The debate around follow-ups to beloved movies often reduces to box office math and fan demand, but some projects carry cultural stakes beyond commerce. I write as someone who values more lesbian and queer stories and who respects the artists involved. Yet when I heard whispers of a Happiest Season sequel, I felt compelled to make a case against it. This is not an attack on the creators—Clea DuVall, Mary Holland and the cast including Kristen Stewart, Mackenzie Davis, Alison Brie, Aubrey Plaza and Dan Levy—but a worried assessment about what another installment could mean for queer representation.
The original film, released in November 2026, put a same-sex romance at the center of a holiday romcom and introduced a mainstream audience to a story that many had wanted to see. At the same time, the movie leaned on a particular plot device that felt familiar in damaging ways: a lead character pressured to hide her identity. To protect the reader who might not know the plot intricacies, the film follows Abby and Harper, a couple whose dynamic is upended when Harper asks Abby to pretend to be her roommate ruse while visiting family. That choice and its comic framing raise questions about whether the emotional stakes were handled with the nuance the subject deserves.
Where the first film missed the mark
Despite a talented ensemble—featuring performers like Jinkx Monsoon and BenDeLaCreme in supporting roles—the movie often relies on romcom conventions that undercut its own protagonist’s hurt. The plot hinges on forced closeting, a concept where a character must conceal their sexual orientation to avoid family conflict. Framing this as fodder for laughs risks normalizing the very harm many viewers have experienced. While representation in numbers matters, the quality of depiction—the emotional truth of being pushed back into the closet—is equally crucial for a community still fighting for visibility and dignity.
On comedy and harm
Comedy can be a powerful tool to process pain, but it can also flatten it. In Happiest Season, moments intended as light-hearted or quirky sometimes erase the rawness of being closeted by choice of tone. When a narrative treats the re-suppression of identity as merely an awkward obstacle to a happy ending, it diminishes the lived reality of many queer people. A sequel that repeats this tonal pattern would risk reinforcing a problematic template: that coming out is optional and discomfort is a punchline rather than a wound. For many of us, that wound is not cinematic shorthand—it is life.
A personal reaction and why it matters
I should be clear: I am a fan of the actors and I welcome more films by queer creators. My reaction to the original was colored by circumstance—I watched during the pandemic in my childhood home, an unusual combination of nostalgia and anxiety. In an attempt to make the evening feel festive, I mixed an offbeat drink—an Irish-style concoction of whiskey and milk known as scáiltín—and joined friends for a virtual viewing. Small comforts aside, the experience felt unexpectedly raw, and the film’s shortcomings hit me harder than I anticipated. That personal sting is what motivates this plea: I want better outcomes for stories that represent us.
What a sequel would risk and what we should demand instead
At a moment when LGBTQ+ portrayal in media remains fragile, a misstep can have outsized cultural consequences. Recent cancellations of exploitative reality shows like The Ultimatum: Queer Love felt like small victories against sensationalism, but greenlighting a sequel that leans on the same problematic beats as the original would be a setback. Rather than repeating a scenario where a protagonist is asked to hide who they are for convenience or comedy, producers should invest in narratives that treat coming-out journeys, family conflict and queer joy with complexity. That means scripts that avoid using closeting as cheap drama and instead explore the emotional textures of identity without reducing them to tropes.
In closing, my appeal is straightforward: let the filmmakers tell new, risk-taking stories instead of returning to a premise that harmed some viewers. There are countless avenues for queer cinema—from intimate character studies to genre-bending comedies—that do not require revisiting a plot that persuades partners to hide their lovers. I would happily brainstorm ideas with the creatives involved or take a screenwriting class myself, but until a sequel is reimagined to avoid repeating the original’s missteps, I believe the community is better served by fresh projects that build trust rather than test it.