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.)
