Disclosure dir. by Sam Fedder, and: Visible: Out on Television dir. by Ryan White (review)

Coming from a much-delayed tradition set by The Celluloid Closet (1996), this past year provided two documentaries that fall under the umbrella of LGBTQ screen portrayals: Visible: Out on Television and Disclosure. Visible is a five-part docu-series that premiered in February on the heels of the Apple TV+ streaming launch in November 2019. Disclosure dropped in June 2020, five months after Visible, on Netflix. Although both try to capture elements of LGBTQ presence and its history on the screen, the approaches, objectives, and tone vary, especially when it comes to transgender representation and race.

With runtimes around an hour per episode, Visible attempts to tell a sweeping history of LGBTQ representation on television. It starts with Joseph McCarthy mentioning homosexuality for the first time on the air during the Red Scare. It ends with an emphasis on transgender and nonbinary characters. Visible chose to lead with white and cisgender gay representation, and it dominates more narrative than necessary until the last episode. As a result, the series unwittingly reinforces the dominant cisgender, white male representation that is an age-old problem on television as it is in queer theory, even if it is coming from a gay perspective.

In an attempt to negate its homogenous narrative, notable Black, Latinx, and Asian queer actors in the business narrate and serve as talking heads throughout the series. They end up performing the work to offset their underrepresentation in the television content. Race is tacked on as an issue to explore along with transgender people, bisexuals, and intersectionality toward the series' end. Pansexual isn't even on the radar. The series frequently binds itself to a mainstream, linear timeline that makes it inherently less queer in its storytelling.

Over and over again, people on Visible speak of "the power of television." It's clear the phrase was included in a question and plays into the series agenda. The case for the power of representation is made, though. For example, Wilson Cruz got kicked out of his home, which in turn gets written into the plotline of My So-Called Life (1994), and changed his father's perspective. Stories like these highlight the lifeline that these representations offer, and the power of them. I have no desire to negate those and the need for a series of such magnitude. What would have made this documentary better? More and earlier unpacking of intersectional topics, less reliance on emotion, and perhaps better academic knowledge of the issues. The series is aware of the need for more inclusion, but it doesn't quite pull it off in its programming choices. The oft repeated queer phrase "We are everywhere" applies to television, too. The absence of groups of people can mean as much—if not more—than their presence. And these people—trans and queers of color—were never actually absent.

Although the series has issues, Visible manages to be impressive, too. It would work well as a critical classroom viewing or for anyone who is interested in personal stories of LGBTQ celebrities and their relationships with television. It tells stories—personal and in programming—that haven't been told in this medium. It is accessible and highlights activism. The series contains a star-studded lineup, ranging from Norman Lear to Janet Mock to Billy Crystal to Oprah to Ellen, though academics are notably absent. GLAAD director Sarah Kate Ellis offers a lot of insight as do activists working in the entertainment industry, such as Wilson Cruz, Laverne Cox, and Margaret Cho. Visible's scope is broad, even within the confines of television's medium. It includes reality, daytime talk shows, broadcast news, soap operas, network, cable, and a small number of streaming programs.

The series relies on broadcast news to explore activism and to move the timeline forward, noting the lack of coverage of Stonewall and integrating events like queer network news jamming, Harvey Milk's campaign and murder...