(Note: This post will only refer to the first three seasons of American Horror Story -- partially because the fourth season is still running, but mainly because I’m boycotting it due to its increasing similarity to “Glee.”)
The first time I watched an episode of “American Horror Story,” I was tricked into it. After 50 minutes of confusion, eye-rolling, and general disdain, I swore I would never watch another episode. My confusion turned to curiosity and I couldn’t help but look up the plot of the first two seasons. Needless to say, I was still confused, possibly more so -- AHS plots aren’t easily summed up (or readily understandable in general). Finally, on the basis of a recommendation from people whose judgment I trust, I decided to take the plunge and give the show a try. I was very quickly obsessed with it, and I was pleased to find that queer characters were more than visible -- not that much of a surprise, given that one of the show’s creators, Ryan Murphy, is an out gay man.
The gay couple in Murder House (Season 1) are my favorite AHS queer characters. Yes, they are ghosts. Yes, they bicker through 95% of their screen time. But what I love more than anything about Chad and Patrick (played by Zachary Quinto and Teddy Sears) is that they are never really presented as an “other,” instead having lives that cunningly mirror those of the heterosexual couple at the center of the story, Vivien and Ben Harmon. Both couples buy the same 1920s-era mansion in L.A., hoping to stabilize their relationships (possibly with a baby), both have an unfaithful member, both struggle to sell the house that has cost them all their money, and they all die in the house (something that the majority of the season’s characters have in common). In the one episode in which Chad and Patrick are treated as “other,” it’s done in such a ridiculous way that it’s obvious that it is a joke. After revealing their plan to steal Vivien’s as-yet-unborn twins, it becomes the goal of a few of the other characters to keep “the gays” from getting the babies. During the failed attempt to eject their spirits from the house, Patrick reveals the true heartbreak of his situation. He had fallen in love with someone else and was planning to leave behind his failing relationship before he was married, but now he will forever be stuck in the house with Chad. Nothing more instantly humanizes a character, especially after they’ve spent an episode being referred to as one of “the gays,” than pure, raw heartbreak.
In the show’s second season, Asylum, queer characters aren’t just visible -- the character who leads us through the story, Lana Winters (played by the fantastic Sarah Paulson), is a lesbian. Unlike Chad and Patrick, whose orientations were mainly incidental, Lana’s queerness is a major part of her storyline. Because most of the story takes place in 1964, her orientation is used as an excuse for her institutionalization and blackmail for her partner, who signs a document releasing Lana to the care of the nuns running Briarcliff Manor. During her time as a patient, she agrees to participate in aversion-conversion therapy in a hapless attempt to be “cured” and secure her freedom. One of the main things I appreciate about “American Horror Story,” especially in the second season, is that it holds us accountable for our society’s past wrongs. In addition to the general failures we’ve made through history in the care of individuals with mental illnesses or disabilities, Asylum also requires that we consider the harm that treating non-heterosexual orientations as mental illnesses has caused -- and, unfortunately, continues to cause. At a later point in the season, it is revealed that Lana referred to her partner as her “roommate” in her memoir because “that part of [her] life wasn’t pertinent to the book,” but it’s obvious that, due to her growing desire for fame, she had to leave this out to ensure the book would reach the widest audience possible. However, when we see her filming the interview for her Kennedy Center Honors in her sixties, it is clear that both her orientation -- and her current partner -- are widely known.
My main disappointment with AHS is the complete lack of a definitely-queer character in the show’s third season, Coven. This season, which takes place in a house filled with anywhere from 6 to 9 women and involves their interactions with another group of women, seemed to be the perfect environment for a few queer characters. The closest we get to queerness being represented on-screen is the allusion to a threesome (and continued polyamorous activity) between two of the young women and a young man, but it seems more like the girls aren’t actually bisexual -- rather tolerating another girl with them in bed just so they can each have sex with the guy. In my mind, Misty Day (played by Lily Rabe), the swamp-dwelling, Stevie Nicks-obsessed witch with the ability to bring people and animals back from the dead, is queer. This assumption is based mostly on my own attraction to her, the fact that she is the only character who never expresses a romantic or sexual attraction to anyone else, and her Stevie Nicks fixation/idolization.
Overall, American Horror Story does a notable job of including queer characters, even though there isn’t a single same-sex sex scene amongst the multiple heterosexual sex scenes (a complaint that exists across multiple forms of media). More than queer representation, AHS goes further and uses its platform and content to confront both historical and current anti-queer ideas -- an achievement for a series dedicated to horror.
