U.S. political divisions hover nearby
The original Queer Eye fought for tolerance; new Netflix version fights for acceptance in Trump’s U.S.
Move over, This Is Us.
Reigning for the last year and a bit as TV’s four-hankie sobfest, the NBC drama has a weepy contender in the newschool Queer Eye. Something even I— a first-class sobber — did not see coming.
Picking up from where the original “Fab Five” left off — a show fronted by Carson Kressley et al, and one that was a defining pop feature of the early aughts, sitting right next to Ugg boots and Nokia phones and lollipop-headed celebutantes carrying tiny dogs in designer handbags — it returns now via Netflix to give, as always, a “physical and mental renovation” to hapless dudes.
Yes, there’s a new Scooby Doo crew at work and, yes, it circles the wagon of fun (“we call this Fifty Shades of Gay,” one of the boys jests) but, nope, the show ain’t content to just rest on its makeover laurels.
One word: Trump. Though the name never specifically comes up in this fresh go-’round of Queer Eye (though the gang does come across at least one “Make America Great Again” cap when cleaning out one guy’s closet), the divisions in modern-day America never loom far. How could they not? For one: unlike the original series, the episodes here take place not in New York, but in Georgia — and often in very small-town Georgia.
For another: we’re in an era when it’s become virtually impossible not to put much of contemporary culture through the prism — and shredder — of the political age we’re living in, whether it be feature films such as The Big Sick, Get Out and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, or television like The Handmaid’s Tale. (It’s even extended to such unlikely fare as The Real Housewives of New York, where one on-the-nose subplot on the most recent season involved the Hillary lament of one of its more “woke” ladies, Carole Radziwill.)
Finally, in the case of Queer Eye, the old show (which even won an Emmy way back when) always did lean toward the small-p political, with then-president George W. Bush referencing it in one formal address; for many Americans, it marked the first time a gay person regularly came into their living rooms, let alone five.
A voice-over in the new Netflix version sets the parameters right off the top: “The original show was fighting for tolerance. Our fight is for acceptance.” Cue a parade of emotionally honest moments, ones that reach more catharsis than one might expect, including one powerful episode built around a cop in the Deep South.
Over the course of the Queer Eye treatment, the officer enters into a conversation with the one Black member of the cast: about policing, Black Lives Matter, etc. It’s organic and nuanced, and probably more useful than a million related discussions on cable news, with the cop conceding at episode’s conclusion that the experience “changed my heart.”
Disarming prejudices. Shushing those nega- tive voices within. Unsticking bad habits. All this and game-changing pedicures! The series goes there. And there. And there. OK, so, the new guys to the rescue: There is Jonathan, he of the Rapunzel hair and the new-gen Richard Simmons razzmatazz, the one who will casually refer to a car as a “she” and, at one point, declares that his dream man is someone “who has the body of the Rock” and the personality of “Justin Trudeau, the prime minister of Canada.” He’s the grooming expert in the bunch.
There is Antoni, who actually does hail from Canada and has a bit of doppelganger thing going on with Jonathan Groff (in an alternate reality, Groff decided to give up hunting serial killers on his own Netflix series, Manhunter, to teach people how to make “guac” and hold forth on the glories of “sharp cheddar”).
Antoni is, if you hadn’t figured it out, the food guy of the series, a Strokes T-shirt-wearing foodie who has the strongest connection to the origin story of the show, having once worked as the personal chef for Queer Eye OG Ted Allen.
Then there’s the taut-bodied, silver-haired guy who goes by Tan; he’s the clothing savant. (“This is a Bob Saget classic,” he quips about one guy’s dated shirt). Oh yeah, he’s a Muslim . . . married to a Mormon.
Next up: Bobby, a kind of gay everyman who grew up on a farm in Missouri and is the design go-to in the series. In a scene that stood out to me, he takes one guy to a scrapyard to throw out a way-past-its-due-date recliner. (The recliner is a metaphor for the staidness of the dude’s life; when he throws it out it’s akin to the scene at the end of The Devil Wears Prada when Anne Hathaway throws out her cellphone. Hurrah!)
And, finalement, we’ve got Karamo. A father of two, his suaveness is possibly only bested by his ability to listen. The so-called “culture guy” on the show, he also operates as a kind of lifecoach at large, the Iyanla Vanzant of the group. (The dude is no stranger to reality TV: Karamo was the first openly gay man on MTV’s The Real World back in 2004.)
Can you teach an old dog new tricks? That remains the central question of the show.
You betcha: the answer that it gives again and again as it takes on a bevy of “patients,” both straight and gay. And, yup, that includes one guy who is deeply devoted to his Crocs and another who enjoys a daily dose of what he calls a “red neck margarita,” with Mountain Dew.
Using the building blocks of fashion, food, hair, design and self-knowledge, the show’s cast manages to do its thing, all while dodging some of the criticism sometimes lobbed at its earlier incarnation, that of “the magical gay elves” premise. The new Netflix series is more expansive, less parochial.
Its only hocus-pocus, perhaps? The same school of personal development that has held North American culture in a trance for decades: from Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People to Norman Vincent Peale’s The Power of Positive Thinking to the tao of Oprah.
It’s the magical thinking of self-improvement. Queer Eye debuts Feb. 7 on Netflix.