Hulu’s High Fidelity Brings a Refreshing, Black and Bisexual Take on The 2000 Classic
Rob (Zoë Kravitz) in High Fidelity (2020); ℅ Hulu
Season one of High Fidelity (2020) premiered on Hulu on February 14th. This piece discusses both the 2000 film and the 2020 series, but only carries light spoilers for both.
When I find out that any classic film is being remade, possibly updated, yet still following the same storyline, I only get irritated. Why can’t we have new, fresh storylines?
And when this remake is updated with a female lead when the original donned a male, part of me wants to enjoy this attempt at inclusion to place women characters front and center of the narrative. Yet, again — why couldn’t writers create new narratives rather than taking an old one and only changing the lead’s gender? Can’t we have female writers, writers of color, and/or queer writers create these new stories instead? It felt similar to how mainstream, gay romance movies simply took straight storylines and swapped the heterosexual protagonist for a gay one, failing to add the nuance of queer experiences.
All of these critical thoughts went out the door when I discovered that Hulu was remaking the 2000 film of High Fidelity, inspired by Nick Hornby’s 1995 book of the same name, into a series with not only any woman protagonist, but with Zoë freaking Kravitz. The original film didn’t fascinate me much, but as a daughter of a music-obsessed dad, I was told to watch the Stephen Frears film in early high school.
The story is simple — a 30-something Chicago-based record shop owner, Rob Gordon (John Cusack), attempts to understand his top-five heartbreaks by reaching back out to his exes to see what went wrong. Apart from his love for music and pretentious interest in records, I found him quite annoying — he was just a straight white dude who constantly complained about his not-so-terrible love life, blaming these women with a twinge of misogyny and a heavy dose of overrated heartbreak tracks. I didn’t leave the film with absolute dissatisfaction, however; I remember loving some of the soundtrack and desperately wanting to work at a record shop for months after watching. Yet, there was some feeling of unfulfillment that maybe, just maybe, could have been cured by a female lead.
While I viewed the first film as unnoteworthy, discovering that it was being transformed into a 2020 series with a Black woman, now based in Brooklyn, gave me hope for the discontent I initially felt. Instead of an overly pretentious, music-obsessed man, which only translated to an uncomfortable amount of mansplaining about records and top-five lists, she was a (still) pretentious yet charming queer woman whose interest in music paired perfectly with her impeccable style, full sleeves of tattoos, and give-no-fucks attitude.
I was in love.
Because not only was she the woman of my dreams on the surface, 2020’s High Fidelity portrays Rob as equally cool and a hot mess. She’s certain that she knows how to craft the perfect playlist, but she still pines after her (possibly toxic) exes. She always knows how to show up to a function looking effortlessly cool, but also has her moments of vulnerability that could come across as spiraling. She might own a record shop, but in reality, she has no idea what she’s doing, continuously repeating her same mistakes, even on the eve of her 30th birthday. These qualities came across as obnoxious and far too resembling of a softboi when played by John Cusack, but when played by Zoë Kravitz, they instead came across as refreshing — for a Black woman to not only be at the center of a white male-dominated industry, but also carry emotional depth in a way that’s not through the lens of other men, although much of her sadness stems from other male characters.
This new version of Rob, albeit told in a very similar fashion as the film through a lot of 4th-wall-breaking and retroactive storytelling, might be so groundbreaking because she was crafted by two women (and legend Natasha Lyonne directed one episode), making the series even more appealing.
In the first episode, we’re introduced to Kravitz’s character as she goes through her top-five heartbreaks: an eclectic mix of a day-long middle school romance; a queer fling with a hot, but even meaner, woman; a “match” that couldn’t live to its potential due to his newfound gayness; a douchebag, stand-up comedian that began as a secret affair; and her most recent presumed soulmate that resulted in more heartbreak than the first four combined. The second heartbreak stood out to me — not only was Rob my dream woman, but she was queer! And better yet, her romance with a woman wasn’t a moment of clarity, of coming out, or even of a healthy relationship; instead, it was a messy moment in her romantic history where Rob was stuck with this woman because her good looks masked her snobby, disparaging behavior. And maybe Rob found these bad qualities to be all the more attractive — not only was she young and still in college, but it’s arguably a universally queer woman experience to have a type for mean women (hopefully only temporarily). While the rest of her love interests, including her current complicated fling with Clyde (Jake Lacy), are men, Rob is still undeniably queer, even though her one queer experience we know about maybe wasn’t for the best.
Simon, Rob, and Cherise in High Fidelity (2020); ℅ Hulu
To see Kravitz’s Rob, a Black queer woman geek out about an original pressing of Bowie’s The Man Who Sold the World or her qualms about Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours was far more interesting than the pretentious male snobbery of Cusack’s rendition, and this carried on when we meet the 2020 versions of Rob’s two original, white male employees, Barry (Jack Black) and Dick (Todd Louiso) — they’re replaced by a Black woman, Cherise (Da'Vine Joy Randolph), and a gay man, Simon (David H. Holmes). Jack Black’s Barry was more obnoxious than funny to me, but the new rendition of Cherise carried an outspoken wit and compassion that balanced Rob’s occasional heartbreak-driven apathy. And Simon’s quiet, tender vulnerability, rooted in his queerness and utmost love for music, was sweet rather than overdone. Together, as a team, they challenged those straight white male norms of the music industry, of still listening to and loving records in 2020, even of the hipster scene of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where Championship Records is located. They still hold their own flaws but treat them with nuance and a possibility for growth, something that we hope for Rob as we near the conclusion of High Fidelity’s first season.
High Fidelity, on the surface, doesn’t appear to be doing any sort of radical work — at least that would be the case for Nick Hornby’s novel and Stephen Frear’s film. Yet, Hulu’s series is digging into issues of identity and its intersections inside hegemonic spaces, starting with the record shop and delving into the arena of mainstream television. What’s most alluring about the show, however, is how these systematic issues are interwoven through universal experiences of love, loss, and an excellent soundtrack — themes I hope to continue to see come season two.
About the Author
Natalie Geisel (she/her) is a senior at The George Washington University studying women’s, gender, and sexuality studies with minors in English and communication. Her love of writing sprouted from starting her fashion blog in high school, and her current written work focuses on topics of LGBTQ+ content, culture, and identity. Launching and managing Camp Thirlby was out of interest in intersecting gender and sexuality into the world of youth and wellness, hoping to add marginalized voices, like her own queer one, to an underrepresented community. When she’s not writing, she spends her spare time at dance rehearsal, attending local indie shows in the DC area, or finding the best cafes that serve oat milk. She’s passionate about inclusive sex education and sustainable fashion and thinks everyone should be, too. You can view all of her written work on her website.
