On Tales of The City
As a baby queer in the late 80s, early 90s, I (and many others) devoured Armistead Maupin’s books. Our bars in London weren’t that special, and the outside world was full of rage against us, over AIDS, and Section 28.
For those of us meeting in places like Brief Encounter, the books were an easily accessible and joyous gateway into a world that it seemed like we’d never have, where people could be themselves, and a “pretend family” really did exist, looked over by a friendly mother.
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And, though it the new Netflix series does diverge from the books, I must admit reader, I cried. When Mary Ann returned to Barbary Lane at the start of the new series, to think that that place, and those people who meant so much as we were finding our own identities 30 odd years ago, was still there, against all the odds, I cried.
Yes, there are bits that may grate; some may not appreciate the younger characters, though they seem very much like young people today (annoying, to some, but with an awareness that many of us — often not coming out until our 20s — didn’t have at that age). But there are also some moments that remind me of the silliness of the first couple of books (cannibal cults! sinister men with fake ties!). And there was so much joy, and love, and hope. It felt like dropping in on old friends after years away, to find them thriving.
It’s been so long since I saw the original TV series, I think I’d quite forgotten who played Mouse, and Brian and DeDe, and perhaps they could have been re-cast without too much damage. But without two people, without our Mary Ann and our Anna Madrigal, it wouldn’t have been Tales of the City. Since they first appeared back in the 90s, Laura and Olympia inhabited those roles in a way I don’t think anyone else could, and it was joyous — weepingly, gloriously joyous — to see them reunited once more at 28 Barbary Lane.
If you haven’t done so already, watch it!
