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ICS0010.1177/1367877916631050International Journal of Cultural StudiesBrennan

International Journal of Cultural Studies

2018, Vol. 21(2) 189­–206
© The Author(s) 2016
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DOI: 10.1177/1367877916631050
https://doi.org/10.1177/1367877916631050
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Article
Queerbaiting: The ‘playful’
possibilities of homoeroticism

Joseph Brennan
University of Sydney, Australia

Abstract
This article explores the concept of ‘queerbaiting’, a term employed by media fans to criticise
homoerotic suggestiveness in contemporary television when this suggestiveness is not actualised
in the program narrative. I confront the negative connotations of the term and point to the
agency of audiences, using the practices of ‘slash fans’ within the Merlin fandom as my case study.
I trace definitions of queerbaiting in recent scholarly work and suggest comparison with another
term, ‘hoyay’, which has more positive connotations. My central argument is that as this concept
begins its inevitable permeation into academic work, worth considering are the queer readings
that ‘queerbaiting’ in fact make possible, even plausible, which is an understanding of the term that
is in line with the ‘poaching’ and ‘playful’ spirit of media fandom.

Keywords
hoyay, Merlin, queer reading, queerbaiting, slash, television

‘Queerbaiting’ is a fan-conceived term that describes a tactic whereby media producers

suggest homoerotic subtext between characters in popular television that is never
intended to be actualised on screen. It has decidedly negative connotations and has
attained a degree of cultural currency in the popular sphere, the pervasiveness of which
makes scholarly consideration important. Yet exploration of the term in academic con-
texts is only beginning, Fathallah (2015) and Nordin (2015) being key examples. This
article traces the term in recent scholarly work, nuancing definition of the practice and its
‘implications’. I expand existing discussions on the subject by suggesting productive

Corresponding author:
Joseph Brennan, Department of Media and Communications, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University
of Sydney, Sydney, NSW 2006, Australia.
Email: joseph.brennan@sydney.edu.au
190 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

connections with another fan term that describes similar phenomena, but which has posi-
tive connotations, known as ‘hoyay!’ Promoted is a shift of focus away from ‘harm’
discourses so as to examine the utility to media fans of the phenomenon the ‘queerbait-
ing’ term describes. To achieve this I situate queerbaiting in the context of the practices
of a subculture of media fans known as ‘slash fans’, who homoeroticise the bonds of
ostensibly heterosexual male media characters, and in particular works inspired by BBC
Merlin (2008–12) – an Arthurian drama frequently criticised for queerbaiting its audi-
ence that has not yet been considered in the context of the queerbaiting debate. Within
this case study I select for analysis less familiar pairings (the knights of Camelot) so as
to illustrate the wider reach of queer potential within the series and, more discursively,
the versatility of ‘seeing queerly’.
As both hoyay and queerbaiting rely on the question of actuality, or whether the
homoerotic is ‘really’ present, a connection between queerbaiting and the ‘queering’
practices of slash fans supports my argument that, rather than being conceptualised in
terms of the ‘representational harm’ caused by queerbait tactics, we should instead con-
sider the queer readings made possible by homosexual subtext. While arguments about
the implications of the phenomenon are acknowledged (for example, for the lived identi-
ties of minority sexualities and within the context of the ‘pink dollar’), my central argu-
ment remains that as this concept begins inevitably to permeate into academic work,
worth considering are the queer readings that ‘queerbaiting’ in fact makes possible, even
plausible, which is an understanding of the term that is in line with the ‘poaching’
(Jenkins, 1992) spirit of media fandom.

‘Queerbaiting’: existing definitions

Judith Fathallah (2015: 491) defines ‘queerbaiting’ as:

a strategy by which writers and networks attempt to gain the attention of queer viewers via
hints, jokes, gestures, and symbolism suggesting a queer relationship between two characters,
and then emphatically denying and laughing off the possibility. Denial and mockery reinstate a
heteronormative narrative that poses no danger of offending mainstream viewers at the expense
of queer eyes.

She considers the tactic in the context of cult series BBC Sherlock (2010–present), using
it to explore heteronormative conservatism in the text. Emma Nordin (2015) explores the
etymology of the term, and her study provides an excellent introduction for the scholarly
consideration of queerbaiting.
Nordin seeks to trace the term’s genesis and consider the role of hermeneutics in its
understanding. She conceives of the term as a ‘form of queer activism’ (2015: 10), argu-
ing that to name certain occurrences of homoeroticism in texts as ‘queerbaiting’ is to
distinguish such a tactic as exploitative (2015: 58). For in the eyes of media fans who
employ the term, queerbaiting ‘is defined as teasing and denying, robbing people of rep-
resentation and space, an expression of homophobia and exploitation, and reproduction
of heterosexism’ (2015: 63) In seeking to define the term, Nordin employs an ‘ethnogra-
phy of discourse’ (2015: 8; also see Fiske, 1987: 63) so as to trace its origins on internet
Brennan 191

communities in chat rooms, fan forums and blogs. She also briefly considers use of the
term in the pre-internet age (2015: 4), where it was used to describe a number of homo-
phobic practices, in legal (see Goldyn, 1981) and McCarthy-era political (see Hubbs,
2009) contexts in particular.
Nordin’s discursive approach is grounded in the belief that the term is historically
situated. The assumption being that ‘we live in a time and place where queer representa-
tion is possible yet constantly denied’ (2015: 63) Therefore, Nordin concludes that
queerbaiting is ‘a crime in the light of history and always wrong no matter the circum-
stances’ (2015: 63). This is a view shared by Cassidy Sheehan (2015) who aligns queer-
baiting with ‘the invalidation of queer identities’ and argues that ‘even if writers have
good intentions, queer-baiting is harmful to members of the queer community’. In this
present article I wish to consider this point of harm more closely, and will begin by tak-
ing a cue from Nordin and considering the term’s broader history, related terms, and what
the practice means for ‘slash fans,’ a vocal subculture of the fan community that, by her
own admission, she does not ‘spend too much time on’ (2015: 46).

Queerbaiting as (representational) abuse

Nordin’s work begins the process of positioning ‘queerbaiting’ in a broader cultural con-
text, citing two examples: legal and political. However it is worthwhile to venture even
further, particularly in understanding the decidedly negative connotations of the term. As
Nordin notes, in the pre-internet age (or beyond televisual representations) the term is most
commonly aligned with a form of verbal abuse, namely accusations of homosexuality. In
making sense of the ‘queerbaiting’ of Democratic candidate John Kerry during the 2004
US presidential campaign, W.C. Harris draws on the work of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick
(1990: 185) on male ‘homosexual panic’ to argue that ‘the incessant potential for slippage
between the homoerotic and the homosocial in male–male bonds – seems to require the
queer baiting of others’ (Harris, 2006: 285). Queerbaiting, in this usage, is a form of derog-
atory labelling, that ‘serves to keep all men in line, defining what proper masculinity is for
us’ (Kinsman, 2004: 167). Or, as Donna Haraway observes in the actions of adolescent
boys, queerbaiting serves as performance of ‘a required lesson in the compulsory hetero-
sexuality’ of boy culture (1992: 69; also see Pascoe, 2005, who explores ‘fag discourse’
among boys). In the words of an observer, in this case Paul Monette, who recounts the
experience of witnessing queerbaiting of a student during his high school days: ‘sick with
confused desire, the carnal thrill of degradation. The only reality lesson in it for me was not
to be recognizably Other’ (1992: 35–6).
Common to the above accounts is the function of queerbaiting in masculine identity
formation, or such insults as a warning of how not to be. What is interesting about this is
that, by this definition, the queer is seen to intrude on the normal, and the identification of
such intrusion by the perpetrator – the one who queerbaits – is used as a means of regulat-
ing and degrading the behaviour of the person being ‘baited’. The implication is that any
suggestion of queerness – be it in mannerism, physique, athleticism, etc. – is labelled as
shameful. It is worth noting that in deriding homoeroticism in mainstream texts via the
term ‘queerbaiting’, those who use the term seem to be enacting a similar ‘required lesson’
logic, whereby any hint of fluidity and suggestiveness is debased, and only actualisation
192 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

(or obviousness) is acceptable. This gestures to a certain ‘identity politics’ bound up in the
term’s usage by media fans, which has come to be defined as the ‘queer dilemma’ by
scholars such as Joshua Gamson (1995) and is suggested by Nordin’s definition of the
term as a form of queer activism. This seems to me to be a key problem with the criticism
of ‘queerbaiting’ as a textual tactic in mainstream television (and film), particularly given
earlier fan terms such as ‘hoyay’, which carries more positive connotations, despite
describing similar phenomena in mainstream texts. The negative associations of queer-
baiting are also problematic in light of the ‘queering’ strategies of slash fans.
It is worth acknowledging here the work of scholars who argue against slash as akin
to queering (see MacDonald, 2006; Weinstein, 2006). Most recently, my own analysis of
the discourse of anonymous commenters (known as ‘nonnies’) on slash forums sought to
expose ‘the ways in which online fandom has acted to ridicule, homogenise and even
regulate the fannish potential to resist dominant ideologies and cultural mores’ (2014a:
376). However, in the above research what I in fact sought to show is potential for repre-
sentational ‘harm’ on the part of audiences as well as producers, calling for a tempering
of the unbridled celebration of online fandom. For the purpose of my argument in this
present article, I wish to explore how, for many slash fans, any suggestiveness in main-
stream texts often serves as fodder for queer, artistic works (as will be shown later via
example), and in fact helps define a series as ‘slashable’, as is the case with the BBC’s
Merlin.

Merlin, hoyay and other terms by which homoeroticism is

defined
Scholarship on the ‘queerbaiting’ tactic has focused primarily on the BBC’s Sherlock
(Fathallah, 2015; Sheehan, 2015). I will examine another BBC series frequently named
as employing queerbait tactics: Merlin. Merlin is an adaptation for television of the
Arthurian legend. It has attained ‘cult text’ (see Hills, 2004) status due largely to the fan
followings it has inspired, in particular its popularity among slash fans (see Brennan,
2013). Its fifth and final season culminated in December 2012 with the inevitable death
of King Arthur in the arms of his manservant, Merlin. Slash fans would argue that
Arthur’s death brought to an end a homoerotic relationship that was visible from the
programme’s pilot episode. By the programme’s conclusion this relationship had edged
closer to the homosexual end of a homosocial–homosexual desire spectrum.
The homosexual potential of Merlin and Arthur’s story is something slash fans were
quick to recognise. Sibylle Machat (2012) examines Merlin fanfic trailers – video
remixes or ‘vids’ – in her chapter, which explores how fans of the series remix the on-
screen relationship of protagonists Merlin and Arthur. While during question time at the
first Merlin cast appearance at the London MCM Expo in October 2008 – just one
month after the show’s pilot first aired – a fan asked Colin Morgan and Bradley James,
who portray Merlin and Arthur, if Merlin is ‘meant to be a love story between Arthur
and Merlin?’ James nods in jest. Series co-producer Johnny Capps then interjects,
‘Merlin is about a friendship between Merlin and Arthur, which goes very deep. And
they do care for each other hugely, but […] it isn’t a gay love story, no.’ ‘These epic
Brennan 193

tales,’ he later comments, ‘there is a certain homoeroticism to them, these are men fight-
ing with swords who do desperate things.’1
Capps erects distinctions here between homosocial, homoerotic and homosexual,
positioning his series resolutely in the first category, while acknowledging the potential
for the second. He configures the three descriptors as distinct and separate; however the
boundaries between these terms are not so stable. To borrow Sedgwick’s (1985, 1990)
argument for a continuum between homosocial and homosexual, homoeroticism (like
ambiguous sexuality) exists somewhere in the middle of the continuum, with a near
equal number of homosocial and homosexual cues. Gay commentator and young adult
author Brent Hartinger, writing in AfterElton.com, categorises Merlin in the homoerotic,
or ‘hoyay’, tradition; although he does not seem to entertain any bleed between homo-
social and homosexual desire.2
Writing in the context of queer spectatorship of the central characters of Clark Kent
and Lex Luthor in Smallville (2001–11), Melanie E.S. Kohnen (2008: 210) examines ‘a
viewing culture that fans describe as “HoYay!”’ Kohnen traces the term’s origin to 2001
and the website Television Without Pity, and defines it as ‘the strong, or as most fans put
it, undeniable, homoerotic aspect of the relationship’ between central male characters in
certain texts, such as Smallville, and more recently Supernatural (2005–present), Merlin
and Sherlock (2008: 210–11). She makes the point that the empathic phrase, short for
‘homoeroticism, yay!’, describes a process of viewing that swiftly evolves from being a
descriptive device used to chart ‘longing looks and touches’ to become a ‘desired way of
seeing, a spectatorial position actively sought out’ by likeminded fans (2008: 211).
Consideration of the term ‘hoyay’ – and what Kohnen describes as ‘seeing queerly’
(2008: 212) – in the context of Merlin is productive given the number of parallels between
Smallville and Merlin, the former of which served as principal inspiration for the latter
(Brennan, 2015a: 39). Further, such conceptualisation of the active viewing process
behind the term encourages reconsideration of ‘queerbaiting’ and the more recent shift
toward a ‘harm’ view of texts that employ it, such as Merlin. These texts, producer inten-
tionality aside, invite viewers to see queerly.
It is useful at this point to remember why it is that we, as media and cultural studies
scholars, study popular media, and that due acknowledgement should be given to the
agency of audiences. Within cultural studies, the concept of an ‘active audience’ gained
currency when theorists (see Ang, 1985; Fiske, 1987; Fiske and Hartley, 1978; Hall, 1981;
Morley, 1980; Radway, 1984) began recognising the potential for audiences of mass
media texts to resist dominant ideologies, precisely because reading is active (see Hartley,
1999). In contemporary cultural studies, scholars insist on ‘the importance of popular
culture for the formation of (and the analysis of the formation of) social subjectivity’
(Bérubé, 2004: 6). As Michael Bérubé argues, cultural studies scholars should analyse
popular culture so as ‘to understand – and to discriminate among – the varieties of evalu-
ative mechanisms by which people actually participate in (or refuse to participate in)
popular culture’ (2004: 7; also see Bourdieu, 1984; Smith, 1991).
In particular, I wish to recognise the ability of audiences to engage with dominant
ideologies without necessarily reproducing structures of domination. To be mindful that
‘audiences are not made up of cultural dopes’, and that:
194 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

people are often quite aware of their own implication in structures of power and domination,
and of the ways in which cultural messages (can) manipulate them. (Grossberg, 1992: 53)

However, despite a changing view of audiences and their critical awareness of the ide-
ologies of texts, certain accounts seem to continue to label audiences as vulnerable, par-
ticularly in the popular sphere, with pieces such as ‘Supernatural has a queerbaiting
problem that needs to stop’ (Gennis, 2014) in the mainstream press, and ‘How do we
solve a problem like “queerbaiting”?’ (Bridges, 2013) in the gay press, both of which
clearly situate the phenomenon as a problem to be solved. It is therefore productive to
recognise that similar ‘tactics’, described by terms such as ‘hoyay’, were once seen
rather differently, which can be seen as an extension of Nordin’s description of the queer-
baiting concept as ‘historically situated’ (2015: 63).
In tracing the origins of the term, Hartinger describes hoyay as ‘projection or “wishful
thinking”’ and differentiates it from ‘actual gay subtext’ (emphasis in original).3 He also
directs readers to a 2009 piece by Madeleine Mitchell titled ‘Does Merlin have a gay sub-
text? (Or are some people reading too much into it?)’4 In her article, Mitchell defines the
practice as resting with the viewer, as ‘a highly subjective phenomenon’ that leaves fans
debating ‘whether the HoYay is even there’:

It’s what happens when a fan perceives the possibility of homoerotic subtext in his or her
fandom of choice. It can be as flagrant as two scantily clad women rolling around in the surf
together, or as fleeting as a ‘gay look.’5

In her account, drawing on Merlin as her central case study, Mitchell injects a sense of
‘play’ into the process of ‘seeing queerly’. (See Meyer and Tucker [2007], who propose
‘play’ as an alternative to Jenkins’s [1992] earlier ‘textual poaching’ concept.) For exam-
ple, she interprets I.10 (abbreviated season and episode number) as a storyline ‘wherein
Merlin brings Arthur home to meet his mother and ex-boyfriend’. The spirit of her piece,
though written only a few years before the uptake of the more recent ‘queerbait’ concept,
seems far removed from the terms (‘harmful’ and ‘problematic’) employed in discussing
queerbaiting. As Mitchell states simply: ‘See how fun spotting the HoYay can be?’6 In
short, hoyay is, as Louisa Ellen Stein describes it, ‘a fan term celebrating homoerotic
subtext’ (2005: 14). Returning to Kohnen (2008) and her reading of hoyay between the
characters of Clark and Lex in the Smallville fandom, in the hoyay tradition fans ‘correct’
the traditional heteronormative narrative of the series to account for their own queer read-
ings (Meyer and Wood, 2013: 439). Explaining the significance of such readings from the
perspective of audience analysis, Michaela D.E. Meyer argues that those who see queerly
view themselves as more enlightened than regular viewers (2013: 483), while remaining
vigilant about the possibility that ‘the entertainment industry is capitalizing on [their]
resistance’ (2013: 490), with television producers both acknowledging queer readings,
while also labelling such readings as a ‘“crazy” interpretation’ (2013: 490).
A bridge between the two terms emerges in Meyer’s observation here. In that, it would
seem that an awareness of corporate potential to exploit audiences in some ways under-
pins criticism of queerbaiting. Namely, the ways in which the culture industries may seek
to capture the ‘pink dollar’ (see Toby Miller’s [2005] short essay, for example), and an
Brennan 195

increased audience share without delivering actual minority representations. However,

we should also be aware of how such criticism reshapes the audience/producer relation-
ship and, in particular, what implications this has for the perceived agency of the reading
practices of media fans – not only in being able to identify (and define what constitutes)
actual subtext, but also in being able to enjoy the process, to engage in play with the
mainstream text, and not be harmed by it. Given existing definitions of hoyay and queer-
baiting, both which seem to rely on the question of actuality, or whether the homoerotic
is really present, I would like to consider ‘the actual’ more closely.

Hoyay vs actual gay subtext: a historically situated

distinction
My recent queer readings of Lancelot (2015a) and Mordred (2015b) as they appear in
Merlin lend legitimacy to fan readings of the series as full of homoerotic potential. As I
argue, such readings should be considered in light of the value of queer theory in mak-
ing sense of ‘peculiar’ depictions of male same-sex relations in texts of, or set in, the
Middle Ages (Brennan, 2015a: 38). Determining whether readings of homoeroticism
‘are suggested and supported by the text itself’, or in fact an ‘oppositional resistance to
a heterosexual’ norm (as Tosenberger [2008] explores with regard to incestuous read-
ings in Supernatural)7 speaks to a key caveat employed in the definition of terms such
as ‘hoyay’, namely ‘the actual’.
Michael Hatt (1993) considers the role of ‘the actual’, or, as he terms it, ‘the vali-
dated’, in his examination of the gaze in Thomas Eakins’s 1884–5 The Swimming Hole,
which depicts six male nudes in a single water setting. Hatt argues that homoeroticism
only ever implies homosexuality and therefore should be defined as the articulation of a
desire that cannot be validated and that has little to do with manifest homosexual desire.
His definition is more like the distinction many make between homosocial and homo-
sexual bonds, whereby homoeroticism is positioned at the homosocial end of Sedgwick’s
continuum, while perhaps edging toward ambiguous sexuality. The implications of
Hatt’s argument are explained by Anna Smol (2004) in her study of homoeroticism in
The Lord of the Rings, both J.R.R. Tolkien’s text and Peter Jackson’s cinematic version
(2001–3).
Smol describes a tendency for the border between the homosocial and the homosexual
to be ‘clearly demarcated and policed’, which suggests a homosocial/homosexual binary.
Merlin co-producer Capps, whom I quoted earlier, seems keen on making clear this bor-
der between the homosocial and the homosexual in his series; a move that ignores the
grey area between the terms where eroticism resides. Smol does also note a tendency for
‘slash texts’ to retain the same border, only ‘on the other side, the homosexual end of the
continuum’ (2004: 974), which points to the ‘oppositional resistance’ by which the prac-
tice is often defined (see Rambukkana, 2007, for an example of a ‘slash-as-resistance’
account). I avoid such a stance, favouring Sedgwick’s notion of a continuum, and posi-
tioning homoeroticism between poles of homosocial and homosexual, or suggestion and
actualisation/validation. Further, it is worth noting with respect to my case study, that
whether latent or manifest in the series, that is, whether Merlin is homosocial or homo-
sexual or somewhere in between, the literature from which it beckons is rich in
196 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

homosexual text and subtext (see Brennan, 2015a: 21–2). This ‘homoerotic tradition’
(see Burger and Kruger, 2001; Zeikowitz, 2003) is particularly pronounced among
Arthur and his knights, which will form the basis of my study in the second half of this
article. My focus on the knights of Camelot is also a gesture that moves us away from the
series’ central slash pairing, Merlin and Arthur. I do so to explore less familiar pairings
so as to illustrate the wider reach of queer potential within the series, and the versatility
of the seeing queerly concept.
Considered first is how the series can be read as queer (or how it ‘queerbaits’), fol-
lowed by how such a reading translates into productive action, namely the creation of
slash fan works. What this means for the term ‘queerbaiting’ is a challenge to the points
at which it opposes other terms such as hoyay, disrupting binaries such as hoyay/queer-
baiting, positive/negative, fan-/producer-produced. In existing definitions, one term is
positioned resolutely as in the mind of the fan (hoyay), one in the mind of the producer
(queerbaiting), and, as such: one transformative, the other exploitative. My aim is to
disrupt this logic. I propose that perhaps the same celebration, or to use Mitchell’s phrase,
‘gleeful cry’, should be associated with all queer gestures in mainstream texts, and the
textual subterfuges these gestures invite. Such a conclusion is more in line with the views
of scholars such as Henry Jenkins (2006), who argues that networked computing has
resulted in more egalitarian relations between fans and producers, and changing power
dynamics with regard to the production of meaning in mainstream media. (Also see
McKee [2004], whose views on the connection between what is ‘actual’ and what is
‘canon’ are congruent with my own.)

Masculine bodies, masculine love: queer potential among

the men of Merlin
True to chivalric tradition (see Brennan, 2015a: 25–6), Merlin valorises conventional
signifiers of masculinity, as gratuitous shots of Arthur’s knights reveal (see V.1). In
Merlin, the Knights of the Round Table are honourable, handsome, brave, large, strong,
loyal, courteous and skilled in battle. Presented to us is an archetype of the medieval
knight, one that signifies chivalry and courtly love. This archetype is resolutely mascu-
line and stands in opposition to feminine signifieds of non-violence, softness, smallness
and submissiveness – incidentally all qualities that Arthur attributes to Merlin, his man-
servant in this retelling. The knights of Arthurian literature evoke what Gayle S. Rubin
(1993) describes historically as ‘the sexual hierarchy’. In Arthurian literature the round
table, for example, is often only a symbol of equality between men, and noble men at
that. There is little reference to women being represented at the table. Even Queen
Guinevere is only permitted at the table during feasts (Shainess, 1993: 147). While
Merlin is less hierarchical, all its knights possess physiques and exhibit mannerisms fit-
ting of the above masculine requirements of knighthood. To this end, I would like to
examine a key symbol in the series, armour, and how fan works have sought to subvert
that symbol via their homoerotic readings.
In Merlin, armour serves as a universal emblem representing what men should be:
strong, heroic, hard and impenetrable. It is a symbolism heightened by, and perhaps
established in, the chivalric tradition. Scholars have observed that knightly armour is the
Brennan 197

Figure 1.  Guinevere dresses Merlin in armour so he can learn how to do the same on Arthur (I.2).

shell of a man. In her feminist reading of literary romances of the French High Middle
Ages, E. Jane Burns observes an occurrence of ‘visual feminisation’ when a knight
removes his armour, stepping ‘off the battlefield to enter the world of courtly extrava-
gance’ (2002: 141). This explains why the courtly code forbids women to ‘cross-dress as
knights’, leaving armoured men as ‘relatively bodiless’ and consigning women ‘to the
realm of skin’ (2002: 140; also see Smith, 2008). Armour allows men to contain any soft-
ness beneath its shielded exterior.
In short, beyond serving as protection armour also serves a symbolic function. Much
like how the uniform, badge and gun encode a man as a police officer, the ‘shining
armour’ is as ideologically significant as the man it encases (see Althusser, 1970). The
symbolism of the handsome knight in polished armour is in part what continues to attract
modern audiences to the chivalric romance. The fantasy and masculine symbolism of
armour explains why Morgause removing her helmet to reveal her feminine self was a
‘Trojan horse’ moment, and helps explain the lesbian subtext many fans attribute to her
masquerade as a knight in II.8: it was a shock to discover a woman ‘cross-dressing’
(Burns, 2002: 140) in a man’s shell. It follows that the suiting up and removal of a
knight’s armour is an erotic gesture: for Arthur performed by Merlin, and later his wife,
Guinevere (V). A man out of armour is vulnerable, and susceptible to non-masculine
implication. He is naked, soft, penetrable. In a scene from I.2, Guinevere dresses Merlin
in armour so he can learn how to do the same on Arthur, but Merlin is a poor subject. As
can be seen in Figure 1, whenever Merlin – a manservant, not at knight – is in armour, it
is ill-fitting and comical, often so loose it falls off his body: it was never meant to fit and
signals that he does not belong inside it, as if he is a child playing dress up. Arthur and
his knights, conversely, wear their armour well.
The attention to detail in the armour the knights wear suggests an appreciation for the
semiotic significance of the ‘costume’, for it is in wearing armour that a man may per-
form his masculinity. In Figure 2, for example, notice the embellishment of the armour
198 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

Figure 2.  Gwaine, Arthur, Leon and Percival promotional image (V).

plates. Gwaine’s, left, is ostentatiously bulky, but also the simplest; it represents his
brazen nature and raw talent, but also his naiveté. Leon’s, centre right, is more classic
and balanced; his experience as a knight of Camelot far exceeds any of the others in the
inner circle. Arthur’s, centre left, is the most elaborate; it has a large shoulder plate simi-
lar to Gwaine’s and a sequence of scaled voiders down the arm. The armour serves to
comment on and complement the nature of its wearer. Percival, right, wears no armour,
and his chainmail is cropped at the shoulders, showing off his muscular arm structure.
The implication is that he does not need armour, for his body is already hard, impenetra-
ble; the muscle definition in his arms more impressive than a series of scaled plates.
I have already explored the manner in which slash fans have used Percival’s bulk to
subvert heteronormativity in Merlin (Brennan, 2013). In my semiotic reading of homoe-
rotic, photo-manipulated fan works – known as ‘slash manips’ – I consider the work of a
single artist (wandsinhand) and how the depiction of forced penetration of Arthur by
Percival uses the ‘physicality of this character to strip Arthur of his symbolic, masculine
power’ (Brennan, 2013). This is an excellent example of the active reading practices of
slash fans, who often leverage suggestion in texts; and it is often these same texts that are
accused of ‘queerbaiting’. Fans carry out these readings for their own ends, and to bring to
the surface the eroticism they see in texts that are not manifestly queer (see Hunting [2012],
for a discussion of slash and the complexities that arise when the canon itself is queer, such
as in Queer as Folk [2000–5]). For the purpose of this present argument, I will draw on a
work featuring Percival and another of Arthur’s knights (Gwaine) to show the ease with
which fan works can deconstruct binary thinking underpinning the discourse of terms such
as ‘queerbaiting’, including: homosocial/homosexual, latent/manifest, false/actual.

Percival/Gwaine: validated queer potential in Merlin

Despite his bulk, Percival has a timid, polite nature that has led many fans to ‘write
around’ his muscles, presenting a man struggling to be seen as more than a cookie cutter
Brennan 199

mould of the ideal knight.8 He has a childlike innocence that gels well with Gwaine’s
flair for the immature. In stories not set in the Merlin universe (known as ‘Alternate
Universe’ stories), there is a tradition of naming the character ‘Armstrong’, of course a
reference to his arms, but I cannot help but also draw comparisons with the latex all-teeth
grin of the iconic Hasbro action figure, Stretch Armstrong. The near-cartoonish strength
of Percival is on display in episodes such as IV.1, when he rescues three children, carry-
ing them together in his arms. Fetishisation of his bulging biceps continues throughout
the series, and has been a topic of discussion among cast (see Hass, 2012), and featured
prominently in fan fiction, some stories examining the dangers of Percival having sleeve-
less chainmail and no protective arm plates. And sure enough, in IV.2 Percival sustains a
wound to his bicep, as he does in V.3, the scar from which remains visible to the final
episode. Percival’s lack of protection compared with the other knights, and with Arthur,
is symbolic.
Percival’s close bond with Gwaine is established from the beginning of season four.
In a particularly memorable scene from IV.2, while alone at the entrance to a network of
tunnels, Percival tackles Gwaine to the ground, saving him from a supernatural threat.
‘Never knew you cared,’ Gwaine says, Percival’s body pressed on top of him, them face-
to-face. The scene is similar to when Guinevere tackles Arthur to the ground saving him
from a gargoyle in II.1, a scene that signals the start of their love story. Many slash fans
have noted the similarities between the scenes, with some reading the Percival/Gwaine
tackle as ‘canon endorsement’ of the pairing; curiously, other fans might nominate this as
an example of ‘queerbaiting’.
The men also frequently appear shirtless. In the first episode of season five, after
being captured by the series’ central antagonist, Morgana, the two are put to work along
with other imprisoned knights of Camelot. What follows are gratuitous scenes of the two
wielding pickaxes and sleeping side by side, and, in both instances, seeming to take
every opportunity to flex their muscles for an adoring lens. Even Morgana cannot help
but comment on Gwaine’s fine form throughout the series, making use of his talents as a
fighter and Percival’s strength. As The Guardian’s Stuart Heritage writes in his 26
November 2012 review:

The Knights of the Round Table seem to have all been recruited from the first ancient Sexy
Topless Fireman calendar that King Arthur clapped his eyes on.9

The short of this message is that these men are presented as so firm, so hard-bodied that
they often do not require armour. The ‘already armoured’ physiques of Arthur’s knights
are as impenetrable as the masculinity myth, which makes slash, a practice of penetra-
tion, so destabilising to masculine norms, and so similar to the process of queering.
Returning to the ‘homoerotic tradition’ of chivalric and Arthurian literature mentioned
previously, there are those who argue that certain representations of male–male intimacy
slide past homosociality and ambiguity on the continuum and into the erotic, or the
homosexual; a contentious claim given that these texts pre-date ‘modern’ categories of
homosexual and heterosexual (see Drake, 2008; Schultz, 2006).
Elizabeth Woledge argues that, when faced with sexually ambiguous source material,
appropriative writers have three choices: to recode ambiguities into a new context; bring
200 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

out sexual possibilities and create ‘an unambiguously homosexual text’; or choose to
ignore sexual possibilities altogether and ‘construct a purely homosocial text’ (2004:
247). While the comments from Merlin’s producers quoted earlier may suggest intent to
ignore sexual possibility, many fans would argue that, whether due to sexual ambiguities
of form or sexual possibilities of design, Merlin recodes ambiguities of Arthurian litera-
ture in its retelling.
In fact, Merlin’s unique potential to recode meaning is explored by Jon Sherman, who
argues that the series’ subversion of audience expectation and refusal to faithfully con-
form to narrative conventions means ‘the audience is perhaps even encouraged to won-
der if Merlin will not depart entirely from tradition’ (2015: 93). As a modern retelling
that also retains certain elements of the legend, Merlin can be read through a queer lens,
as it has been by fans seeing queerly. Roberta Davidson’s (2012) study of 72 Arthurian-
inspired novels published between 1963 and 2010 supports the view that Merlin, as a
modern retelling, promotes queer readings, noting that modern retellings of Arthurian
literature have made explicit reference to homosexuality. The series is modernised via
use of the contemporary vernacular, age matching of Merlin with Arthur, and the casting
of an actress of colour as Guinevere. And yet these characters occupy a period setting,
with many of its chivalric trimmings. This means audiences are encouraged to relate to
this story in the present day – as evidenced by the final scene of the series, which is set
in contemporary Great Britain: the real-world Albion – while also seeing it as a fantasy
evoking another time. In other words, it is entirely legitimate to read instances of medi-
eval homosocial desire through a modern perspective; or, as the fan at the 2008 London
MCM Expo did, to read a gay love story from a deep friendship. This point is further
supported by a view of queerbaiting as historically situated, and the associated expecta-
tion that queer representations will be more visible.
This means that while Merlin’s instances of desire are arguably normative within the
fabric of chivalric narratives, the programme’s modernisation equally invites the decod-
ing of such instances via contemporary, homosexual connotation – opposing viewing
positions that explain the queer potential of the series. Figure 3 illustrates how effort-
lessly Merlin can slide along the homosocial–homosexual continuum, making feasible a
reading of the programme’s homosexual subtext. It is a ‘slash manip’ (see Brennan,
2014b) from my own practice (posted under my LiveJournal pseudonym chewable-
prose). The work digitally manipulates a screen capture from V.1 that includes gratuitous
shots of the men working shirtless, as described earlier. The original image depicts
Percival and Gwaine sleeping shirtless side by side, apart from the rest of Morgana’s
prisoner workforce. The manip uses raw elements from this image only. This action is
unique, as slash manips most commonly remix visual imagery from popular media with
gay pornography in order to bring a homoerotic fantasy to life (Brennan, 2013). The
significance of not needing to draw from pornographic material is self-evident: it is
unnecessary, the source material is sufficiently erotic as is, or at least, the potential is
contained in the original image and needs only a slight queering with a digital tool. The
manip brings the bodies to touch, homoerotising the scene without needing to depart
from the ‘canon’ (source material) and import external content.
The scene captured in the original image is one that lingers on the men’s well-formed
bodies: it invites the viewer to pull the bodies closer; for warmth, for comfort, for
Brennan 201

Figure 3.  Screen capture/slash manip comparison. Capture: V.1; manip: chewableprose, More
than Brothers, 2012, photo montage. Courtesy of the artist.

contact. It invites the audience to see queerly, to recode for themselves. The result is a
creative work titled More than Brothers, which actualises the source text’s suggestive-
ness. Returning to the three choices Woledge argues appropriative writers have when
202 International Journal of Cultural Studies 21(2)

faced with ambiguous source material – to recode, bring out or ignore – Figure 3 illus-
trates how simple it is to bring out sexual possibilities in Merlin and create ‘an unam-
biguously homosexual text’ (2004: 247), and how fun, how playful. As I have discussed
above, this is courtesy of latent homoerotic cues in the text itself and the active reading
strategies of media fans, who identify and celebrate homoeroticism in mainstream texts.

Conclusion
Slash and queer readings of mainstream texts posit a radical revision of the canon narra-
tive. Some may argue that this is particularly true in the case of Merlin, with its pre-
watershed programme timeslot. ‘It’s a family show,’ co-producer Julian Murphy says in
response to suggestion of homoeroticism (audio commentary, V.13). And yet, it is also a
programme routinely accused by media fans of queerbaiting its audience, of teasing
eroticism between its male (and female) characters that is never validated. I accept that
queerbaiting is a textual tactic employed by producers, as is supported by Cassandra M.
Collier’s study of Supernatural and Sherlock as two series ‘encoded with homoerotic
subtext and [that] have used conventional slash tropes and interpretations to do so’ (2015:
1). However, I also argue against consideration of such tactics within a rubric of repre-
sentational harm, instead encouraging consideration of the freedom such tactics offer, of
the opportunities for even greater textual subterfuge: to make ‘actual’ or obvious what is
mere suggestion in a mainstream text. And I encourage scholarship in the area to
acknowledge the active reading practices of fans, and the campaigns of queer play and
creation these audiences engage in.
Confronting the negative connotations of the term ‘queerbaiting’ and pointing out the
agency of audiences leads to the conclusion that entertainment producers’ engagement
with queer reading strategies can be understood using a more celebratory spirit, as con-
noted by ‘hoyay’. Katie McGrath, who portrays Morgana in Merlin, seems to appreciate
this more positive position. When asked by a journalist from the gay press whether she
would choose to make Merlin/Arthur or Guinevere/Morgana ‘canon’ if she could only
choose one, she bemoans her interviewer’s lack of imagination: ‘That’s not fair! Listen,
I don’t think I can have that narrow a choice between those two options! There are so
many characters, how can you narrow it down to just those two?’ Colin Morgan (Merlin)
offers further suggestions: ‘Morgana and Gaius [Richard Wilson]!’, ‘Gaius and Percival!’
And McGrath approves: ‘You’ve gotta give a girl choices!’10

Funding
This research received no specific grant from any funding agency in the public, commercial, or
not-for-profit sectors.

Notes
  1. Audible at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tz0qNhMdRVM (accessed October 2015).
  2. AfterElton.com was replaced by TheBacklot.com in April 2013, followed by NewNowNext.
com in June 2015. The original article remains viewable using Wayback Machine’s archive.
org servers: https://web.archive.org/web/20090807064600/http://www.afterelton.com/ask-
monkey/08-03-2009? (accessed October 2015).
Brennan 203

 3. See: https://web.archive.org/web/20090806172323/http://www.afterelton.com/askmonkey/08-

03-2009?page=0,1 (accessed October 2015).
  4. The original article remains viewable using Wayback Machine’s archive.org servers: https://
web.archive.org/web/20090724162527/http://thetorchonline.com/2009/07/20/does-merlin-
have-a-gay-subtext-or-are-some-people-reading-too-much-into-it/ (accessed October 2015).
 5. See: https://web.archive.org/web/20090724162527/http://thetorchonline.com/2009/07/20/does-
merlin-have-a-gay-subtext-or-are-some-people-reading-too-much-into-it/ (accessed October
2015).
  6. The original article remains viewable using Wayback Machine’s archive.org servers: https://
web.archive.org/web/20090724162527/http://thetorchonline.com/2009/07/20/does-merlin-
have-a-gay-subtext-or-are-some-people-reading-too-much-into-it/ (accessed October 2015).
 7. Supernatural has attracted keen interest from scholars, many of whom consider fan/producer
issues and how these have impacted queer readings and slash production (see Larsen and
Zubernis, 2012; Torrey, 2014, for instance).
 8. See discussion of the character on fanlore.org: http://fanlore.org/wiki/Percival (accessed
November 2015).
 9. See: http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2012/nov/26/merlin-has-been-
cancelled (accessed October 2015).
10. Available at: http://www.newnownext.com/our-interview-with-merlins-colin-morgan-and-
katie-mcgrath/01/2013/ (accessed November 2015).

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Author biography
Joseph Brennan is a sessional lecturer in Media and Communications at the University of Sydney,
where he was awarded his PhD. He works across the fields of fan and porn studies and is primarily
interested in intersections and conflicts within male sexuality. Selected journals in which his work
has appeared include: Continuum, Porn Studies, Media International Australia and M/C Journal.