the hard way through practise and soliciting critique from your peers. You have to do everything yourself, including market and sell your work, which requires a completely different skillset from making something good. If you’re not social or charismatic or good with numbers, your hidden gem is going to remain hidden. It’s no surprise then, that both quality and quantity are issues if you’re a fan of indie works (side-eyes my own comics that have been updating for a decade and yet number only 186 pages and 208 pages, respectively), and that it’s really difficult to find the stories you want to read. If your perfect story exists out there, you might never discover it if the creator isn’t good at marketing. How many people out there might be looking for a gritty pencil-drawn webcomic about foxes and immortal teenagers? I may never know because I’m pretty damn bad at telling people I’m making it.
Desperate to read stories about people like me, I’ve consumed a fair number of indie books and comics. And I can tell you right now, it’s damn hard to find good ones, and damn harder to find finished ones, and even damn harder to find genre fiction where queer characters are allowed to exist without the focus of their character or the narrative being on their gender or sexuality. It’s little wonder then, that as much as I adore the rawness and grit of indie works, I also look to mainstream stories to get that fix of films and novels that have been polished until they gleam. It’s just too bad I don’t see myself reflected there, not unless I’m a broken character who is either evil, or tragic, or both.
It’s not only the queer community. The mainstream has an ongoing abusive relationship with women, with the disabled, the mentally ill, and people of colour, as well. We love flashy superhero movies and teen dramas as much as fully abled cishet white men, but our demographics are rarely acknowledged outside of how we look from their perspective. Producers and editors are content to throw us just enough scraps to get us to open our wallets, but will always remind us that we are Other, that they value bigots’ opinions over the real harm we face every day from how we are depicted. The Hays code ended in 1968, yet stereotypes and tropes from an era when LGBT characters weren’t allowed to be depicted positively still stubbornly pervade modern media, and continue to influence people’s perceptions of the LGBT community. Progress is being made, slowly, and frequently with with two steps back for every one step forward. Even so, that progress is tenuous, and could at any moment be snatched away by a reactionary political movement that gains enough ground.
The show Ragnarok isn’t over yet, providing Netflix renews it for a third season. There may yet be hope that Laurits gets a happy ending, that he subverts expectations and doesn’t side with the Jötunn at the final battle (as he does in the original myth), but considering how this show has handled its queer characters thus far, I’m not holding my breath. Will I watch the third season? Probably. I am, after all, a sucker for angsty supernatural dramas with high production values. Will I be reminded that people like me don’t deserve happy endings? Probably. I am, after all, in a love/hate relationship with mainstream media.