It Feels Easy: How ‘Our Flag Means Death’ Creates Queer Comfort
By Turi Sioson
This discussion contains spoilers for Season 1 of Our Flag Means Death.
The first I heard of “the gay pirate show” came from Taika Waititi’s reposting of a tender fanedit. In it, Waititi and Rhys Darby were pirates, and they were seemingly very much in love. Waititi wrote in the caption, “I'm very proud of this romantic comedy we made. Very proud. It's not ‘bromantic,’ it's ROMANTIC.” My eyes instantly lit up. Pirates played by two of my favorite comedians and explicitly stated to be gay? Sounded like love at first sight to me.
What followed was a week-long hyperfixation before I had even made it to the third episode, which turned into a month-long binge of gay pirate TikToks, fanart, fanfiction, and media coverage. I made a Spotify playlist, intricately arranging 50-plus songs into a chronological musical story of the main couple’s relationship. I bought fanart prints to spread all over my walls.
Created by David Jenkins, Our Flag Means Death premiered March 3 on HBO Max and has already become a cultural phenomenon. Loosely based off the real lives of 18th century pirates Stede Bonnet (Darby) and Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard (Waititi), this period piece has smashed conventions of both the romantic comedy and queer representation in media.
As Stede, the self-proclaimed “Gentleman Pirate,” leaves his wife, children, and wealthy landowner lifestyle to become a pirate aboard his ship, the Revenge, we watch the bumbling captain and his nearly equally-as-bumbling crew stumble through a few “swashbuckling” (read: hardly swashbuckling) adventures before crossing paths with history’s most feared and well-known pirate, Blackbeard. After the captains’ meet-cute at the end of episode three, the season rushes forward with a focus on the development of Ed and Stede’s relationship, which complements the growth of the two as individuals as they influence and push each other into new emotional territory.
With a mix of sharp-witted comedy and heartfelt intimacy, Our Flag Means Death does more than simply remix history with humor — it creates an indulgent, complex, and real queer love story that queer people everywhere have latched onto. The show has become a word-of-mouth hit, continuing through its sixth week to top charts as the most in-demand new show over the likes of Disney+’s Moon Knight and Apple TV’s Severance, according to Parrot Analytics.
Across social media, fans are making art, edits, theories, and cosplays, joking that the show has given them such “brainrot” that they can no longer function normally in the world. The show’s cast and crew have even joined in, embracing fan content and participating in the fervor with their own cosplays, recipes, and interactions with fans. And though fans, cast, and crew were at first unsure about whether or not the show would be prematurely canceled, HBO Max finally announced at the beginning of this year’s Pride Month that Our Flag Means Death has officially been renewed for a second season, no doubt thanks to the enthusiasm that has only picked up steam since the show’s release.
But what’s behind this all-consuming obsession with some silly little gay pirates?
Though I knew Ed and Stede’s relationship would be canon before I even watched the trailer, I was not expecting the specifically queer comfort their love story — and the entirety of Our Flag Means Death — would bring. And I certainly did not expect the ease and joy by which the writers, directors, and cast of the show would do so. Judging by the intense positive reactions from viewers and pleads from skeptical inquirers for confirmation of the characters’ canonical queerness, it seems I wasn’t the only one pleasantly surprised by the show’s representation. After years of fandoms being teased and disappointed with queerbaiting in shows like BBC’s Sherlock, CBS’s Supergirl, and The CW’s Supernatural, it seemed only natural to assume that any love or affection Ed and Stede appeared to have for each other would ultimately end the same.
But Our Flag Means Death busts this media trope, instead openly and unapologetically letting not only the co-captains’ relationship naturally blossom from mutual respect and fascination into recognized and confessed love (they kiss!) but prominently featuring a number of canonically queer characters without ever actually saying, “They’re queer.”
There’s Jim (Vico Ortiz), the sharp-tongued non-binary pirate whose they/them pronouns are adopted without question or even remark by the crew, and Oluwande (Samson Kayo), the grounded and logical one, who openly crush on each other until finally getting together in the season finale. We watch Lucius (Nathan Foad), the anxious and witty scribe, and Black Pete (Matthew Maher), the initially gruff and macho “manly man,” go from casually hooking up to cuddling and calling each other “babe.” Even Blackbeard’s right-hand man, Izzy Hands (Con O'Neill), has something gay going on, seemingly in love with his boss, suppressed and maybe dealing with a little (or a lot) of internalized homophobia, as he gets increasingly agitated by the crew’s openness with and acceptance of one another.
Instead of defining their queer characters by their queerness, Our Flag Means Death leaves ample room for them to be real people beyond whoever they happen to be in love with. “The fact that they happen to be the same sex, it’s not incidental, but it was very concious on my part, to not make it the focus of the show,” Jenkins shared with Los Angeles Times when asked about Ed and Stede’s romance. Where much of the canonically queer media today makes central to their stories the fact that their characters are queer and having to deal with the struggles that come along with that, Our Flag Means Death manages to centralize queer love without making its story about their characters being “different.”
For queer people, being able to see their identities represented on-screen is one thing, but it’s entirely another for this representation to be treated with such care and consideration. It’s not like homophobia doesn’t exist in this fictional 1717 world where many historical liberties have already been taken. Izzy consistently calls Ed or Stede a “namby-pamby” and implies that Ed is not a real man for being emotionally open. Some of Stede’s trauma comes from being bullied as a child for liking to read and pick flowers — it’s just that these experiences serve to create well-rounded, complex characters without sending the message to queer people that their lives are imbued with pain as a result of their identities.
As a queer person, this is not only refreshing but relieving and exciting to see in a show so well-made. While its tasteful, witty, and well-acted comedy is certainly at the forefront of Our Flag Means Death, Darby, Taika, and the rest of the cast spend just as much time balancing this delicious humor with intimate, hard-hitting moments.
Within the first episode, we see the members of the Revenge grapple with expression and masculinity as they participate in “women’s work,” each sewing a flag for the ship. The scene elicits giggles and laughs, but underneath is a clear first indication that Our Flag Means Death is more than just a funny pirate show.
As the season unravels, more questions of manhood, identity, trauma, and love are considered, often in between some of the most ridiculous moments. But instead of rushing through these hard scenes to get back to the funny bits, Our Flag Means Death doesn’t shy away from the hurt or softer moments. In fact, it leans into them for extended periods of time, allowing characters and viewers to experience the emotion, turn it over in their hands, and process it.
Even in the worst moments of the season’s finale, the balance between humor and sweet moments gives Our Flag Means Death a quality of comfort — pain is allowed in, it is generously explored, but the show does not wallow in it. In “breakup episode” eight, I think we all felt a little torn up over Ed leaving the Revenge with his old buddy Calico Jack (Will Arnett), feeling that his real personality was one too dark and destructive for Stede. But after a few breakup jokes and Ed’s revelation that he would be abandoning Stede to die at British hands, we get the, “You came back,” “Never left” scene, shoe touch and all. It's a wonderfully sweet moment — even as the co-captains and crew are being invaded and tied up — that easily melts away the brief but no less painful breakup.
In episode 10, as Ed returns to his persona as the Kraken, convinced that he is not worthy of “fine things” and broken by Stede not meeting him at the dock, we are left with the hope (and dare I say promise) that their love story will not end in tragedy. Stede smiles as he rows out to sea alone, finally recognizing his love for Ed, and Cat Stevens’ “Miles From Nowhere” is just a tad too upbeat to feel completely dejected.
Unlike so many queer-coded, queerbaited, and disaster-ending queer stories, Our Flag Means Death spends its first 10 episodes constantly showing us that pain does not equal ultimate tragedy; that the bad does not erase the good.
Devastated as I was by all three of the crew’s couples being separated in the season finale, I was grinning stupidly through my tears. Strong as my desire was — and still is — for a second season to be released as soon as humanly possible, Our Flag Means Death left me content, satisfied with the story that has so far been told.
In a show where queer people are central to their stories not because of their gender or sexual identities but because of who they are as whole people, I felt the strongest sense of community I have ever experienced from a piece of media. It felt like my strong-headed, awkward, queer self would thrive, like my goofy friends would fit right in, like all the people who love and accept me without question would be right there too.
This ridiculous, historically inaccurate, incredibly queer show has blown me away; I am beyond invested in the story. Every little interaction of eye contact or casual touch or soft smiles, every queer recognition has me feeling like that soft, unapologetic, real version of myself, the one I scarcely feel free to fully be because it includes my queerness.
Our Flag Means Death makes us laugh; it makes us all want to be silly, “piss-poor” pirates and run off to be whoever we want with the people we love. But it also soothes our fears and satiates our wildest desires for media, giving us everything we could want and more.
Even without its second season yet released, Our Flag Means Death gives queer audiences the comfort we’ve been looking for. ♦