This is late, but my friend and I went to the for-your-consideration event for RWRB. It was a trip.
But it was a work function first. Members of the TV Academy—and their plus-ones, if they received one—gathered in a studio in the sweaty belly button of Hollywood. If you were a normal Angeleno like u/sixfivesteve (the friend), you sat in your car blasting the AC while the valet line bumped forward one car length at a time. If you were from a walking city, you pushed past the slow-moving tourists, hoped the flies circling a mysterious stench didn’t lay eggs on you, and checked in with an attendant who wore a concerning amount of black for someone whose job was to stand in direct sun.
There was a (life-changing) screening of the movie, a panel, and a reception. There was also retail politics. Here’s what happened.

Whoever put together the playlist knew what they were doing

The vibe before the screening was jolly. There was a whole bathroom conversation about 1) therapeutic cannabis, because you’ve gotta, and 2) people everyone has run into.
Ushers handed out mini-servings of popcorn that felt stingy as hell but were probably just nutritionist-recommended serving sizes. Steve grabbed candy and water that came in slightly less environmentally disastrous packaging than the stuff you’d get from most grocery stores.
Whoever put together the playlist had done their homework, by which I mean they’ve spent time on the non-broey part of the internet.
This is where I tell you that the event featured strip club music, by which I mean they played “Pony” by Ginuwine. Before and after the screening. It was as if whoever set up the playlist knew that some attendees’ brains—and bits—might explode, reconstitute themselves, and implode again under stimulus (the movie), work event be damned.

The screening was a case for seeing movies in theaters for the sound. Because…

You could hear the beginning of the blow job.
You could hear the beginning of the blow job.
You could hear the beginning of the blow job.
In the space of about a second, I went from living in a world in which that scene had a lil’ zipper sound to one where the zip was followed by a flat, wet drag. The sound had texture. It almost had temperature.
Y’all, I am forever changed. Always see movies in the theater. Nolan, Tarantino, et al have talked about this. They’re right.
Listen to this man before he teaches you a lesson.
Something else I’d seen but never before heard while watching the movie in home setups: Bea says “no!” when Henry declines Alex’s call in the meeting with Philip, Tommy, and other palace staff. She doesn’t just mouth it.
Her interjection interrupts Philip mid-sentence, who glares at her and says, “As I was saying…”
It’s also just fun to hear the audience’s reactions. Some of the laugh lines:

• “You’ve been wanting him to dick you down for years.”
• “How many guys have you been with?” “Whoa.”
• “He is. 😏” An audience member let out a sound like a hyena choking itself with a belt.
• “I’m down.”
• “I mean, who says ‘make love’ anymore? Are we gonna listen to Lana del Rey while we do it?” You guys, he said do it. Because I'm twelve.
• “The B in LGBTQ is not a silent letter.” Man, politicians’ kids must hear all kinds of pamphlet-speak at home.
• “Little lord fuckleroy.” Sarah Shahi is going from lesbian icon to overall queer icon with this role. Zahra/Sarah got massive applause during the end credits.
• “We have got to get you a book on English history.”

Somehow no one laughed about Stephen Fry’s pronunciation of homosexual. Hummusseggsual. It’s hummus but it’s also seggs-ual.
Speaking of sexual, the crowd held its breath during the sex scenes.
Emmy voters have watched plenty of sex scenes with their colleagues, but after the bravely-repressing-a-wobble acknowledgement of I owe you an explanation, after ~very bad things~ in Alex's room, after the phrase “make love”—which deserves to be not just roasted but incinerated—the Paris sex scene was…relief? Revel? Revelation?
Look at me trying to talk around the effect the scene (may have) had on the room. People were off-gassing oxytocin. Estradiol. Testosterone. Since it was a work event, the weight and texture of the hush was what you’d get if everyone on a group camping trip was trying to discreetly watch porn. (To paraphrase the dad from Easy A, high-end porn—for governors and athletes, but porn nonetheless.) But I project.

Uma Thurman did an Ariana Huffington laugh during the panel

I laughed and laughed and laughed.
What should I say about the panel? That everyone’s features were somehow both full and sharp enough to thin-slice the cured meat of your choice? That Taylor Zakhar-Perez made a small breeze every time he blinked? That Nicholas Galitzine was a diffident dumpling? That Uma Thurman was an intellect? That Rachel Hilson was lithe and and fresh-faced and ready for any cosmetics campaign you threw at her—which, incidentally, has always described Uma Thurman? That Matthew López was extremely cute? That Greg Berlanti was the dad/uncle some of your friends wanted as a mentor and others had wholesome crushes on? That Sarah Schechter was the friend’s cool older sister made good? That if you put the RWRB cast into an early Almodóvar movie, the result would be credible?
Whatever I can say about the panel, you can get more straightforward coverage and footage of it elsewhere, including this subreddit. (Check out the post from the woman who got so horny from watching the movie that she started going after her husband nonstop.) I did a search on Tumblr for “RWRB FYC panel” for you. You’ll get Galitzine saying “the throes of love.” You’ll get TZP talking about matcha. You’ll get Casey McQuiston—that perfectly cast nonbinary creator-god of the RWRB universe—describing their brush with psychological collapse when TZP tried to have a conversation with them while in costume as Alex Claremont-Diaz. Enjoy.

The campaign trail is paved with selfies

Campaigning for nominations—and eventually, awards—is not so different from running for public office. The panel ended and everyone was set loose on the panelists and the “immersive for-your-consideration experience.” (Sure.)
Getting to the cater waiters to pinch mini-tacos, meh crabcakes, fish and chips with tartar sauce instead of vinegar (why?), and tiny cake cubes was like wading upstream. The crowd was moving in the opposite direction. Why?
…oh.
Galitzine was taking photos with people. Elsewhere in the immersive whositwhatsit, TZP was doing the same thing with a swarm of his own.
https://preview.redd.it/rkp916mxzu1d1.jpg?width=1818&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=e01a4cf99ae5163c766e8bc284f219526b450e3a
https://preview.redd.it/hzco2eev4v1d1.png?width=750&format=png&auto=webp&s=922d4d097f214d4bb9a5747de05b76cfe579d23b
I’d thought they were on display during the panel, but no. This was what they were there for. They were there to shake hands, talk shop briefly—with occasional promises to follow up later—and take selfies. The reward for all this would (theoretically) be nominations and votes. This was a campaign stop. On-theme for RWRB. Cue montage of Alex Claremont-Diaz making fundraising calls.
Can you get a charley horse in your face? I bet the actors had them, but that’s campaign life. Forward Together and all that.
Matthew López and the producers wandered the floor. At one point, I heard Casey McQuiston tell a small group about how they didn’t have any particular in with agents or publishers. It often is about flinging yourself out there, whatever you want to do.

A vote for RWRB is a vote for softness (stop reading here to avoid egghead content)

While we’re speaking in campaign terms, who and what is RWRB for? It’s for people who love love. It’s for people who love fun—who are fun, dammit. It’s for people with uomosexual tendencies (uomo = Italian for “man”). It’s for the occasional lucky straight guy. Most of all, it’s a refuge from straight-guy culture.
Here’s what I mean. The two RWRB panels and the Roast of Tom Brady happened in the same week-long time frame. If you’re reading this, you’re almost definitely in the tank with RWRB. The Roast is straight-guy culture cranked up to eleventy billion by comparison.
If we go by the Roast, straight-guy culture looks like big men the color of medium-rare steak yelling dick jokes from the dais—but using the less funny and more aggressive and self-regarding “cock” instead. It looks like Gronk pretending he can’t read and using Kim Kardashian’s genitalia to make a beef pun. It looks like Nikki Glaser, the token straight-woman comedian, being a good sport while the men in attendance called her ugly.
Don’t get me wrong. I watched and laughed. A good dick joke takes skill, and some of them were damn good. I even thought Julian Edelman was hot for 20 minutes. But the tonal difference between the Roast and the RWRB event—to say nothing of RWRB itself—was jarring. Straight-guy masculine culture is so committed to not being soft. Don’t go soft is basically its motto.
Meanwhile, RWRB is about—among other things—softness. Henry Car-Crash-of-Last-Names gives the object of his attraction the up-and-down, but in a way that’s more endearing than objectifying. He doesn’t do the hard stare. He’s all-in on Byron, Austen, Zadie Smith, and…Streisand. Unlike Gronk, Henry can read, and he reads with relish.
So does Alex, of course. The American is sweet and proactive. When he develops feelings for a friend with (many) benefits, he’s matter-of-fact about it and doesn’t get defensive or evade his emotions.
In other words, Alex and Henry’s masculinity is soft. Soft masculinity acknowledges the dimensions of a person beyond how well they can slam into other men (sporty or sexual) or women (sexual). For a lot of people, soft masculinity is a fantasy and a gift.
It can be a gift to anyone. Look at Steve. He finds that version of masculinity intoxicating, even as someone who’s already a winner of the masculinity lottery, at least as defined by large parts of straight-guy culture. He’s white and tall and strong and has hoes (houses), not in every area code—sorry, rappers who talk about that kind of thing—but some good ones. He loves RWRB. Everything about it. (Lest you thirsty beasts start having big thoughts about him, he’s married.)
Steve even inserted himself into the height contest/debate Galitzine and TZP sometimes have for lulz. He had a “you’re wearing lifts” conversation of his own. Not with TZP. With Galitzine, who joked about wearing lifts himself. It was still not enough to top Steve. (How funny would it be if this is when I reveal that Steve is Conan O’Brien? To be clear, he’s not. Besides, Conan O’Brien is sixfourconan.)
— — — —
The next night, while Steve and I were still catatonic from staying up until alarming hours, another panel took place in front of a crowd of people who didn’t need to consider anything about RWRB. They were already real-ass, excited fans who saw Alex and Henry—and for some of them, Galitzine and TZP—as secular saints of cheerful-romantic-triumphant horniness. Avatars of the kinds of guys you could have a crush on in middle- and high school without raising alarms (unless you were a boy being raised by homophobes, in which case I’m sorry).
The audience on that second night got the news of a sequel from Matthew López, who spoke directly to them from the stage. They cheered and whooped and began their vigil for round two. Sí, se puede.