Mr Loverman star Ariyon Bakare: ‘The struggle for LGBTQ+ acceptance continues in the Caribbean community’

I had just two days to read award-winning Bernardine Evaristo’s Mr Loverman, a book waiting in the middle of my ever-growing ‘to-read’ pile, before my audition for the BBC adaptation of the book. Time wasn’t on my side. But the audiobook was. So, I closed my eyes and listened to James Goode’s masterful reading. Chapters of tears followed by chapters of laughter and more tears. Beautiful storytelling with unflinching honesty at its core.

Each character and setting was so familiar to me: it reminded me of the uncles growing up, who lived with their best mate in a one-bedroom apartment. And there was Hackney’s Ridley Road market, streets that I had walked up and down many times with my family and then again when I was homeless. There are no guns, drugs or expensive shoot-out scenes – just humans being Black humans. I was in. Signed, sealed, delivered. 

Produced by Fable Pictures, scripted by Nathaniel Price and directed by Hong Khaou, it stars Lennie James as Barrington Walker, Sharon D Clarke as Carmel Walker, and myself (yes, I got the part) as Morris de la Roux.  

A couple of Antiguan men of the Windrush generation represent a different approach to love. Exploring the taboos of sexuality, masculinity and identity within the Caribbean community with Barrington Jedidiah Walker’s coming out story being the story’s heart. Despite massive progress, the struggle for acceptance continues in the Caribbean community. In Mr Loverman, Barry spends over 60 years hiding his sexuality – acting as a traditional masculine patriarch but secretly being in love with his best friend Morris.

The message is clear in Nathaniel Price’s adaptation: A universal LGBTQ+ coming out story unfolding in countless families where rigid definitions of “manhood” and the role of a “great father” are unclear. 

Sadly, this mindset still exists. I was reminded of this recently while endlessly scrolling through social media – no judgment; it’s my guilty pleasure, I admit – when a reel titled “Great Fathers Of The ’80s” popped up on my feed. “I’m a child of the ‘80s,”  I thought, “raised by a single immigrant dad. So, yeah, I’m totally on board.” But little did I know what I was about to be hit with. 

“Dad, I’m gay!” a young, Black teenager cries out to his father in the reel. The father, a broad-shouldered Black man sporting an impressive Tom Selleck moustache stands over him, his large belt doing most of the talking. Delivering blow after blow. Then, he throws his son out onto the street like garbage, with his mother watching on approvingly. The father’s actions were brutal. But what hit me even harder were the comments. “This is how great fathers make great sons,” “Gay? Nope, no room for that in our community,” and similar vile sentiments praising the father’s behaviour while dismissing the boy’s vulnerability. 

Seeing those comments took me back to Barry’s world in Mr Loverman. In our story, Barry has spent his entire life hiding his true self, constantly fearing rejection from his family and the wider Antiguan expats. Fearful of being labelled as “half a man” or a “poofter”. To cope with the stigma and justify his  hetronormaltive lifestyly facade,  Barry even invents “Barry-sexual” because it’s easier to create a new sexual orientation than to admit he’s just a gay bloke in denial.

For men of Barry’s generation – and even for some today – masculinity was tightly policed. It became a breeding ground for toxic masculinity and queerness was not an option. A father’s “greatness” was defined by how well one could enforce conformity, a mindset that Mr Loverman challenges head-on. Barry’s double life has left deep emotional scars on his wife, Carmel, and their children, who have internalised their struggles with self-acceptance. We see the high cost of living a double life that isn’t true to oneself and the damage that secrecy and denial can do to everyone around them.

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Barry’s, and to some extent Morris’s story, unfolds in a landscape where homosexuality was illegal for much of their life in Antigua. In 2022, Antigua decriminalised same-sex relations. And in many countries around the world, it’s still illegal to be gay. This history of criminalisation adds to their generational silence surrounding sexuality.

“You are a homosexual, Barry!” Morris spits out to a rather indignant Barry in the trailer. When it dropped, the trailer for Mr Loverman was loud, proud and unapologetically queer. 

Sharing the trailer on social media is a special moment for any filmmaker; it’s like introducing your child to the world for the first time. I waited for the comments. For the most part, heart emojis were followed by high praise all recognising the importance of telling an elderly queer story. But then came the adverse reactions. Vomit emojis to phrases like ‘Broke Black Mountain’ and even calls for God to ban the BBC and some so personal that it triggered me to write this article. Comment from those, who I can only describe as ‘fragile snowflake trolls’ whose morality and decency melt and evaporates at anything LGBTQ+, and who are fiercely opposed to the queer narrative. 

I realised then that by playing Morris, a weight hung to this role that I couldn’t run away from. A role that stands eyeball to eyeball with the culture of homophobia ingrained in the Caribbean and African culture. A role that challenges. And a role that you can’t whip with a belt or throw out into the dark street or quiet.

Barrington and Morris are roles that refuse to shy away from tough questions about how we deal with queerness, no matter what your age, race or creed. When I reflect on those comments, I realise how paradoxical they are. They revealed how close to the surface hate often lies and how eagerly some people are ready to release it. If someone’s actions are based on division or resentment, does it not distract from the core values of the traditions they uphold?

Africa and its diaspora have always embraced queerness long before colonial forces imposed rigid definitions of love and identity. Across history, societies like the Azande of Central Africa and the Kikuyu of Kenya celebrated diverse relationships – from same-sex bonds to gender-fluid roles. These traditions remind us that our heritage is rooted in fluidity, matriarchy and love beyond boundaries. The term “homosexual” didn’t even appear in the Bible until 1946, further proving how far external forces have shaped views on love. Embracing our legacy is an act of pride, and reclaiming our right to love is an act of freedom. 

Hong Khaou, our director, was determined to give a voice to the invisible voices. He is forcing viewers to rethink what makes a father great. It’s a conversation starter, pushing even the snow-flakiest of Black folks to talk, listen, and confront their prejudices. Lennie James’s sensational, thoughtful and delightful portrayal of Barry will hopefully encourage those individuals from different backgrounds – who rarely see their cultures portrayed in such a way on screen, those individuals who are forced to live in the queer shadow – the best we can hope for as artist is societies recognition of their fear and help them make sense of their life so they can live their authentic selves. In turn breaking down the giant generational walls of silence and denial. 

For me, Mr Loverman is more than just a tale of love, family and secrecy. It’s a call to action. A call to look closely at the stories we tell. Rather than celebrating fathers who enforce silence, let’s honour those who – like Barrington – ultimately find the courage to live truthfully, even if the life jacket of authenticity is reached later in life. It’s never too late, no matter what side of the boardwalk you walk. Whether you’re an actor, singer, politician or sportsman, we can all adopt a more honest, authentic version of ourselves and live “Barry-sexual” life without fear of prejudice and with pride.

Mr Loverman airs on BBC1 on Monday nights and is available as a boxset on iPlayer.

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