The 2013 marriage of game developers Naughty Dog and entertainment giant Sony Computer Entertainment spawned the phenomenal zombie-apocalypse game, “The Last of Us.” Inspired by the bleakness of Cormac McCarthy’s book, “The Road,” and the classic apocalyptic game “Resident Evil 4,” “The Last of Us” launched June 14, 2013, and was revered for its captivating narrative experience and tense survival gameplay. The video game’s story was then brought to the screens of Home Box Office (HBO) users as an incredible streaming television series on Jan. 15, 2023. The show went on to receive several nominations for awards, which included 24 Primetime Emmy Awards and three Golden Globe awards, as well as becoming the first video game adaptation to be nominated in major Emmy categories.
Seven of the 24 Emmy nominations the hit show had received were for its third episode, “Long, Long Time.” Featuring Nick Offerman as Bill and Murray Bartlett as Frank, the episode focused on the romantic relationship between the two side characters, deviating from the main story. Its shift from the action-packed conventions of the zombie show was where “Long, Long Time” shined –- a tragic yet hopeful romance within a violent, desolate world. In all, the episode is representative of the modern evolution of masculinity in storytelling.
To understand “Long, Long Time” in the space of masculinity, one must first observe conventions of where masculine identity was conceived. Much insight can be drawn from screenwriter Max Landis’ theory on what killed vulnerability, a non-masculine trait, in action movies. Landis theorizes how the Sept. 11 attacks had pushed Western media to stray away from vulnerable, effeminate heroes like the male protagonists from the 1984 “Ghostbusters” or the 1993 “Jurassic Park,” posed as passionate intellects, and reinforced “winner” male protagonists. The entertainment space influenced the idea of traditional manhood through male characters that were portrayed as indestructible and dominating by focusing on what Western media felt they needed: victory.
This idea of the winning male character would seemingly never incorporate homosexuality. One can strongly speculate this correlation exists due to the extremely effeminate portrayal of gay male characters and the connection of tragedy to LGBTQ+ narratives in media. Tracing back to the Hays Code, a self-imposed guideline for films and TV released between 1934 and 1968 to prohibit positive depictions of gay characters, queerness was associated with loss and death.
However, with changing times came new ideology and the rise of effeminate male heroes had come on the rise. Tropes like the male caretaker had gained popularity with serieses such as Disney’s “The Mandalorian,” Netflix’s “Arcane” and “Stranger Things,” as well as meek male characters like Waymond in “Everything Everywhere All at Once.” Western media is now valuing its more human male characters because now, more than ever, is an era that prioritizes human connection and relationships. With contemporary movements for mental health awareness and the ever-growing desire for inclusivity, it can be strongly speculated that modern audiences don’t want winners –- they want protectors, fathers and guardians.
These concepts and insights can be applied to “The Last of Us’” male side character, Bill, which can be further understood through the changes in the character from the 2013 game to the 2023 series. “The Last of Us” conveniently presents a clear evolutionary line for its narrative through the adaptation from the source material. Bill is an incredibly traditionally masculine character in the games. He is presented as a true survivalist who is cold and logical, to the extreme point where he believes love to be a hindrance in his mission to stay alive: “In this world, [love] is good for one thing; getting you killed.” In the zombie action-horror game, he goes so far as to abandon his partner, Frank, to die, painting him as a tragic figure and the worst possible reality of a person in this environment.
Bill’s story is emboldened by the apocalypse genre itself, where these stories seek to show how human nature will lead to violence and terror. Yet, this type of narrative is strongest when demonstrating how, despite the overwhelming odds, stories where characters find love and meaning can persist in this genre. Thus, Bill is a cautionary tale for whoever is playing “The Last of Us,” insofar as he concentrates on purely surviving which leads him to abandon love and live life without any purpose. His character is lonely and paranoid, devoid of any human connections and having no concern for the future, but always focused on being the winner in this apocalypse. Bill survives, but he is purposeless, angry and miserable.
The game’s narrative already establishes how winning is not enough through its iteration of Bill. But, with HBO’s version of “The Last of Us,” Bill’s character deviates powerfully through the subversion of traditional masculinity through his homosexuality. In the first five minutes of Bill’s introduction in the show, he still seems to feed into the stereotypical man; hard country music blasting as he drives his pickup truck, building electric fences and deadly traps with power tools and watching keenly at his multiple camera angles through a screen, with a ready gun. After he saves Frank and helps him, the forming romantic relationship becomes a powerful tool in reshaping how his character is seen.
In “Long, Long Time,” the show greatly diverges from the game with Bill effeminately opening up to Frank with multiple moments of emotional vulnerability. Every single time Bill and Frank interact, the scenes are beautifully laced with Bill’s intent to protect him. Where in the video game, Bill closes off his heart, he opens it in the series, subverting the cynical expectation of human nature in the apocalypse and the traditional masculine “winner” trope into a hopeful and humanistic story.
What seals “Long, Long Time” as a representation of the new ideals of masculinity is its affirmation of queer romance in its ending. Bill and Frank, in an apocalyptic setting and against all odds, marry each other in the year and die together after a long, fulfilling life. In direct rejection of the queer tragedy, Bill states “I’m old. I’m satisfied. And you were my purpose.”
