Marco in Netflix’s Glamorous represents an existential problem in queer culture

In this new show based in the world of beauty, we once again see the push for queer people to brand and sell themselves as empowering and influential, writes Patrick Sproull, rather than just exist

Miss Benny and Kim Cattrall as beauty collaborators in ‘Glamorous’ (Courtesy of Netflix)

At first glance, Marco Mejia, the lead of Netflix’s Glamorous, feels like the biggest star of 2018. Played by US singer Miss Benny, Marco is a fabulous make-up artist with a huge YouTube following – a platform that already feels passé for influencers. We’re introduced to him as he applies his daily “beat” and reels off Drag Race catchphrases. “We are going to snatch that crown together!” he cries, beaming from behind his ring light.

But Marco isn’t just a person – he’s a brand. Recently, I’ve spoken to a lot of other people in their twenties who feel insufficient because they don’t have clearly defined brands to progress their careers. It’s an extremely Gen Z existential problem that social media has encouraged us to fret over. Yet no such concerns are present in Glamorous because it’s Marco’s point of view as an influencer that ultimately kick-starts the series. Less than five minutes into episode one he winds up as the second assistant to beauty mogul Madolyn Addison (an understated Kim Cattrall) after impressing her with his make-up precision. It’s the precise Venn diagram overlap of The Devil Wears Prada, Emily in Paris and Ugly Betty, with a powdering of Succession’s boardroom politics.

So, what’s the problem? It’s that Glamorous is grimly reductive in its emphasis on the corporate side of queerness today. We have now reached the point, in queer representation in media, where a Netflix show features a scene showing the staff at fictitious global make-up brands sitting in boardrooms and workshopping their Pride campaigns. The rainbow capitalism side of Pride month has become so legitimised that it’s being regurgitated through fiction without a whiff of irony. It’s almost funny because so many young queer people – the real Marcos of the world – do not give much of a damn about the specifics of identity. They’re ambivalent about labels and more so about Pride month.

Marco is flamboyantly gay and, in many ways, it is refreshing to see a character like him lead a show like this, but there is a fundamental falseness to him. As a YouTuber, Marco dials up the Yass Queen Slay Gurl brand for his following, so that when we meet him, we don’t actually know who we’re meeting. Once again, we see this push for queer people to brand themselves and sell themselves as empowering and influential rather than just exist. It’s not a criticism of Marco’s confidence as a queer, gender non-conforming person, but the simple fact he’s introduced as a brand feels rather sad and reductive. His journey is one of self-discovery and Glamorous would have been better if it had found any other way to explore this instead of a literal brand collab between Marco and Glamorous by Madolyn.

The patron saint of queer people branding themselves as empowering also returned to the small screen today, in And Just Like That... – Che Diaz (Sara Ramírez) is back, baby, and not a single lesson has been learnt by the show’s creators. Che was reviled after the Sex and the City revival’s first season because of the show’s insistence that they were an unimpeachable gift to Carrie, Charlotte and especially Miranda’s world. Fans were crying out for Che to develop some of the human flaws, chicness and good humour of its original group of friends; instead, Che’s riveting character development in season two so far consists of Tony Danza-related identity politics and going on a diet.

A comedian trading in tired jokes about identity politics, Che sells their existence as revolutionary and believes that anyone questioning that has their own issues to address. What is especially bleak about Diaz is that they are, unlike Glamorous’s Marco, able to reach Sex and the City’s older audiences and offer rare trans representation. But by having Che be so deeply self-involved and a Brand, And Just Like That... is estranging everyone – both younger queer people who think Che is mortifyingly cringe and less familiar older viewers.

It speaks volumes that Ramírez, when recently profiled in The Cut, dismissed all criticisms of Che: “Anybody who benefits from patriarchy is going to have a problem with Che Diaz,” they said. Instead of taking the opportunity to consider viewers’ disconnect with Diaz, Ramírez doubled down, and audiences are continuing to be subjected to queer characters with all the subtlety and depth of a TikTok Pride #ad.