Love- Simon Page

As Simon himself narrates in the film’s final moments: “This is my life. And I’m not invisible anymore.” For millions of viewers, neither were they.

Before 2018, the mainstream Hollywood teen romance had a blueprint: the boy-meets-girl, the grand gesture at the football game, the prom night resolution. For LGBTQ+ youth watching from the margins, these stories were a mirror that refused to reflect them. Then came Love, Simon —a film that didn’t just add a gay protagonist to the formula, but proved the formula had always belonged to him, too.

The film’s quiet revolution lies not in its drama, but in its normalcy. For decades, queer stories on screen were often tragedies of AIDS, tales of brutal violence, or journeys of lonely exile. Love, Simon dares to ask a radical question: What if coming out didn’t have to be a catastrophe? Simon’s parents (played with warm complexity by Jennifer Garner and Josh Duhamel) are not monsters to be escaped, but allies to be trusted. His friends’ initial hurt over his secrecy is treated with genuine empathy on both sides. Even the film’s antagonist, the blackmailing classmate Martin, is less a villain and more a misguided fool who learns a clumsy lesson. Love- Simon

Of course, the film has its critics. Some argue its vision of coming out is too sanitized—a story for white, affluent, cisgender teens with accepting parents. The film’s suburban setting is almost aggressively safe. The "villain" of the piece is a bumbling straight boy, not systemic homophobia. These are valid critiques. Love, Simon does not speak for every queer experience. It speaks for one very specific, very lucky one.

This is not to say the film shies away from pain. Simon’s fear—of being seen differently, of his “ordinary” life collapsing—is palpable. The film’s most devastating line arrives when he confesses, “I’m supposed to be the one who decides when and how and who knows, and for how long.” That loss of control, that suffocating weight of a secret you never asked to carry, is universal. Yet the film refuses to let that fear be the final word. As Simon himself narrates in the film’s final

Based on Becky Albertalli’s novel Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda , the film tells the story of Simon Spier (Nick Robinson), a closeted high school senior in suburban Atlanta. On the surface, Simon is the embodiment of teen movie normalcy: a loving family, a tight-knit group of friends, and an almost painfully charming ordinary life. But beneath the surface hums a secret, shared only with an anonymous classmate known only as "Blue" through a series of achingly tender emails.

But that is precisely its power. For a generation of young people watching in small towns or conservative homes, the film was a lifeline. It said: Your future can be ordinary. Your love story can be simple. You get to have the big, tearful, joyful grand gesture, too. It made the radical move of demanding that queer joy be seen as just as cinematic as queer pain. For LGBTQ+ youth watching from the margins, these

The climactic Ferris wheel scene is a masterclass in emotional payoff. When Simon finally confronts Blue (revealed to be the sweet, shy Bram), the kiss they share isn’t a shocking revelation. It’s a relief. It’s the exhale after a breath held for an entire runtime. The crowd below doesn’t recoil; they cheer. In that moment, Love, Simon achieves its most radical act: it presents a gay romance not as a political statement, but as a triumph of the heart, as deserving of a grand, teary, joyful ending as any John Hughes movie ever was.

Ultimately, Love, Simon is not a film about being gay. It is a film about being human—about the terrifying, exhilarating act of letting yourself be truly known. And in a world that so often tells LGBTQ+ youth that their love is complicated, dangerous, or wrong, a movie that simply says "It gets better. And it will be beautiful" is not just entertainment. It is an act of grace.