Why Queer Films Should Be Created by Queers

Queer stories are becoming more common in Philippine cinema, but visibility alone is not enough. Genuine representation begins with queer creators telling their own stories.

Words Gerie Marie Consolacion
Art by Lili Zuñiga
June 16, 2026

It's Pride Month once again, and communities across the country are celebrating the growing visibility and acceptance of LGBTQIA+ people. Rainbow flags fill public spaces, Pride-themed campaigns return, drag performers and queer artists take center stage, and queer films are once again finding their place on Philippine screens.

Yet amid this celebration, there is an important conversation that deserves attention: queer stories should be told by queer people.

This is not about gatekeeping creative spaces or excluding allies from participating in the conversation. Rather, it is about recognizing that lived experiences matter. 

Queer people understand the nuances of their identities, relationships, struggles, and triumphs in ways that outsiders often cannot fully capture.

Too often, films marketed as queer stories end up feeling disconnected from the very community they claim to represent. Instead of serving as a celebration of queer lives, they become a reflection of misconceptions, stereotypes, or fantasies created from an outside perspective.

A Film by Queers, for Queers

Take the works of Samantha Lee, whose films such as Rookie, Baka Bukas, Billie and Emma, and Sleep With Me continue to resonate with LGBTQIA+ audiences years after their release. These projects may not have dominated box office rankings or generated massive commercial success, but they succeeded in something far more important: authentic representation.

Members of the community continue to revisit these films not simply because of the actors’ chemistry, but because they see themselves reflected on screen. 

The subtle gestures, unspoken emotions, social cues, and complexities of queer relationships are portrayed with care and understanding. They may not be perfect, but they rarely feel exploitative or offensive.

Another example is Rodina Singh's Dreamboi, a film that explores not only the experiences of a trans woman but also the discrimination and stigma that often accompany those experiences. 

Rather than relying on stereotypes, the film presents real challenges—from social prejudice to being denied access to women's spaces despite identifying and living as a woman.

Meanwhile, filmmaker Sigrid Andrea Bernardo's works, including Ang Huling Cha-Cha ni Anita and Lulu, have also been praised for presenting queer characters as fully realized individuals rather than one-dimensional tropes.

Look closely at these films and one thing becomes clear. Even without massive budgets or star-studded casts, they succeed in making audiences feel seen. 

They fulfill the true purpose of storytelling—to educate, entertain, and foster understanding.

Huge Budgets, Big Names, But No Representation

Earlier this year, a highly promoted queer film entered Philippine cinemas backed by major stars and extensive marketing campaigns.

Yet the excitement surrounding the film seemed to fade almost as quickly as it appeared.

The issue was not necessarily that the film was poorly made. Rather, it was that the story failed to resonate with many members of the community it was supposedly representing.

Beyond its weak writing, the film centered on a romantic relationship between a student and a teacher. This was not portrayed as a cautionary tale but as a central love story.

There is no way to soften that reality: it is problematic.

The power imbalance between a student and a teacher raises serious ethical concerns that cannot simply be overlooked in the name of romance. More importantly, presenting such a relationship as part of queer representation risks reinforcing harmful narratives instead of providing meaningful visibility.

To make matters worse, the story once again ends in tragedy. 

Queer audiences have spent decades watching LGBTQIA+ characters suffer, die, or lose their chance at happiness. While tragic stories certainly have their place in cinema, repeatedly reducing queer narratives to pain and loss limits the richness of queer experiences.

This raises a question, does a bigger budget automatically result in better representation? And well, the answer is…no.

Why Authentic Storytelling Matters

Representation is not simply about placing queer characters on screen. It is about understanding their realities, respecting their experiences, and portraying them with honesty and dignity. When queer people are involved in writing and directing their own stories, they bring perspectives that cannot be replicated through research alone.

This does not mean that only queer creators can tell queer stories. Allies can and should support LGBTQIA+ narratives. However, when it comes to stories that claim to represent a community, the voices of those who belong to that community should not be sidelined.

As Pride Month reminds us of the importance of visibility, it should also remind us of the importance of authenticity. Queer stories deserve more than rainbow-colored marketing campaigns and surface-level representation. 

They deserve creators who understand them from the inside out. Because at the end of the day, the best queer films are not the ones that simply feature queer characters—they are the ones that genuinely understand what it means to be queer.