Beach Rats (2017) The perils of internalized homophobia and toxic masculinity

Eliza Hittman's 2017 film, Beach Rats, is a haunting and introspective exploration of masculinity, sexual identity, and internalized homophobia, all set against the moody backdrop of contemporary Brooklyn. The story follows Frankie, a 19-year-old played with raw vulnerability by Harris Dickinson, as he drifts through a summer marked by tension between the life he presents to the world and the desires he keeps hidden.

Frankie’s existence is split in two. By day, he moves through a life that fits the mold of traditional masculinity, surrounded by his girlfriend, his mother, and a tight-knit group of friends. These interactions, often filled with posturing and bravado, suggest a carefree, archetypal young man. But there’s something heavy in Frankie’s silence. His nights unravel a different story—one of secret online encounters with older men, a part of himself that remains carefully tucked away. This duality underscores the profound sense of conflict and loneliness that defines Frankie’s world.

The film delves into internalized homophobia with remarkable subtlety, painting a picture of how societal pressures and cultural expectations can carve rifts within someone’s identity. Even in the 2010s—a time of notable progress for LGBTQ+ rights—the film reminds us how deeply entrenched societal stigmas can be, particularly within certain communities.

Frankie’s world is steeped in shame and fear of being seen. His relationship with his girlfriend feels like an act of self-preservation, an attempt to cling to a sense of normalcy even as it drifts further from his truth. His interactions with his family, particularly his concerned but somewhat oblivious mother, add another layer of quiet heartbreak.

Hittman’s atmospheric style makes Beach Rats as much about mood as it is about narrative. The film immerses Brooklyn in natural light and muted tones, evoking a sense of nostalgia and unease. The summer heat seems to trap Frankie, creating a haze that mirrors his inner stagnation. Handheld camerawork brings an almost intrusive intimacy to Frankie’s world, capturing every flicker of vulnerability in his expression. There’s a quiet power in the way the camera lingers, making his isolation almost tangible.

Frankie’s group of friends are another piece of the puzzle. Their bond, built on performative masculinity, leaves no room for softness or difference. Within this dynamic, Frankie’s attempts to blend in feel strained and at odds with his private self. The tension builds slowly, with each interaction reinforcing the walls he’s constructed around himself. There’s no catharsis in Beach Rats, only an aching quiet that reflects how Frankie’s struggle for identity is both personal and shaped by the world around him.

Hittman’s storytelling doesn’t force answers or neat resolutions. Instead, it allows the smallest details—a glance, a hesitation, a moment of stillness—to carry the emotional weight. Her lens is compassionate, treating Frankie’s struggles not with judgment but with a quiet, empathetic honesty.

Beach Rats lingers. It lingers in its silences, in the humid haze of its visuals, and in Frankie’s quiet desperation. It’s a film about what happens when the weight of expectations buries the possibility of authenticity, and it leaves you wondering how often people like Frankie find themselves stuck between who they are and who they think they have to be.