Wings, Lost Films, and a Kiss That Still Resonates

When people talk about LGBTQ+ moments in classic Hollywood, the conversation usually begins somewhere in the 1930s or 1940s, often in coded dialogue, lingering glances, or the carefully crafted innuendo of the Production Code era. Yet one of the most fascinating moments in early cinema happened before the Hays Code truly tightened its grip on Hollywood morality: a kiss between two men in the 1927 silent film Wings.

Most people know Wings because it won the very first Academy Award for Best Picture (then called “Outstanding Picture”) at the first Academy Awards ceremony. It was a massive World War I aviation epic, famous for its aerial combat scenes and ambitious filmmaking. What many modern viewers do not realize is that near the end of the film, there is an intimate scene between the two male leads, Jack Powell and David Armstrong, played by Charles ‘Buddy’ Rogers and Richard Arlen.

In the scene, David lies dying after being mistakenly shot down by Jack. As Jack cradles his friend in grief and desperation, he kisses him. It is brief and tender, not presented as overtly romantic, but emotionally intimate in a way that still surprises audiences nearly a century later.

Was it intended to be a “gay kiss”? Probably not in the way we would define it today. The scene is framed through the intense emotional bonds forged by war and male friendship. Yet to dismiss it entirely as devoid of queer meaning would also ignore the realities of both cinema and audience interpretation.

Hollywood has always had gay men within it—actors, directors, writers, costume designers, composers, and producers—even when they were forced to remain hidden. Silent-era Hollywood especially existed in a somewhat freer space before the stricter moral policing of later decades. Audiences, too, were more complex than historians once acknowledged. Gay men sitting in darkened theaters in 1927 may very well have recognized something in that moment that straight audiences interpreted differently. Queer audiences have always learned to read between the lines, to find fragments of themselves in stories never openly meant for them.

That is part of what makes the scene so fascinating. It works on multiple levels at once. For mainstream audiences, it was tragic camaraderie and devotion between brothers-in-arms. For others, perhaps it hinted at something deeper and more emotionally honest than Hollywood would later allow itself to show for decades.

The scene also reminds us how fluid emotional expression between men could sometimes appear in early cinema before later cultural anxieties hardened those boundaries. There is vulnerability in the moment, tenderness, physical affection, and grief expressed openly. Even today, many films struggle to portray male intimacy with such sincerity.

For many years, however, there was a chance audiences might never see Wings again at all.

Like countless silent films, Wings was once considered a lost film. The original prints existed on nitrate film stock, which was notoriously unstable and highly flammable. Nitrate film deteriorates over time, becoming brittle, sticky, chemically unstable, and eventually capable of spontaneous combustion under the wrong conditions. Entire film archives and movie vaults were destroyed in catastrophic nitrate fires during the early twentieth century. My own museum has had many nitrate reels of film in the collection over the years. Several were sent to the Smithsonian Institution to be digitized, while those that remained are stored in a special freezer designed to slow deterioration and reduce the danger of spontaneous combustion. Archivists and curators quickly learn that you never want to open an old film reel and smell vinegar. That sharp vinegar odor is often a sign of “vinegar syndrome,” a chemical breakdown process that signals the film is actively deteriorating.

When a surviving print of Wings was discovered in the archives of the Cinémathèque Française in Paris, archivists understood immediately how urgent the situation was. The film had to be copied as quickly as possible from nitrate stock onto modern “safety film” stock, which used acetate rather than nitrate and was far less dangerous and far more stable for long-term preservation.

Without that preservation effort, one of the most historically significant films ever made—and one of early Hollywood’s most unexpectedly touching moments of male intimacy—might have vanished forever.

That is one of the beautiful things about film preservation. We are not simply saving entertainment. We are saving cultural memory, emotional history, and the quiet moments that speak across generations. A nearly hundred-year-old silent film can still surprise us, still move us, and still make us wonder what certain audiences may have seen hidden between the frames.

And perhaps that is part of the enduring magic of Wings. Beneath the spectacle of airplanes and warfare lies a fleeting moment of tenderness that continues to resonate long after the silent era faded away.

Greatly Beloved Were You to Me

“When David had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.” 

—1 Samuel 18:1

There are certain images that stay with us—not just as works of art, but as moments of recognition.

For me, David by Michelangelo has always been one of those images.

I still remember the first time I saw him in person in Florence. I had just arrived, and visiting the Galleria dell’Accademia was one of the very first things I did. I walked into that long gallery, and there he was—at the end, illuminated, larger than life. I remember looking up with a kind of awe that felt both artistic and deeply personal. It wasn’t just the mastery of the sculpture—it was presence. Humanity carved into stone.

When I first started this blog, I chose David and Me by Steve Walker as my avatar. It reminded me of myself the first time I stood before David—looking up, searching, captivated. Back then, I even physically resembled the figure in Walker’s painting. I’m older now. It has been over twenty years since I last visited Florence, and I’ve changed in ways I could not have imagined then.

But the awe remains.

And because of that fascination with David, I have always found myself drawn not only to the figure in marble, but to the story in scripture—to the love between David and Jonathan.

“Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul.”—1 Samuel 18:3

From the very beginning, their relationship is described in language that is intimate, binding, and profound. Their souls are knit together. Their love is named openly. A covenant is made—not out of obligation, but out of love.

“Jonathan made David swear again by his love for him; for he loved him as he loved his own life.”—1 Samuel 20:17

This is not casual affection. This is not distant loyalty. This is a love that insists on being spoken, reaffirmed, and held fast even in the face of danger.

“They kissed each other, and wept with each other; David wept the more.”—1 Samuel 20:41

There is tenderness here. Physical closeness. Emotional vulnerability. Grief shared without restraint.

And then, in the end, there is lament.

“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”—2 Samuel 1:26

Few passages in scripture speak of love with such intensity. So what are we to make of it? Was this admiration? A deep and abiding friendship?

Was it something like the bond between Achilles and Patroclus, or between Alexander the Great and Hephaestion—relationships that have long existed in that space between friendship and something more?

Or could it have been a love that was intimate in ways the text does not fully define, but does not deny?

The truth is, we will never know with certainty.

But we can pay attention to the language. The Hebrew does not shy away from words of love, of binding, of covenant. It does not diminish their connection. And yet, across centuries, translations and interpretations have often been shaped by the assumptions and discomforts of those doing the translating.

Some render the relationship in ways that feel safer—contained, strictly platonic. Others allow the emotional depth to remain, even if they stop short of naming it outright.

Which raises a different question: not only what was their relationship, but what are we willing to see in it?

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, this story resonates deeply.

We know what it is to form bonds that others do not understand. We know what it is to love in ways that are questioned, reinterpreted, or denied.We know what it is to hear our stories explained away.

And yet, here in scripture, the love between David and Jonathan is not erased. It is spoken. It is remembered. It is grieved.

I think about that when I think of David—both the young man of scripture and the figure carved in marble.

Strength and beauty, yes. But also vulnerability. Connection. Love that dares to speak its name, even in a world that may not fully understand it.

Maybe we don’t need to resolve the question of what, exactly, David and Jonathan were to each other. Maybe it is enough to let their story remain open—to allow it to hold possibility.

Because for those of us who have been told that our love has no place in sacred story, even the possibility matters.

Even the words themselves are enough:

Greatly beloved were you to me.

A Day for Fools

📰 Breaking News 📰 

The U.S. president signed an executive order declaring April 1 as “Donald Trump Day.” It will be a day when no one is allowed to speak a word of truth.

April Fools!

Thank goodness no holiday is being named after him—though, if we’re being honest, I wouldn’t entirely put it past him to try to declare a holiday named after himself. If he did, April 1 would be an appropriate day, since he is the biggest fool of all.

April 1 has always been one of those quietly delightful days—one where the rules loosen just a little, where humor takes center stage, and where we’re all reminded not to take ourselves too seriously.

The origins of April Fool’s Day are a bit of a mystery, but the most widely accepted explanation takes us back to 16th-century Europe. For centuries, many people celebrated the new year not on January 1, but around the end of March, often culminating on April 1. When Charles IX of France reformed the calendar in 1564 and moved the start of the new year to January 1, not everyone got the memo—or chose to follow it. Those who continued celebrating in early April were mocked, teased, and labeled “April fools.”

Over time, those teasing traditions evolved into something more playful. In France, people still celebrate poisson d’avril, or “April fish,” where children try to sneak paper fish onto someone’s back without them noticing. It’s harmless, a little silly, and entirely in the spirit of the day.

There’s also a deeper thread that connects April Fool’s Day to older spring traditions. Across cultures, the arrival of spring has long been associated with unpredictability—weather that can’t make up its mind, seasons shifting in unexpected ways. Festivals like Holi in India or Hilaria in Rome embraced laughter, disguise, and inversion of social norms. In that sense, April Fool’s Day feels like a continuation of something ancient: a moment when the world turns upside down, if only briefly.

Some of the most famous April Fool’s pranks in history are almost works of art in their own right. In 1957, the BBC aired a segment showing Swiss farmers harvesting spaghetti from trees. At the time, spaghetti wasn’t widely familiar in Britain, and many viewers believed it. Some even called in asking how they could grow their own spaghetti trees. It remains one of the most famous and successful pranks ever broadcast because it was delivered with complete seriousness.

Decades later, the BBC did it again, this time with a nature documentary revealing that penguins could fly. The visuals were convincing, the narration authoritative, and for a moment, it felt just plausible enough to make you wonder.

In 1996, Taco Bell took out full-page ads claiming they had purchased the Liberty Bell and renamed it the “Taco Liberty Bell.” People were outraged—until they realized it was April 1. The company later revealed it was all a joke, and the publicity was priceless.

And in more recent years, Google turned April Fool’s Day into something of an annual tradition, launching elaborate fake products like “Google Nose” or “Gmail Motion.” These pranks were often so well executed that people almost wished they were real.

Here in Vermont, we get an extra helping of fools—just a few months later. In Burlington, the “fools” come out around August 1 for the annual Festival of Fools, when street performers take over Church Street Marketplace and City Hall Park. Jugglers, acrobats, comedians, and buskers fill the streets with laughter and spectacle. It’s not about tricking people so much as delighting them—but it carries the same spirit: a celebration of humor, surprise, and a willingness to be entertained.

What all of these traditions and pranks have in common is not just deception, but delight. The best April Fool’s jokes don’t humiliate; they invite us in on the joke, even if it’s only after the fact.

And maybe that’s why the day endures.

In a world that often feels heavy, serious, and unrelenting, April Fool’s Day offers something rare: permission to laugh, to be a little gullible, to enjoy the absurd. It reminds us that not everything has to be optimized, productive, or even entirely true.

Sometimes, it’s enough to be surprised.

So if someone tries to send you on a ridiculous errand today, or you find yourself momentarily believing something just a little too strange to be real—take it in stride.

After all, we’re all fools today.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

To Be, or Not to Be

Act III, Scene I, Hanlet

By William Shakespeare 

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.

About the Soliloquy

From Hamlet by William Shakespeare, this is perhaps the most famous meditation on existence ever written. Its opening line—“To be, or not to be”—has echoed across centuries because it asks a question that is both universal and deeply personal.

Hamlet is not simply pondering life and death in the abstract. He is weighing suffering, endurance, injustice, heartbreak, and uncertainty. He imagines death as sleep—peaceful, even desirable—but immediately complicates that idea: “To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.” It is not death itself that troubles him, but what might come after.

That uncertainty—the “undiscover’d country”—is what keeps him, and us, from choosing escape over endurance.

There is something remarkable about how Hamlet’s question anticipates a later philosophical inquiry. More than half a century after Shakespeare, René Descartes approached existence from a very different angle, asking not whether life is worth living, but how we can know that we exist at all.

Descartes famously wrote:

Cogito, ergo sum — I think, therefore I am.

But this was not simply a clever phrase. In his Meditations, he begins by doubting everything—the senses, the world, even his own body—until he arrives at one undeniable truth:

“I am, I exist—is necessarily true whenever it is put forward by me or conceived in my mind.”

Where Hamlet is overwhelmed by existence, Descartes is trying to prove it.

And yet, the two meet in a fascinating way.

Hamlet asks: To be, or not to be?

Descartes answers: You are—because you are thinking.

Hamlet’s struggle is emotional, rooted in suffering and fear of the unknown. Descartes’ is intellectual, rooted in doubt and the search for certainty. But both reveal something essential about being human: that awareness—our ability to think, to question, to reflect—is both what proves our existence and what makes that existence so complicated.

Hamlet cannot escape the burden of consciousness. His thoughts do not free him; they weigh him down, turning action into hesitation. As he says, “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.”

Descartes, on the other hand, finds stability in thought. Even if everything else is uncertain, the thinking self remains.

Between them lies a truth that feels deeply human:

We exist because we think—but thinking is also what makes existence so difficult.

And yet, we continue.

About the Author

William Shakespeare (1564–1616) is widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. His works include tragedies such as Hamlet, Macbeth, and King Lear, as well as comedies, histories, and poetry that continue to shape literature, theater, and culture around the world.

Though details of his personal life remain somewhat elusive, Shakespeare’s writing reveals a profound understanding of human nature—our desires, fears, contradictions, and complexities. His characters feel timeless because they grapple with questions we still ask today: Who are we? What does it mean to live well? And how do we face the unknown?

Hamlet stands as one of his most introspective works, offering not just a story of revenge and tragedy, but a deeply philosophical exploration of existence itself.

Sometimes, I miss teaching Shakespeare. Then I remember what it was like to deal with students “learning” Shakespeare—or more accurately, ignoring what I was trying to teach them about Shakespeare—and I remember why I left the high school classroom for the museum world.