Sissies and Lovermen: In defence of Barrington from BBC’s Mr Loverman

Your Honour, Barry deserves a complex analysis!

The final episode of BBC’s Mr Loverman begins with a James Baldwin quote:

People pay more for what they do,

and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become.

And they pay for it very simply; by the lives they lead.

I believe this quote is the thesis statement of BBC’s Mr Loverman. It’s a reminder that we are all experiencing the consequences of the life we exist and participate in. It highlights how insidiously queerphobia has seeped into society, shaping decisions that should be deeply personal but are instead politicised.

Mr Loverman is based on Bernardine Evaristo’s 2013 book of the same name. The story centres around Barry, a charismatic and secretly gay Caribbean man in his 70s, living in London. Despite decades of marriage to his wife Carmel, Barry has maintained a secret romantic and sexual relationship with his childhood best friend, Morris. 

The story in the book and the show navigates the complexities of Barry’s double life, and shows the sacrifices and emotional toll of his secret. Carmel, too, wrestles with the pain and disappointment of a marriage built on secrets, while grappling with societal pressures to stay. Through these threads, the show tackles themes of queerness, homophobia, and the consequences of cultural and societal expectations.

From the moment I started watching, it was clear this show was something extraordinary. If I had any tears left to shed, I would have cried. Its subtle yet poignant storytelling tackles themes of identity, love, and societal constraints with remarkable nuance. The complexities of the characters and their choices are portrayed so well that I found myself compelled to write about it. I even finally picked up the book to compare notes, and to get a deeper understanding of how Evaristo tells this story. What began as journalling has turned into this article.

To fully engage with the themes of the show, spoilers are unavoidable, so consider this fair warning.

Problematising gay men entering heterosexual marriages

In my earlier piece on The Hot Wing King, I touched on the issue of gay men entering heterosexual marriages and how society often frames this problem. The dominant narrative tends to place the blame squarely on these men, accusing them of perpetuating patriarchal misogyny and sexism by marrying “unsuspecting” women instead of “being themselves” and “coming out.” This framing, however, misses the point entirely – because it isolates the men as the problem while ignoring the societal forces that create this dynamic.

The way we frame a problem shapes how we address it. In this case, the problem isn’t necessarily the gay men; it’s often the society they exist in. Mr Loverman reveals this reality through Barry, whose expressions of desire for men repeatedly lead to violence, threats, and near-fatal encounters throughout the show. In a world where his survival depends on conformity to heterosexuality, his decision to enter a heterosexual marriage isn’t surprising, but it is also not simply an act of deception; it’s a response to an oppressive system.

The show goes beyond Barry’s perspective to critique the institution of marriage itself, exposing how societal norms also trap women in unhappy relationships. For women like Carmel, leaving a marriage often means facing public shame and stigma. This is a reality that compels many to endure relationships that no longer serve them.

This theme emerges early in the show when the women from Carmel’s church gather at the home and discuss another character and her supposedly failed marriage. Their conversation is laced with judgement, shaming the woman for her inability to find and keep a husband, revealing the societal pressures placed on women to define their worth through marriage.

We see this expressed even more deeply in the book, as it sits more intentionally with Carmel’s perspective. We see her address the joys of being married and avoiding being labelled a “spinster.”

These societal norms function as a kind of invisible governance. We collectively produce and enforce “truths” that define acceptable behaviour, shaping how people self-regulate to conform. This dynamic allows authority figures to govern from a distance, relying on people to internalise these expectations without constant oversight. Those who deviate – in this case, gay men in heterosexual marriages or women leaving “failed” ones – are punished through marginalisation and social judgement.

This pressure to conform creates profound tensions, both internal and external. Gay men face an internal division as they struggle to reconcile their desires with societal expectations. Women, on the other hand, are often divided from their true needs by the external pressure to uphold appearances. These tensions are rooted in the privileging of heterosexual marriage as a natural, unassailable ideal, leaving little room for empathy or understanding for those who live outside its boundaries.

It’s unsurprising, then, that many people blame gay men for entering heterosexual marriages. The people that blame them are often spared the daily tensions these men endure, making it easy to dismiss their choices as selfish or cowardly. But this criticism ignores the deeper issue: societal norms that compel gay men to live lives that don’t accommodate their truths and force women to stay in relationships that deny them happiness.

The power of these norms lies in their subtlety. They aren’t always consciously enforced, but their inevitability feels so deeply ingrained that challenging them seems almost impossible. For those who exist outside these norms, like Barry, this creates a painful contradiction: living within society’s terms while yearning for a life it refuses to permit.

The original book highlights the sacrifices women often make to secure and maintain marriages within rigid social frameworks. This issue isn’t confined to partnerships with queer men, it’s a reality women face in relationships with supposedly heterosexual men too. Surely, we’re not naive enough to believe that women married to heterosexual men are somehow exempt from this reality. Countless stories prove otherwise. The notion of women being trapped in loveless marriages transcends the sexual orientation of their partners.

Perhaps then it’s time to reframe the conversation. The problem isn’t simply about queer men or heterosexual men, it’s about the societal conditions that create these dynamics. By focusing on the broader structures at play, we can better understand the pressures and constraints that perpetuate these struggles, regardless of who is involved.

Queer Un/Visibility

I believe the show does justice to the complexities I have discussed so far. However, a subtle theme I think many people could miss, and where I wish to provide some complexity, is the importance of unvisibility within queer diasporic consciousness.

What’s fascinating is that this theme feels almost incidental in the show, as though the creators themselves might not fully grasp its depth or know they are exploring it. Without recognising this layer, there’s a risk of flattening the queer experience, particularly for Black queer people whose lives are shaped by the intersections of queerness, race, and displacement.

The show’s portrayal of Barry could create the assumption that he is not living a life of authenticity or freedom. I think it perpetuates a common trope in contemporary LGBTQI+ media: the idea that “coming out” is inherently desirable and preferable, or even essential, and that Barry should ideally be “out and proud.” By invoking figures like Justin Fashanu (an addition that was not in the book) as models for Barry, it suggests that a more visible and ‘out’ form of queerness would make him more authentic. This was a peculiar choice given Fashanu’s tragic story.

Fashanu was a trailblazing English footballer and the first professional football player to come out as gay in 1990. He was the first Black player to have a £1 million transfer fee when he joined Nottingham Forest in 1981. However, his career was overshadowed by homophobia and racism. After coming out, Fashanu faced significant backlash from the football community, media, and even his own family. His life ended tragically in 1998 when he died by suicide at 37, leaving behind a legacy as a pioneer who broke barriers but paid a heavy personal price.

I believe Barry has already found a form of liberation in the unvisible. I came across Carla Moore’s thesis a few years ago, and in there, Moore distinguishes between invisibility and unvisibility within the Caribbean dancehall scene to explore how queer people navigate spaces that may be supposedly unwelcoming and hostile. Invisibility implies total lack of recognition or acknowledgement, whereas unvisibility allows for a sensed but not openly acknowledged presence.

This nuance is particularly important in understanding the experiences of gay men entering heterosexual marriages. Unvisibility allows these men to navigate the complexities of heterosexual marriage – spaces that may feel both obligatory and restrictive, and where direct expressions of their identities are suppressed. It allows them to be present and part of the space, yet their desires remain obscured, and are sometimes sensed but not fully seen. Unvisibility provides a means of coexisting in restrictive social spaces without complete erasure.

I don’t know if the show consciously recognises this idea of unvisibility in how Barry lives. Contrary to what I think many people might take away from the story, Barry is not constrained or living inauthentically. He experiences both romantic love and sexual fulfilment with a man, albeit outside his marriage.

In fact, Barry is arguably more open minded and free about his sexuality (albeit in private) than many “out and proud” queer people. He and Morris share one of the most enduring and committed relationships I’ve seen, spanning nearly six decades, with Barry even relocating from the Caribbean to be with Morris. His connection to queerness is profound, yet the vibe is that he must “come out” to be truly “brave.”

But what does Barry need to prove? He has not denied himself pleasure or expression; even his style and behaviours have a certain flair that resist strict masculine norms. He simply chooses to remain in a heterosexual marriage without aligning with mainstream queer identity labels.

Barry the sissy

And speaking of him not denying himself pleasure or expression, Barry exemplifies what Ross describes as a “sissy” in Sissy Insurgencies. A sissy is a man who defies conventional masculine expectations, often appearing effeminate or less traditionally masculine without necessarily identifying as homosexual. In African American, broader American, and Black cultures globally, sissies hold a unique place, embodying a gender expression that intersects with but does not define sexuality.

Roderick Ferguson, in his essay, Sissies at the Picnic, highlights the diversity of sissy expressions within Black communities, where they could range from flamboyant to more restrained but still gender-nonconforming. These men, despite their perceived eccentricity, were embraced by their communities, their queerness visible but relegated to realms of innuendo and gossip rather than overt acknowledgment.

Unlike explicitly defined LGBTQI+ ‘identities,’ sissiness does not involve organised social identity. Sissies, therefore, do not band together under a shared identity, and their sexuality often remains a matter of suspicion rather than certainty. While they may face ridicule or gossip, they typically avoid the harsher repercussions historically imposed on openly homosexuals. This allowed some homosexuals to blend into the sissy archetype, gaining a degree of social acceptance while avoiding direct penalties.

Barry embodies this sissy archetype. He is stylish and meticulous in his appearance, and subtly resistant to traditional masculine presentation. His queerness exists in a realm of unvisibility, where it is apparent to those attuned to it, like myself, but unspoken and undefined.

In the book, Barry’s queerness is addressed with striking clarity. The text directly confronts him as a “sissy,” particularly through vivid descriptions of his fashion and the careful attention Evaristo gives to these details. When Barry confides in another character about being queer, she admits she had always known, especially after spending time around queer people. She says to him, “You’re an old Caribbean queen, but don’t worry, most people won’t notice.”

The phrase “most people won’t notice” captures the idea of the unvisible. In fact, Barry himself did not notice he was a sissy. And it’s no surprise. His expressions of “camp” are so deeply ingrained in his performance of himself as a Caribbean man that they seem natural and unremarkable… because in those contexts, they often are. For Barry, and for many others unfamiliar with linking these traits to queerness, his behaviour doesn’t stand out. This other character, however, sees it differently, recognising those cues as queer based on her exposure to queer spaces.

Even Carmel reveals that Barry was the subject of whispers when they were younger. She says there were suspicions and signs that, in hindsight, seem obvious. Barry’s queerness isn’t absent, but it exists in plain sight, and obscured by societal norms and assumptions. This captures the tension between visibility and concealment that shapes Barry’s world, and explores queerness as something strongly both present and overlooked. This exposes how queerness can be hidden yet undeniable.

Mess, chaos and violence: complexities of unvisibility

Admittedly, Barry’s expression of queerness is chaotic, messy, and, at times, violent. He exists in a liminal space (a state of in-betweenness) where homophobic violence flourishes, and survival often takes the form of compromise, such as entering a seemingly heterosexual marriage. His choices are a testament to the pressures of living in a society hostile to queer existence.

This dynamic of survival is shared by Barry, Morris, and Carmel. All three are caught in the same liminal space and web of societal expectations, and navigating their lives within a deeply flawed system. Carmel’s own experiences and responses are equally shaped by this system, though I have not explored her history in depth here.

For some, survival in this liminal space involves performing homophobia, and projecting outward disdain for queerness, whether sincere or not. Barry avoided this particular performance. Instead, he chose to remain in a heterosexual marriage, a decision that profoundly shaped Carmel’s life. Carmel, however, bore the weight of homophobia in a different way. From the beginning of the series to its end, she participated in homophobic conversations and made homophobic comments after discovering Barry’s infidelity, calling it “disgusting business.” While her anger is understandable, it remains an expression of the same systemic prejudice.

People pay more for what they do

This brings us back to Baldwin’s poignant observation that we are paying for what we do by the lives we are leading. Barry’s choices are not absolved of consequence, nor is Carmel’s participation in the system that hurt her. Both are living within a structure that demands survival at great personal cost – a structure that exacts its toll on everyone, queer or not.

Some may interpret this article as me seeing Barry as a “good” man leading a “good” life. But that’s not the case. Barry is selfish, indulgent, and often inconsiderate, as shown in his treatment of both Carmel and Morris. His choices are not without consequence – for himself or for those around him. He cannot hold his partner’s hand in public, nor can he escape the pain of concealing the truth from Carmel for so long. This secrecy has damaged his relationship with his daughter, too. This, however, is not about Barry being a villain. Instead, his story shows a broader societal failure. We are all complicit in this and implicated by Barry’s choices.

Carmel is also shaped by her choices. At one point in the show (not in the book), she considered divorcing Barry but decided to stay. In the book, she had the affair, but leaving Barry was never an option. In fact, when Barry brought up divorce, all hell broke loose. Her decision in the show, like Barry’s decisions, brought its own costs. Their lives are entangled in ways that reveal how profoundly personal decisions are influenced by social structures.

The deeper issue here is not about Barry’s character but about the societal systems that constrain people like him and Carmel. Our dependence on marriage forces many women to remain in relationships they detest. A lack of social safety nets and welfare makes leaving nearly impossible while shame punishes those who seek freedom, whether gay or straight.

What I am arguing here is that Barry’s expression of queerness is not ideal, but it is valid. It is a survival strategy, shaped by a world hostile to queerness. To dismiss it as “wrong” or inferior is to ignore the systemic forces that constrain him. Those who celebrate being “out and proud” should reconsider any notion of superiority. Barry’s queerness may not look like theirs, but it is no less real.

Queerphobia is not someone else’s problem; it affects everyone. It is a systemic failure that shapes the world we all live in. Just because the legal and societal consequences of queerphobia may not apply to you doesn’t mean you’re untouched by its effects. The goal post of oppression is constantly shifting, and, as we say in Nigeria, “na everybody go chop breakfast.” Eventually, everyone faces its repercussions. Queerphobia is a collective problem rooted in a broken system. And until we confront it, we will all continue to live with the consequences.

I rest my case.