My unexpected Pride icon: Free Willy helped me see the radical power of coming out

The Guardian

13-06-2025

I don't know precisely when I first watched Free Willy. But I do remember that the film was central to a childhood obsession with whales – orcas, specifically – that followed me well into adulthood. (I still remember a lot of random facts, such as 'killer whales can live up to 90 years old!' and 'their pregnancies are 17 months long!')
Released in 1993, just a few months after I was born, the film follows Jesse – a moody 12-year-old foster kid with abandonment issues – and his unlikely friendship with Willy, an orca confined in a far-too-small pool at a local marine park. Jesse and Willy have a lot in common. Both are antisocial, stubborn and mistrustful, but form a close bond – one that sees Jesse determined to free Willy from the park where he is being exploited for profit by an evil businessman. It's a classic good v evil tale – and a coming out story.
Free Willy isn't queer in any explicit sense. But the film's central theme is one of 'chosen family' – a concept that has been central to LGBTQ+ life ever since our community elders were forced to meet in secret because they were criminalised, stigmatised and forced to the margins. In the film, Jesse's longing for his mother – a woman who abandoned him as a young child – initially stops him from bonding with his new foster parents. It's only when he meets Willy that he begins to find joy in his life. It's a narrative we see repeated in anthems such as Rina Sawayama's Chosen Family, TV dramas such as Queer as Folk, or a reality show like RuPaul's Drag Race: that there is radical power in finding 'your people.' (Or, in this case, your whale.)
In 2023, for my 30th birthday, my boyfriend and I visited Norway for the first time. I was determined to see whales in the wild. On the day of the planned boat excursion the winds were high and the boat trip was cancelled. But we managed to find a smaller rib boat that, however misguidedly, was still heading out. A few hours later, I found myself shivering in the middle of the black ocean, facing huge swells and terrifying winds. It was a far cry from the idyllic scene I had envisaged, where the sun reflected off the calm sea, illuminating pods of whales swimming peacefully.
First, our boat encountered a sperm whale – a gigantic and gentle creature who blew water high into the air and seemed completely unbothered by us. And then, just as we sped back to the shore, I saw it: the unmistakable black dorsal fin, gliding through the crashing waves with ease. At that moment, it suddenly became clear that we were in their territory – and it scared the crap out of me.
Since that moment, I've wondered if I was particularly drawn to orcas, even as a child, not only because they are visually stunning, but because there was something inspiring about apex predators totally in control of their surroundings. (Strong? Majestic? A little evil? They're what every gay man aspires to be.)
In Free Willy, however, the film's star is fairly helpless, like a slippery overgrown puppy who communicates through whining noises that are adorable and distressing. But eventually, Jesse and his foster family help Willy to break free from his enclosure.
Placing this film within the queer canon might sound like a reach – a leap even bigger than Willy who, in an iconic final scene that required a rocket launcher (and animatronic whale) to shoot, jumps over the harbour wall to escape his captors. But when he does, it feels like a moment of transformation, like a coming out story. And on the other side, there's an ocean of freedom and possibility.