The Boyfriend review: Japan’s first gay dating show is an antidote to queer pain

Marriage equality petitions were immolated on the SC’s altar last year, causing a setback to this growing momentum. However, in a recent turn of events, the Supreme Court has decided to revisit its previous ruling. Would it culminate in a gay marriage moment for India? So soon and so easily? My inner skeptic would scoff at the proposition. But then “hope” is the thing with feathers, to quote from Dickinson’s scintillating poem.

A groundbreaking intervention

To let hope’s wings flap and flutter in the pit of our belly, Netflix has brought out a brand-new gay dating show, The Boyfriend. It’s the first one in this genre in Japan. Though gay sex is not illegal in the country, marriage remains a communion between two sexes, keeping homosexuals away from its sacrosanct definition. Two out of three big political parties stand in its favour; a survey projects that 72% of the public supports it, but despite this, Japan remains the only G7 country to have not legalized same-sex marriage. Considering the socio-political conditions of the country, the show feels like a groundbreaking intervention.

But that’s not all. Even if the premise — a group of unrelated people dashed together for a couple of weeks — might be similar, the show’s objectives are distinctly different. Not to mention that sleek and snazzy boys with slim eyes who don’t leave an occasion to bow down are a balm to our eyes fatigued from the ripped, brawny guys of Love Island or Perfect Island.

There is no competition here, no elimination, and no malicious tasks to peel off the layers of personality to reveal the real-self. Not certainly a pot of gold or a heap of yen to sweep off the table. Only one thing dictates the life of these nine boys in the prime of their 20s and 30s — Alan, Dai, Gensei, Ikuo, Kazuto, Ryota, Shun, Taeheon, and Usak — the need to find love. But when I say love, I don’t mean it in the strict sense of conjugal relationships — or, as the cliche goes in the gay world, something more substantial or long-term, a boyfriend or husband — but strong friendships, casual dating, and above all, a shared sense of solidarity.

Taeheon (34) with his silver studs says, in his introductory shot, “It’s hard for me because I’ve not come out to my family yet. But all my friends know that I’m gay. It could be a great opportunity to express myself openly and show my family who I really am.” Dai (22), a university student with a charming smile, confesses, “I’ve been through so much pain in my life that I thought I would never be able to fall in love again.”

Shot in Tateyama, a city in Chiba Prefecture very close to Tokyo, best known as a ‘beach town,’ these nine men have to stay in a swanky beach house for a month, The Green Room. Green Room, as we’re told, is a common surfing term that means a sacred space inside a clean tube produced by a rolling wave. They have to earn some bucks from a coffee truck, one which they have endearingly titled as ‘brewtiful U’ which they can spend on their leisure or luxury and participate in some simple, feel-good activities.

One begins to wonder if it’s too much, that this is a model of a utopia, when the announcement tingles on their iPad that they have a stipulated budget to spend on groceries and food. My brain, fed on Big-Boss, thinks this twist might incite tension among them. Furthermore, when the housemates confront Usak, a go-go boy with a strict diet and exercise regimen, about the lack of funds for his daily dose of chicken smoothie, one is sure of the friction.

A warm, fuzzy feeling

But it is to The Boyfriend’s credit that it doesn’t choose overdramatization at any point and maintains its warm, fuzzy quality. And why not? Unlike heterosexual dating, which follows a defined pattern with limited choices and thus needs an innovative twist every time, queer dating is a Pandora’s box of possibilities. We don’t need the brightly blue painted wall of the ‘pods’ of Love is Blind, through which one can hear but not see each other? Or the desolate, private island of South Korean Single’s Inferno, where a connection is forged due to a confinement for eight days without Wi-Fi, electricity, or any other distractions.

But even queer dating shows such as The Ultimatum: Queer Love, which comprises women and non-binary couples in which either you marry or break off, don’t adequately represent the queer dating scenario of Southeast Asia. Queer people here are fighting social conventions, clutch of parental expectations, or rudimentary law to carve out a place for themselves. “I feel guilty and ashamed for being selfish,” Kazuto (27), a cuisine chef and the eldest son of a rice farmer, states. “My parents wanted me to take up farming, but when I realized it [my sexuality], I knew I couldn’t. I want to bring rice and other homegrown items and sell them in my restaurant.”

The show doesn’t fall victim to any of these done-and-dusted formats. In their very first task, at the end of the first day together, the boys are asked to write a letter to the person with whom they felt an immediate connection. Of course, they can’t write names. It could’ve been scripted in such a way to ensure that each one gets at least one message. Even their choice of participants, mostly from rural towns, across ages, professions, and body types, in their various stages of coming out makes it much more appealing, closer to reality, and, of course, a firm ‘deviation’ from the normal.

In one scenario, the boys cook their dinner together, fileting the bonito into thin slices. In another, they select cards and hold them to their foreheads. The person with the lowest number would lose. He’d have to reveal the name of his crush to the person he trusts the most. With its excellent use of soft colours and expert shots of the translucent sky and frolicking water, it’s the epitome of a comfort show — and a crucial antidote to all the trauma, pain, and rejection that a queer person goes through in their life.