A closeted lesbian PE teacher grapples with the ramifications of Section 28 as a new student joins her class.
We are in the midst of a moral panic. LGBTQ+ “groomers” are the right-wing boogieman du jour and vocal bigots the world over are compelling lawmakers to, please, think of the children. Georgia Oakley’s Blue Jean takes place in the shadow of a similar cultural moment, when Margaret Thatcher’s government enacted Section 28 – an infamous piece of anti-gay legislation that criminalised the “promotion” of homosexuality by local authorities and schools.
The film follows Rosy McEwen as Jean, a closeted PE teacher working at a Tyneside comprehensive in 1988. By day she’s a (sort of) straight-passing member of respectable society, by night she clubs with her out-and-proud girlfriend Viv (a likeable Kerrie Hayes). But this tidy division between work and play is threatened by the arrival of Lois – one of Jean’s students – on the local lesbian scene. And when Lois is falsely accused of forcing herself upon a fellow student, Jean has to consider potentially outing herself (and jeopardising her career) for a greater good.
A film like Blue Jean demands a strong sense of period but, unfortunately, its vision of Thatcherite Britain has all the airlessness of a museum diorama. This not only manifests in the costuming and production design, both of which fail to account for the taste of preceding decades, but also in the more ephemeral task of conjuring up a bygone cultural climate. Radios and televisions soundtrack the film with a distracting number of news bulletins on Section 28, yet the prevailing attitudes that these archival materials describe are rarely seen. Instances of on-screen homophobia are chiefly comprised of schoolyard bullying and off-colour remarks, and the worst we see Jean and Viv receive is a disapproving glare from an elderly stranger.
At best we could call the film’s lack of bite evasive, and at worst naïve, but it contributes to a pervasive air of anachronism that ultimately undermines the drama. In one particularly period-shattering moment, an unconvincingly touchy-feely headmaster informs Lois and her accuser that, “perpetrators of sexual assault have no place at this school,” demonstrating a level of sensitivity that many 21st century educators would struggle to muster.
And if the film’s conception of ’80s heterosexual hegemony seems incomplete, then its depiction of contemporaneous gay life feels equally unimaginative. Oakley manages to make one of the most vibrant and exciting periods in UK queer culture look sort of dull, reducing its boundless invention to gelled lighting and a perfunctory ‘Blue Monday’ needle-drop.
This may all sound harsh given the film’s clearly good intentions, but the devil’s in the details, and there’s a terminal lack of specificity here. Oakley’s decision to never have Jean come into direct conflict with Section 28, only fear it, leaves the question of coming out to serve as the heroine’s ultimate struggle – will she be brave enough to be herself? Not only is this a tired approach, it’s not even one especially in need of a period setting. Jean’s is essentially an interior journey, one where history looms threateningly overhead but never seems to swoop.
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Published 9 Feb 2023
Tackling this moment on screen amid our present culture war is a worthwhile endeavour.
Well-intentioned but timid.
This subject matter demands a more uncompromising approach.
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