This piece contains spoilers for On Swift Horses
On Swift Horses, directed by Daniel Minahan and adapted from the novel by Shannon Pufahl, is a romantic drama set in the US in the 1950s – an era familiar from classic Hollywood cinema and countless nostalgic films and TV series. Daisy Edgar-Jones plays Muriel, who is quickly (if somewhat reluctantly) engaged to be married to Lee (Will Poulter) – a working-class man with aspirations to the American dream. The arrival of Lee’s brother Julius (Jacob Elordi), however, reveals cracks in the young couple’s seemingly perfect relationship.
That this is a queer film is not immediately obvious from its publicity. In fact, promotional materials might lead audiences to assume that Muriel and Julius embark upon an affair.
While the pair are drawn to one another, the connection between them is more complex. Muriel is struggling with the gendered expectations of the era and, as the film will go on to explore, both characters are queer.
Upon moving to California with Lee, Muriel meets two queer women who will open up new possibilities. The first is the glamorous Gail (portrayed by queer, non-binary artist Kat Cunning), who kisses Muriel and leads her to a local gay bar. The second is Sandra (Sasha Calle), her Latinx, visibly queer coded neighbour.
Both meetings showcase the lingering looks and subtle flirtations of queer romance – codes forged out of necessity and often used, or interpreted, as queer subtext. In On Swift Horses, however, queerness takes centre stage as Muriel and Sandra begin an affair.
Meanwhile, Julius abandons plans to join Lee and Muriel in suburban California in favour of a wilder, freer life in Vegas. It’s in the desert city where, finding work in a casino, he meets and falls in love with Henry (played by Mexican actor Diego Calva).
In both romances, the iconography of 1950s Americana are reimagined, making visible, to an extent, the very real queer subcultures of the era. For example, in the gay bar that Gail leads Muriel to, the lesbian party Muriel stumbles upon at Sandra’s house, and the secret haunts of gay men. In these scenes, the hidden but vibrant worlds of 1950s queer people are represented.
This was, after all, the era of butches (masculine-presenting lesbians), studs (Black masculine-presenting lesbians) and femmes (feminine-presenting lesbians) – these were identities that emerged in queer women’s bar communities that resisted the heteronormativity of the era. It encompassed clothing, roles and relationships. It also saw the rise of the homophile movement, which was early LGBTQ+ activism that challenged social stigmas and sought acceptance, albeit on limited terms.
Gunther Campine/Aces High Pictures/ LLC
Both secretive subcultures and social movements were necessary as this was a period of significant legal and social repression, with the government viscously targeting communists and those deemed “deviants”. Included in this was the Lavender Scare where queer people were targeted. The film portrays this too, with police raids and violent attacks always on the periphery of queer lives. As Gail warns Muriel, “We’re all just a hair’s breadth from losing everything.”
This poignant line has contemporary resonances. As Calle notes in an interview: “…even though the movie is based in the 50s, everything that happened – the oppression that was happening at that time – is so relevant today.”
The film is enjoyable and the ending hopeful. However, I ultimately found it unsatisfying as the characters and narrative never really go deep enough. While Sandra insists to Muriel that she is a real person, the film doesn’t really give her much room to be one – her life and story remain unknown, her function is largely to facilitate Muriel’s journey (a familiar trope). Similarly, while Henry does point out that, as a Mexican queer man, things are different for him than they are for Julius, the queer Latinx characters remain secondary and the racialised context of the period is never fully explored.
Interestingly, director Daniel Minahan is best known for television – having directed hit series such as Six Feet Under, True Blood, Game of Thrones and Fellow Travellers (a series that also depicts closeted queer lives in the 50s). As the critic Mike McCahill notes in The Guardian, On Swift Horses might similarly have worked better as a television series. In this format, the more expansive possibilities of a TV show would have offered more space to flesh out the characters and their trajectories.
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