Long Live Montero: How this directing duo put Lil Nas X's singular story on screen

With the 2021 release of his debut album, Montero, rapper and performer Lil Nas X (born Montero Lamar Hill) joyfully proved that, despite the unparalleled success of his novel country-rap single "Old Town Road," he was more than just a stunt queen. He was an audacious pop cultural force to be reckoned with. 

In the wake of growing reactionary opposition to the recently won rights of queer and trans people, the chronically online artist doubled down, releasing his single "Montero (Call Me By Your Name)." Referencing André Aciman's 2007 gay romance novel Call Me By Your Name — and its subsequent film adaptation —, the song featured unabashedly queer, sexualized lyrics. It was also accompanied by a visually lush music video, where X was depicted in a number of biblically-inspired scenes, including riding a stripper pole down to the depths of Hell as well as giving a lap dance to Satan himself.

For many critics and fans, it was the moment that truly cemented both the artist's stardom as well as his potential as a much needed queer cultural iconoclast. Having come out only two years earlier, Montero felt like a defiant, boisterous, playful declaration of the self, a refusal of any sort of coy ambiguity outside of—of course—the artist's ability to continue to troll the public like no other.

A mix of high energy concert footage and more diaristic moment, the new documentary Lil Nas X: Long Live Montero — directed by Carlos López Estrada (Blindspotting) and Zac Manuel (Descendant) — follows Lil Nas X as he embarks on his 2022 tour of the same name. 

The film is filled with wonderful intimacy and poetic magic realism, but X's trademark comedic distancing is there, too. His frequent deflection of the sincere in favour of the absurd is a tactic that is respected by the filmmakers, allowing for a deeply human portrait of an artist who is both coming out and coming into himself, as both an individual and a performer in the public eye.

Speaking with CBC Arts' Sarah-Tai Black following the film's premiere at last year's Toronto International Film Festival, Estrada and Manuel offered insights into the making of the film and what it means to offer a model of possibility for young Black queer life.

While watching your film, I was thinking a lot about what it means to be young — to film a young queer person in this way — and still allow space for the "not knowing" of life, the changes and growth that come with age. What was your thinking in terms of crafting this love letter, not just coming out and finding one's self, but that incredibly expansive moment in a queer person's life where it feels like coming out is only the beginning?

CLE: I didn't have any figures to look up to that made me accept myself in the way that I think Montero has become for so many young people. We interviewed so many young fans who spoke about these moments of acceptance and transformation that they've experienced and how Montero's music has really facilitated that [process] for them. It really fills me with so much emotion. I think it's so special that he's giving young people some assurance that many of us didn't have [when we were their age]... I don't think Montero would ever call himself a mental health advocate, but I think he really is. If any young person who is struggling with these questions of identity gets to find this movie, gets to find a little bit of solace and encouragement, that's the greatest thing that could happen to us as filmmakers.

I know how deeply important it is for younger audiences to be able to see someone like Montero live in the way that he does, and how that kind of representation is a threat to some people. The fact that there was a bomb threat ahead of the screening [at TIFF] speaks to that. 

How do you strike a balance between the vulnerability and importance of what he's doing with this kind of self-effacing, goofy, ironic energy that Montero experiences in the wake of such hatred?

CLE: Speaking of the bomb scare, it's horrible that anyone would have to endure that type of fear just because of who they are. But Montero finds ways to acknowledge the horrors of those moments while also making a joke of it at the same time. He has that ability to really find lightness and joy in the darkest spaces. Hopefully the day will come when that's not necessary but, until then, it's such a beautiful way to view life. With that threat we got just a taste of what he must endure everyday and it was really sad, but then, because of how he handled it, it felt really empowering. 

ZM: The expectations for people from marginalised communities — especially in positions of power — is to become a martyr. To be someone who can take a lot of bullshit on behalf of everybody else. I think what's dope about Montero is that he is a weapon. He uses humour in a way that disarms all of the hate and he refuses to be a martyr, a victim, or weakened in any way. 

CLE: Those moments of hate become opportunities for his creativity. He comes up with these clever, disarming, and totally respectful responses that, in being kind and a little goofy, completely undoes those hateful arguments.

There's clear gratitude for our Black queer and trans ancestors in the film, we see a lot of references to our political and pop cultural elders like Marsha P. Johnson and Little Richard. Can you talk a bit about translating this sort of Black queer worldmaking to film? 

ZM: There were hints throughout the process of Montero's awareness and acknowledgement of his place within history and the legacy of other queer Black performers and artists. We have to give a lot of props to our editor, Andrew Morrow, for seeing those moments and pulling out another dimension from them in a way that spoke to the heart of what Montero was saying. He does come from a long legacy of people who came before him and paved the path for him to be who he is.

CLE: Andrew's influence on this movie cannot be understated. He is an author of it alongside us. In addition to understanding the humour and heart of the film, he connected to it on a deep level. There's a lot of him in this film. It would be nowhere near as complex without his work.

One of my favourite parts of the film is what you've called "the transformational confessional"—these intimate moments with queer and trans folks of all ages and backgrounds talking about why they are Lil Nas X fans, as well as sharing their own personal experiences. Can you talk a bit about the importance of these kinds of reflections in the film?

CLE: The thing that we all noticed from the beginning was that Montero's shows feel different. Itfelt like you were leaving with this really, really meaningful human experience where you just felt so full. The people you were around started to feel like part of your extended family. It was very deliberate. His music, of course, talks about these themes, but the show's storyline very much structures itself along this transformational narrative. It really landed with the audience, and we knew we had to have them speak about their own experiences and growth. 

They really opened up with us, and it was important to involve his audience in this as much as Montero does. If you look at his social media, he makes a real targeted effort to personally connect with the people who care about him and his music. We wouldn't make a movie without them. We want them to feel like this movie is made with, for, and about them.

ZM: No one wanted to leave!

CLE: That's exactly what happened. The show would end and it would turn into a block party. People would pull out bluetooth speakers and we would all hang out and dance and celebrate for another hour. The show ends, but it doesn't really end. Even when Montero is long gone, everyone still wants to be together with one another.

Lil Nas X: Long Live Montero starts streaming Jan. 27 on Crave.