Queer as Folk Review (US Version, Season 1–5)

Story

Queer as Folk (US) is not just a show about gay life in Pittsburgh—it is a coming-of-age, coming-out, and coming-to-terms narrative stretched across five seasons. From the raw and unapologetic sexual freedom of the early episodes to the sobering conversations about relationships, aging, and activism, the storytelling grows alongside its characters.

The writers dared to give us imperfect people: Brian, who refuses to conform to monogamy yet quietly becomes the most dependable figure in his friends’ lives; Justin, who starts as a starry-eyed teenager and evolves into a resilient, self-aware artist; Michael, who moves from being Brian’s shadow to finding his own path with Ben.

Each season has its own rhythm—Season 1 introduces the unapologetic openness of Liberty Avenue; Season 2 explores trauma recovery and emotional detours; Season 3 plays with themes of loyalty and betrayal; Season 4 burns with political resistance; and Season 5 confronts aging, mortality, and the uncomfortable question: “What does happiness look like for us when the party ends?”

The arcs never feel like soap opera twists for the sake of shock. Even the most dramatic turns—Justin’s bashing, Ted’s spiral into addiction, Emmett’s unlikely romance with Drew—are grounded in emotional truth. The writers refuse to hand out fairy-tale resolutions; instead, they show that love, friendship, and self-respect are often a series of negotiations between holding on and letting go.

Acting

The casting of Queer as Folk is one of its most enduring strengths. Gale Harold’s Brian Kinney is an acting masterclass in subtlety—his performance thrives in the spaces between words, the quiet glance, the wry half-smile that hides genuine vulnerability. He manages to make a man who “doesn’t believe in love” into one of the most romantic characters in queer TV history.

Randy Harrison, a newcomer at the time, delivers Justin with disarming conviction. His arc—from eager, headstrong teen to independent, sometimes stubborn adult—is layered with both fragility and determination. You believe Justin when he fights for Brian, and you believe him when he walks away.

Hal Sparks’ Michael blends comic warmth with emotional weight. His devotion to Brian, his awkward navigation of love, and his eventual stability with Ben all feel lived-in. Supporting players like Peter Paige (Emmett) and Scott Lowell (Ted) bring distinctive voices to the ensemble—Peter’s flamboyant charm masks a deep moral backbone, while Scott’s journey from self-deprecation to self-respect is quietly powerful.

Even the recurring and secondary characters feel inhabited, whether it’s Sharon Gless as the fiercely loyal Debbie or Thea Gill and Michelle Clunie as Lindsay and Melanie, grounding the show with their own brand of love, politics, and stubbornness.

Chemistry

The beating heart of the series is the electricity between Brian and Justin. Their connection is never soft-focus romance—it’s push and pull, conquest and surrender, challenge and acceptance. From the very first glance outside Babylon, the show makes it clear: Brian’s intrigue with Justin is instant, and Justin’s pursuit of Brian is relentless.

What makes them unforgettable is not just the sexual tension but the mutual respect that grows from it. Brian never infantilizes Justin; Justin never treats Brian as a trophy. They part when they need to, reunite when they choose to, and refuse to be each other’s savior—yet they are each other’s home.

Other relationships add texture: Michael and Ben’s steady, domestic love contrasts sharply with Brian’s disdain for “imitating heterosexuality,” yet even Brian can’t deny their bond. Emmett and Drew’s unlikely romance is tender and heartbreaking, a reminder that coming out is never just one moment but a series of choices with consequences.

Production

For a show that premiered in 2000, Queer as Folk was revolutionary in scope and candor. It gave us unapologetically explicit sex scenes not as titillation alone, but as part of its storytelling—sexuality is treated as a natural, integral part of identity, friendship, and politics.

The production design captures the energy of Liberty Avenue and Babylon with pulsating light and music, while quieter moments—hospital hallways, intimate apartments, late-night street corners—strip away the neon to reveal vulnerability.

Yes, the pacing in some mid-seasons can feel uneven, and certain subplots (Stockwell’s mayoral campaign, Ted’s revenge on an old hookup) stretch plausibility. But overall, the show balances high drama with everyday life in a way that still feels authentic two decades later.

Ending

The series finale resists the easy resolution. Brian and Justin’s decision not to marry is not a defeat—it’s a mutual acknowledgment of who they are and what they want. Brian is finally willing to commit; Justin refuses to let him give up the freedom that makes him Brian. It’s love, stripped of possession.

Some viewers saw it as bittersweet, even frustrating. For me, it’s honest. Their love was never about the illusion of permanence but about showing up for each other, even if “showing up” means standing on opposite ends of the dance floor, smiling across the crowd.

The final image—Brian alone in Babylon’s spotlight—says it all: he remains himself, but he is forever changed. The love story doesn’t end; it simply moves into a different form, leaving the audience to imagine the rest.