Is this technically a gay show? Even after getting through the whole thing, that's still kind of tricky to answer. There's never any physical intimacy shown between the two leads, not even a single kiss. What it gives you instead is something that goes way deeper than that. It traces an emotional bond that spans a full decade between two guys who are both dealing with their own baggage, and what they share basically amounts to being soulmates. The story moves across Japan, South Korea, and Berlin. Honestly, whether people want to call what they have a romantic relationship or not doesn't really matter to me. A relationship doesn't need a label like boyfriends attached to it to actually mean something. And closeness doesn't need to be physical to feel genuine. What this show captures is something quieter but way more powerful, a bond rooted in understanding, respect, and just showing up for each other. Across eight episodes, each running 35 to 45 minutes, this is one...
In addition to Liyah (from Decatur), we meet Daniella Carter (from Queens), Dominique Silver (from Manhattan), and Koko Da Doll (from Atlanta), and their stories are all different. Koko, for example, started when her family was homeless, and sex work was a way to get her mom and sisters out of the truck they were sleeping in and into a motel. Dominique, on the other hand, found her way into sex work after figuring out that's how a lot of her friends were suddenly able to afford their surgeries. But their stories all share certain elements, including a determination to live authentically, an impregnable pragmatism about the purpose of their work to get paid and an awareness of the constant threat of danger from clients for whom trans attraction is still a source of shame. "Violence doesn't happen before the orgasm, it happens after," says Dominque. These crude and candid stories are often harrowing, frequently hilarious, and sometimes heartbreaking, leading to sensitive and profound observations about Black culture, sexual relations, and gender identity. The most heart touching moment for me was when one of the girls speaks more tenderly and painfully about her realization of how—in transitioning—she became just another Black man abandoning her mother, as so many others had done: "That has to hurt, as a Black woman hurt by Black men, to give birth to a Black man, and he says, ‘I’m not here to protect you.'"). We also see interviews of a couple of men who are open and honest about their desires.
Throughout, the film, by capturing the candor, courage, wisdom, and vivacity of these women, puts shame to the hateful notion that there is anything fake or unnatural about being trans. Shot in ultra-high-contrast black-and-white, which makes the rich Black skin of her subjects glow against the bright halos of over-exposed backgrounds; this is a delight to watch. The women here talk about the ways they’ve been treated, their feelings about Blackness, their experience as sex workers, their thoughts on gender, and where they find joy. These conversations are frank and honest but accessible even if Kokomo City is the audience’s first time seeing a piece of media about trans sex workers. The way these women speak feels mundane and run-of-the-mill, despite the fact that they’re talking about trauma, societal norms, and truths that are rarely openly discussed. That speaks to these women, the lives they have led, and how they’ve had to process their lived experiences. Turning a critical lens on the prejudices that exist within their own community, these unvarnished comments attest to the complex reality of the Black trans experience. This is an important piece of documentary, especially at a time when transphobia, racism, and an alarming lack of empathy are rising. The movie sets the tone for people to open their hearts and be more compassionate, and these women being so transparent and visible has moved the needle much further along. (7/10)
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