Founded 19 years ago, the London Short Film Festival has long been a haven for alternative, provocative and ambitious film programming. Showcasing the best and boldest shorts grown both locally and internationally, the festival has grown to qualify as a BAFTA-awarding festival. Queer cinema has always found itself spread across different strands at the LSFF, rather than being bundled up into a homogenous grouping. It intersects and weaves around the festival’s core thematics including pride and protests, a complement to the Fringe! Prog strand which celebrates the collaborative art of film. Despite the 2021 edition of LSFFF having to move online, LGBTIQ+ stories have been just as vocal within the programme. In some respects, these stories are even more urgently needed than before. With many people having to stay at home with families who may not accept them, or living alone in isolation during this third lockdown and being away from queer spaces, access to these films is a reminder of community and connectivity with others. The festival’s diverse inclusion of these films is a pivotal part of the discourse for “identity-consolidating assimilation politics or more challenging queer politics,” in which festivals have been known to only programme something that is “queer yet tame enough” to attract the festival’s demographic. The LSFF has never been afraid to curate films that give space to complex ideas with diverse characters and storylines that move beyond a secular Western-media perspective of homosexuality and comfort. Queer culture exists on a spectrum which should be inclusively celebrated. 

The LSFFF films encompass the diversity of queer identities, along with the mundanity of life, that is not solely reliant on trauma at the heart of a narrative. This is not to suggest the impact of homophobia and exclusion in society isn’t important, but the feature productions don’t use this as a crutch. The films from this year’s festival are perhaps some its most wonderful, as the collective shorts challenge preconceptions about identity and re-butt tropes of ageism. LSFF also celebrates queer artists and pays homage to those we lost to the AIDS epidemic. Audiences are given a place on the sofa inside people’s homes, in the dressing rooms and within social spaces of acceptance and community. There is no secular way to see one’s self on screen, with queer audiences having previously relied on coded inferences and cliched Hollywood characters scripted by straight writers.

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An aesthetically-gorgeous, non-linear film that addresses preconceptions of Black, queer lives is The Name I Call Myself, directed by Rhea Dillon. Positioned as two 35mm films placed side by side, each video shows a scene from the same room with people in their homes or outside in groups, but during different moments. One frame captures a mother and daughter in a yoga pose, while the other frame shows a close-up on the peaceful expression of a face during a breathing pattern. In other videos, there are two older lesbian couples enjoying an evening together, chatting over drinks, smoking and sharing stories, and other moments include a couple in a taxi, an outdoor dance performance and DJs mixing at home. The series of images present the fluidity of life and small pockets of joy: smiling with friends, kissing lovers and hugging children. Music snakes its way around each event and motion, catching the audience off guard between pulsating rhythms, with static noises interrupting the flow. There is a lightness and stillness of mirroring, learning and watching. The audience is permitted a short period of time to digest the moment, before moving onto another scene. This structure allows The Name I Call Myself to deconstruct the perception of homogenous identities. There is a significance to each of the lives presented, and the film underlines the importance of displaying individuality and collectivism. Every now and again, one is reminded of a unifying ordeal and the treatment of the Black community, most notably during a scene with a dancer climbing and performing around a streetlamp as the echoes of police sirens clench the atmosphere. It is a sobering reminder that even while experiencing joyous moments, Black people are still treated as a threat due to institutionalised racism.

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John Ogunmuyiwa’s Mandem follows a day in the life of two mates who work as drug dealers, and challenges preconceptions by breaking down parts of their personality and interweaving scenes of their personal and professional lives. The queer, Black men have a relatively chilled existence, as they’re relaxed about their line of work yet still cautiously glance around in public when on a job. Back at home, they rib each other, casually make out and bicker over video games. This is their London reality while running their own business together and pacing along through an ordinary day. Mandem highlights the diverse supply and demand of drug culture within the city, and suggests that our jobs do not define who we are. The shine of the leads’ personalities are especially gripping as they crack jokes and flirt with clientele — the work almost becomes inconsequential in many ways. Importantly, Mandem also demonstrates that there is no “acting gay” or “acting straight,” and that stereotyped quips about gay people do not encompass the spectrum of personality and behaviour.

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Dance floors and drag clubs are spaces that have rebelled and resisted governments, fostering those rejected from homes and welcoming those who are just discovering themselves. They are also places for friends to gather, drink, dance and flirt; a community for queer youth to thrive, explore and express themselves. Heather Maria Acs’ FLourish is not only a love letter to the beauty of drag culture, but also addresses consensual decisions within relationships. The narrative focuses on a drag queen, Crystal Vision, who must let go of a toxic relationship in order to fully be happy, while a young non-binary couple toy with the idea of non-monogamy, with one of them seemingly more eager than the other. The performances feature honest yet light-hearted conversations about fragmentations in relationships, such as when one person must move on to fully embrace their own happiness or when another rekindles passions with others. A pivotal moment comes to a head within the club space, as the lens pans across writhing bodies and intersectional identities; in this space, there is safety, acceptance and no dictation of any requirement to fit in. The club patrons are all granted permission to be messy and to be human, but also to express their autonomy and boundaries. 

The most touching part of this story is also the way these conversations commence behind the stage, off of the dancefloor. As Crystal puts on her face, she disintegrates into tears upon sending her drunk partner Bo out of the room. Drag shows have waltzed into public broadcaster spheres, yet in FLourish, it is the time off stage that is the most intimate. Crystal intends to create a legacy for herself, in the intricate routine of every layer of eyeliner and glitter. She refuses to let her routine be impacted by the neglect of a supposed loved one, and knows that she is appreciated for her work in the drag space. This story interconnects with Ben Edelberg’s They Looked at Me and I Smiled, a film that questions where performance begins and ends between the stage and home. The Canadian production is a deliciously unfiltered portrait of fluid identity; an exploration of the body as a canvas. Edelberg shows an appreciation for the work that goes into performance preparation, from the gems on rhinestone boots to the flecks of paint on one’s skin, along with the tactile sensuality of latex textures and sharp sequins. They Looked at Me and I Smiled becomes a chilling reminder that while these expressions and performances are beautiful and powerful, one cannot give everything to others, or nothing is left. As the short winds down, the camera captures naked skin resting on the surface of water and the calm expressions of individuals stripping off their layers. There may be an absence of clothing, but the sense of identity isn’t washed away. Queerness isn’t an outfit to be put on and off for others’ approval; it is part of one’s identity, a canvas of existence. 

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LSFF 2021 truly captures the joys and diversity of Queer cinema. The shorts represent an accessible and vital way to tell stories that haven’t been heard, and also provide insight into real lives that aren’t scripted for the comfort of others. They are messy and creative; they are brutal and delightful.

Elle Haywood (@ellekhaywood) is a freelance film/culture writer, festival juror and submissions reviewer. She is currently an Associate Editor at Take One and studying a Masters at the National Film & Television School. Her work specialises in international festivals focusing on Scandinavia and Western Europe, sociopolitical events and independent filmmaking.