What Netflix’s ‘The Boyfriend’ gets wrong
At it's best, the show is an earnest, heartfelt portrayal of same-sex relationships in Japan—but unfortunately that doesn't tell the whole story
Words by Aki Camargo
This article contains mild spoilers.
In episode two of Netflix’s new reality show The Boyfriend, contestants Dai and Shun sit in the Green Room, exchanging cute platitudes. It’s a small moment with great significance: audiences get to witness the first flickers of romance ignite on Japan’s first same-sex reality dating show.
Dai, the 22-year-old “go-getter” of the show, tries to court the timid, avoidant Shun in the living room. Shun starts to warm up to Dai, inching closer to him on the sofa. As they lay next to each other, Shun flips through Dai’s phone. But he sees something he shouldn't: a photo album of Dai's explicit photos.
Shun immediately tosses Dai’s phone and looks away, laughing, but is clearly uncomfortable. The air turns tense, and cuts to Shun in a confessional, lamenting that his crush is a “playboy.” Dai, feeling defeated, apologizes for his actions.
But here is what stuck out: the scene turns to the show’s commentators, a group of five Japanese celebrities and comedians, who watch the reality show with the audience. After that tense interaction between Shun and Dai, the commentators echoed Shun’s disdain, saying it “must’ve been hard” for him to see Dai’s inappropriate photos.
As a gay Japanese person, it was the commentary more than the scene itself that I found painful to watch. The panelists were quick to judge Dai for his "scandalous" behavior, and went to Shun’s defense. Being judged by a group of mostly straight panelists about having nude photos feels reductive, and fuels the shame that many queer people grow up with around their sexual expression.
It’s one of many instances that took me out of The Boyfriend, Netflix’s self-proclaimed “groundbreaking” show that claims to portray a heartwarming portrait of gay sexuality in Japan. While the show is genuine and heartfelt, the fault lies in the panelists—mostly heterosexual commentators—whose uninformed comments and lack of political and social commentary fail to provide much-needed context about queer sexuality in Japan.
For those who have not seen the ads or cute recap videos or fancams on TikTok, here’s how the show works: seven contestants, all cis gay men from different ages, live in a beach house together to ultimately find love. The house serves as a romantic summer camp: the contestants make meals, and divide and conquer responsibilities, like working at a coffee truck in pairs, which function as an opportunity to get closer—platonically or otherwise.
To add more color to the sometimes-awkward interactions and simple storyline, the show is commentated on by a roundtable of celebrities—Japanese comedians, actors, and musicians—who all provide their own humorous comments on the boys’ interactions. The panelists include actors Megumi and Chiaki Horan, singer Thelma Aoyama, drag queen Durian Lollobrigida, and comedian Yoshimi Tokui. For long-time fans of Japanese television, this cast is a golden roundtable for reality TV.
And while these industry titans add a “jovial” and comedic twist to the show, many of them project heterosexual norms and expectations onto the contestants’ actions, and fail to dig into the nuances of queer sexuality and relationships.
We see this show up again in episode two, when contestant Kazuto makes a remark to cast mate Ryota about his past relationships. The two are sitting on a bench after a day of working at the coffee truck. Kazuto turns to him and says: “I wondered what the point of dating was if you can’t get married.”
Soon after, the show cuts to the panelists, who remark how “hard” it must have been for 27-year-old Kazuto, without delving deeper into the bigger issue at hand: same-sex marriage remains unconstitutional in Japan, a low-hanging fruit that was barely addressed.
Instead of talking about the utility of relationships in a country that bans marriage, or even the slow, but promising progress being made to crack open Japan’s archaic marriage laws, the panelists would go on talking about Kazuto and Ryota’s compatibility. Glossing over this moment, without discussing why Kazuto felt this shame, feels like a disservice to the viewers.
Take another example: In episode three, during a group dinner scene, Dai and Taehon had a bit of a debate over what it means to “live boldly and on your own.” Dai was referring to people’s reaction to the government’s response to COVID. He purported that responsibility to take care of oneself was borne in the hands of the individual.
Thirty-four-year-old Taehon was quick to retort, sensibly saying that the public should hold the government accountable for its fumbled COVID response, otherwise change will not happen.
The tension was quickly dissipated with other contestants chiming in. But then the show returned to the panelists for commentary, no one had addressed the subtext surrounding their argument.
While the topic was referring to the government’s COVID responses, this conversation could have been easily wrapped into Japan’s lackluster progress towards expanding LGBTQ rights.
Japan is known for its apathetic populace with youth particiaption in politics steadily declining. This aversion to politics, in my opinion, can be attributed to the lack of social and political progress in Japanese society including LGBTQ rights, which is largely gatekept by its aging and conservative electorate. Hearing Dai’s argument echoes this trend, and I wish there was a moment where the panelists probed that through further.
Even viewers caught on to this. Some Japanese fans on social media have cheered Taehon’s efforts for emphasizing the need for resistance to facilitate change. One user on X applauded Taehon’s analogy on the issue, when he said, “If you leave water on its own, it will eventually rot.”
Some may argue that the show is merely a reality "dating" show. What more can you expect?
But the production team and distributors behind The Boyfriend should know that reality shows carry weight. That’s because The Boyfriend comes at the heels of Terrace House, another popular Netflix-produced Japanese reality dating show that is structured the same as The Boyfriend.
Some describe the two shows as cut from the same cloth—fans also lauded Terrace House for its earnest, melodramatic take on relationships and connection.
The show became the subject of controversy after Hana Kimura, one female contestant on the final season died from suicide after intense online bullying and harassment. The teardown transpired after she was allegedly “forced” to slap one of the other contestants after a heated argument. The show had apologized for its actions, but never followed suit on why and how this transpired. And the commentators or producers did little to resuscitate the show’s negative portrayal of Kimura.
Reality shows don’t exist in a vacuum. To paraphrase a recently appointed presidential hopeful: our relationships exist in the context of all of which comes before us. As much as queer folks deserve to fall in and out of love in a beach house in rural Japan, audiences deserve to know what it’s like to be queer in Japan outside of it.
What would Dai and Shun’s relationship look like outside the Green Room? Would Kazuto be able to find love had he stayed in rural Japan? Why should Dai feel ashamed to have nudes on his phone? In a country that moves drastically slow on LGBTQ progress, what does that queer love actually look like in practice?
It’s up to the producers of the show and commentators to carry that weight.
Fortunately, there is one saving grace in the dias: the Drag Queen Durian Lollobrigida, who, for instance, defended Dai for having explicit photos on his phone, saying it is a common way for gay men to connect in this day in age.
But Durian’s commentary reminds me of the burden many marginalized folks have to carry in largely straight spaces: explaining queer culture and sexuality in a way that is palatable for the general (read: straight) public to digest.
This makes me wonder…who is this show for?
Yes, The Boyfriend’s tender portrayal of friendship and companionship should be celebrated by queer and straight people alike. And it can serve as a learning opportunity for straight audiences to understand that yes—queer people deserve to love each other openly.
And I am incredibly proud of seeing people who look like me and sound like me open up to each other so candidly about their coming out journeys, discuss their preferred pronouns, and swoon over some sexy go-go dancers at a gay club.
But projecting a heterosexual gaze onto queer romance glosses over the more complicated and politicized dimensions of being queer.
As excitement for this show builds, my hope, as a queer Japanese person, is for the show to include more Japanese queer voices on the panel. Japan does not lack in that front—I can think of a few already, like drag artist and radio personality Bourbonne or influencer Kemio—who can provide that much-needed context about queer life in Japan.
If The Boyfriend is intended to be rooted in “reality,” the producers and commentators need to address that. Its contestants deserve better, audiences deserve better. And so do queer people in Japan.
Published on July 30, 2024