Frodo & Samwise sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g...

Let’s be real: if Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy were released today — in our queer-coded, fanfic-fuelled, hyper-online media ecosystem — Frodo and Samwise would be canonically, indisputably, tenderly gay. We’re talking slow-burn, trauma-bonded, gardener-and-his-prince level soulmates. And not just in the Tumblr meta-analysis sense. In the actual text.

Because here’s the thing: it’s already there. And the only thing stopping it from tipping into capital-Q for Queer was the era in which it was adapted. Early 2000s Hollywood was allergic to anything even remotely resembling homoeroticism unless it was played for laughs or tragic death. But give these two hobbits a 2025 release date, and they’re getting the Heartstopper treatment with a side of The Last of Us emotional devastation.

Samwise Gamgee, patron saint of gay pining, spends three films carrying Frodo’s emotional baggage (and literal body) up and down mountains, across rivers, through spider lairs and Mordor’s ashy armpit — all while staring at him like he personally invented the Shire. His speeches are love confessions in all but name.

Come on. That line destroyed every closeted queer teen in 2003. That is not the language of platonic friendship. That is the language of someone who has spent sleepless nights imagining what it would be like to touch someone’s hand without flinching.

And Sam doesn’t just follow Frodo. He worships him. He looks at Frodo the way most people look at fireworks or the night sky —with awe, reverence, and a deep, aching belief in something bigger than himself. He cooks for him, protects him, praises him. He never once doubts Frodo’s goodness, even when Frodo does. That is not subtext. That is gay devotion in its purest form.

Frodo, a soft boy with big subtext, bless his traumatised heart, spends most of the trilogy either crying, getting stabbed, or blinking wide-eyed at Sam like he just realised the person who’s loved him most has been right there all along. He holds Sam’s hand in moments of life-or-death. He curls up next to him in a cave like it’s the only warmth left in the world. And that final boat scene? Frodo looking at Sam with tears in his eyes and whispering, "It’s time, Sam." That’s not just goodbye. That’s I love you but I can't stay. That’s the queer goodbye before one of them becomes immortal (literally).

Frodo is a character soaked in sensitivity. He carries the Ring, yes, but he also carries grief, guilt, and longing. His dynamic with Sam isn’t transactional. He needs Sam not just for survival but for grounding. For tethering. For love he doesn’t know how to name. In 2025, a screenwriter would have clocked that and leaned all the way in.

If LOTR were rebooted in 2025, we’d get:

• Actual on-screen intimacy. Hand touches with slow zooms. Shoulder touches that linger. The kind of stuff that makes TikTok sob at 2AM.

• Dialogue with emotional clarity. No more "Mr. Frodo" every five minutes — we’d get, "I need you, Sam. Not because you're brave. Because you're you."

• Critically acclaimed queer rep. Think Interview with the Vampire energy: lush, gothic, tragic, romantic. And everyone would be tweeting, "Is this about war trauma or boyfriends?" Yes.

• A flashback montage. Young Frodo watching Sam from his window, laughing as he falls in a mud puddle. Sam watching Frodo read in the grass, eyes wide with unspoken wonder. Cue a Phoebe Bridgers cover of a First Age elvish ballad. We would die.

This isn’t about slapping a pride flag on a franchise for fun. It’s about recognising and reclaiming the deep emotional intimacy between men that’s been de-sexualised, de-romanticised, and sanitised for decades. Frodo and Sam are a love story — one shaped by loyalty, pain, sacrifice, and unspoken devotion.

Reframing them as queer doesn’t diminish their bond. It illuminates it. Because queer love is often about the unsaid. The touches that mean everything. The quiet ache of "I would die for you," with no expectation of return. And that’s what Frodo and Sam give us, in spades.

Also, let’s not ignore the meta. Elijah Wood and Sean Astin’s real-life chemistry is off the charts. Their convention panels are fanfic gold. Their behind-the-scenes interviews are pure fluff. In 2025, the promo tour alone would launch 100k fan edits and a thousand gay awakenings.

In conclusion, no straight men would go to Mordor like that. They crossed a continent without maps, snacks, or emotional regulation. Sam packed salt for cooking. Frodo brought poetry. That’s not straight. Straight men would have called for eagles. They would have started a group chat. They would not have spooned in an active volcano.

In 2025, this isn’t subtext. It’s just text.

Sidebar: The Hotness Was Simply Unreasonable

While we’re here, let’s not pretend we weren’t all just a little bit feral for the entire Fellowship ensemble (and their ethereal counterparts).

Cate Blanchett as Galadriel? That voice could command the seas and my entire nervous system. Liv Tyler as Arwen? Every slow-motion hair flip was a spiritual experience. Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn? Wet, sword-wielding, morally conflicted daddy. Orlando Bloom as Legolas? Weaponised twink energy with a bow and a hair straightener.

Watching LOTR in 2025 would require a content warning for sexual tension and bone structure. And we’d thank them for it.

What next?

Watch Interview with the Vampire (2022) for tender queer yearning in a fantasy-adjacent world.

Read The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller for soulmates, war, and the queer longing that kills.

Listen to "Hobbits and Homoeroticism: A Love Story in the Shire" episode on the Queer as Folklore podcast.