Status Update 2/2/2026
On Heated Rivalry & Why Queer Actors Should Play Queer Characters.
In an interview with Heated Rivalry author Rachel Reid, she briefly touched on rumors questioning her sexuality as author of a series focused on queer men.
“… I don’t think it ultimately matters, because what I’m writing is… I’m not a man, and I’m not a gay man, and I’m not a bisexual man. That’s who I’m writing about. I don’t think that the people that I am attracted to, at this stage in my life, gives me like any kind of credibility to write about gay men or bisexual men. So, as much as I know people want to know, I don’t think it ultimately matters.” (Heated Rivalry author Rachel Reid addresses sexuality rumors | Out.com)
Similarly, the TV adaptation’s main actors, Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie, have asked for privacy when asked about their respective sexuality’s. Calling for a dissociation between the performance and the performer. Inevitably, this has led to discourse over whether playing gay characters is queerbaiting, the invasive tendency of rumors, and the messy politics of the closet.
It seems that with every new popular queer work, we end up in this same cycle, and the fact that we keep ending up in this argument makes it all the more frustrating. The debate sours into questions over an actor’s right to privacy and the trauma of forcing someone to come out so publicly, see Heartstopper’s Kit Conner or Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda’s Becky Albertalli.
Functionally, this discourse is designed to get lost in the minutia of whether these artists must come out. The conversation needs to be expanded beyond individuals, instead refocused to criticize a broader media system. The problem is not so much that a non-disclosing person took a queer role (though I am increasingly critical of this decision too), the problem is an industry in which those who are out can never get their foot in the door for an audition. The closet still exists, and everyone must ask how we are maintaining it.
At the end of Vito Russo’s groundbreaking work of queer film theory, The Celluloid Closet (1981), the author levies a condemnation to the queer artists working in the Hollywood system. Actors, producers, writers, those who were also at fault for the lack of positive representation in film. Those who didn’t speak up against scripts adding slurs or harmful stereotypes, or who kept anonymity around their sexuality for fear of losing their jobs. This isn’t to deny the brutal realities of a homophobic industry that so easily killed many careers after outing, but to point out that, nonetheless, maintaining the closet for oneself maintains the closet for everyone.
“Invisibility is the great enemy. It has prevented the truth from being heard, and it will continue to do so as long as the celluloid closet is inhabited by lesbians and gay men who serve Hollywood’s idea of homosexuality.”
The functional reality of the industry infected the filmic dream world and continued a flawed image of queer life on the silver screen. A cinema consciousness of queer identity as defined by straight people, perpetuating harmful stereotypes. Or as Russo bitingly phrased it, “There never have been lesbians or gay men in Hollywood films. Only homosexuals.” The clearest way forward was for queer people to speak out and show up, to insist on our perspective and shake the public consciousness.
It is 2026, and the number of queer characters depicted on screen by either straight or non-disclosed actors is still overwhelming. As good as it is to see more gay themes on screen, it always feels like someone is missing from that representation. And the reality is there are. What we see on screen is largely white, largely cis, and painfully unconnected to a living queer experience. No matter how much actors pay lip service to playing queer characters respectfully, they are fundamentally observers. Viewing queerness as a behavior rather than an identity, a culture, and a community.
In the meantime, the artists who are out, who transgress gender and sexuality norms, who do not fit a conservative model of queerness, they are the ones absent from the industry. Rarely given the budget for filmmaking, hired on major sets, or put in front as leads. This is the strange simulacrum of queer culture maintained by a queerphobic Hollywood system. Only a slice is available for view, played by those who have to research with respect to depict an acceptable type of queerness. Inevitably, the discourse will boil over again because the fundamental problem of representation and participation is still unresolved.
With all due respect to Rachel Reid, who seems very nice and gave a reasonable answer to why she maintains privacy, I must strongly disagree that it “does not matter” to disclose one’s sexuality when writing queer stories. This death of the author approach to identity cannot work anymore. It’s been nearly a decade of popular criticism over representation and who gets to tell which stories. We still struggle with a Hollywood system that white-washes race, that casts cis actors as trans characters, and casts straight people in queer roles.
Similarly, I do think it matters when actors choose not to declare their sexuality, and it is not above questioning. It is a choice to take these roles, and an increasingly political one at that. Not because you aren’t disclosing your sexuality, but because you took a job and another person didn’t even get an offer. The space you take up is pushing others out. The choice to keep one’s sexuality secret maintains the closet, making it all the harder for others to come out. That is worthy of criticism.
This is not just art, it is politics, and I’m tired of surface level conversations papering over a real problem. As if it is unreasonable to question why there is so little out queer media available for us. I am frustrated by how often I have to read articles about stars being adamant about privacy whenever we get popular queer representation, when they could have easily said nothing all together. Or that we have to go through this belligerent discourse cycle every time simply because out queer artists are not present in the conversation in the first place.
We cannot have an industry of representation built on secrecy. The celluloid closet still exists, maintained by a media that only portrays a certain type of queer person and played by people who aren’t those kind of queer people.
It is fitting that this is in connection to a show about the closet itself and how it exists in the masculine world of professional sports. The secret relationship between Heated Rivalry’s Shane and Ilya grows increasingly toxic as the years take their toll, becoming more jealous, more possessive, and more isolated.
It is also telling that one of the show’s few out lead actors, François Arnaud, is the one that is vocally advocating for the show’s political potential. Maybe he said it best for how the film industry can better support queer artists.
“I hope that the [NHL] that is now using the show for tweets and Instagram posts and selling tickets, that it actually follows through and supports openly in the league and in the players.” (François Arnaud Calls Out NHL for Boosting ‘Heated Rivalry’ Without Supporting Queer Players | Them)
It’s time to be more critical of who we elevate in queer media and to demand more for our representation. Distinguishing the difference between those who wish to play only characters and those artists who proudly represent our community. We need to continue the long, difficult work of dismantling the closet, patient for those who cannot leave safely and for those who have been forced out, but nonetheless doing more to change the outside world so queer people can exist as ourselves freely.