
2026 · Hayley Kiyoko
For a soft night in when you want to feel the flutter and heartbreak of falling for someone for the first time — comfort viewing with a real emotional undertow. Reach for it when you need a story about being young, scared, and brave anyway.
In rural Oregon, seventeen-year-old Coley is trying to find her footing after losing her mother, keeping most people at arm's length. Then she meets Sonya, and something sparks that neither girl has a map for — Coley wrestling with grief and self-doubt, Sonya navigating feelings for a girl for the first time. It's a first-love story about two teenagers learning to trust what they feel before fear talks them out of it.
Tender and aching in the way first love actually is — full of charged glances, near-misses, and the terror of saying the true thing out loud. It moves at the pace of a long summer, sweet one moment and bruising the next, and it treats teenage emotion as serious business rather than melodrama.
Hayley Kiyoko directs the story she first told in song and then in her own novel, and that lineage shows: the film runs on mood, music, and the unspoken, letting silences and body language carry what the characters can't say. It has the warm, intimate texture of a memory — small-town light, close faces, a soundtrack doing real emotional work.
Part of the recent wave of sapphic coming-of-age stories reaching mainstream screens, and a notable evolution for Kiyoko, who has carried this story across a decade from pop song to music video to novel to feature film.
Reception & legacy: how Girls Like Girls was received, argued over, and remembered →
Girls Like Girls is a feature-length narrative adaptation that closes a loop nearly a decade in the making: it draws its title, its emotional architecture, and its central romance from Hayley Kiyoko's 2015 music video "Girls Like Girls," which she wrote and conceived, and from her 2023 young-adult novel of the same name, which expanded that four-minute video into a full prose narrative. The film follows Coley, a seventeen-year-old from rural Oregon reckoning with the recent death of her mother, whose bond with Sonya opens onto first love and first self-recognition. As presented, the picture belongs squarely to the queer coming-of-age cycle — a summer-set, small-town intimacy drama in which desire and grief are braided together. A word of scholarly caution at the outset: as a very recent release helmed by a first-time (or near first-time) feature director, the film's production record is thin and, in places, not yet stabilized in the critical literature. This dossier grounds its claims in what is securely documented — the video, the novel, Kiyoko's authorial persona — and flags plainly where the archive does not yet support confident assertion.
The most reliable frame for understanding the film's production is its lineage as intellectual property. "Girls Like Girls" began as a self-authored music video in 2015, an unusually complete piece of visual storytelling for the pop format — it had a beginning, a betrayal, and a fight, and it circulated as a viral text far beyond music-video audiences. Kiyoko subsequently novelized that story in 2023 (published in the young-adult market), giving the property the long-form narrative spine a feature requires. A 2026 film therefore arrives as the third iteration of a single, tightly controlled authorial vision rather than as an outside acquisition.
Beyond that lineage, specific production facts — the financing structure, the distributor, budget, principal photography dates and locations, and casting — are not something the established record supports stating with confidence here, and this dossier will not invent them. What can be said responsibly is that the project fits a recognizable contemporary production pattern: a musician-creator with a large, loyal, demographically young and queer audience translating owned material into a feature, typically through the mid-budget independent or streaming-adjacent channels that have absorbed most LGBTQ+ coming-of-age filmmaking since the mid-2010s. Whether Girls Like Girls premiered theatrically, at a festival, or via a streaming platform is a question the reader should verify against primary release documentation rather than take from this account.
On the technological particulars — camera system, capture resolution, lens packages, color pipeline, delivery format — the record available here is genuinely insufficient, and precise specification would be fabrication. What is defensible is contextual. A film of this scale and era is overwhelmingly likely to have been captured digitally, on one of the prevailing large-format or Super-35 digital cinema systems that dominate independent production in the 2020s, and finished through a standard digital-intermediate color pipeline. If the film pursues the warm, sun-flared, naturalistic look associated with the summer romance mode (and with Kiyoko's own video work), that palette would have been built primarily in the grade rather than in-camera. These are reasoned inferences from period norms, not confirmed technical credits.
Kiyoko's antecedent work supplies the most legitimate basis for reading the film's likely visual method. The 2015 video favored a golden, close, body-attentive camera — youthful skin, sunlight, water, the texture of a hot afternoon — and organized its images around glances and physical proximity rather than spectacle. A faithful feature would plausibly extend that grammar: handheld or lightly stabilized coverage, shallow focus that isolates the two leads from their rural surroundings, and a reliance on natural and magic-hour light to render intimacy without eroticizing it prematurely. This is an interpretive projection from the source material's established aesthetic, however, not a description of confirmed shot design in the finished film.
The narrative's engine — self-doubt delaying connection — is fundamentally an editing problem: the film must sustain proximity and hesitation across a whole feature without the compression a music video enjoys. One would expect an unhurried cutting rhythm that lingers on reaction and withheld gesture, punctuated by the emotional accelerations of confrontation and disclosure. But the specifics of the cut, and the editor responsible, are not documented in the material available here.
The rural Oregon setting is doing structural work, not merely decorative work. Small-town isolation externalizes Coley's interior condition — grief, watchfulness, the sense of being unseen — and the physical environment (family home marked by a mother's absence, open landscape, the private spaces where the two girls can be alone) is the primary staging resource. The dramatically decisive spaces are intimate and domestic. Beyond this reading of the given premise, confirmed production-design detail is not available.
Given Kiyoko's identity as a recording artist, the soundtrack and score are the areas where authorial signature is most likely to be legible, and where audience expectation runs highest. It would be unsurprising for music — potentially including her own — to carry substantial narrative and emotional weight. That said, the specific score, song cues, and sound-design approach are not something the record here confirms, and no soundtrack credits should be assumed.
The film rests on two young performances and the chemistry between them; the premise gives each lead a distinct arc — Coley moving through grief toward openness, Sonya moving from uncertainty toward avowal. The casting and the performances themselves are not documented in the material at hand, so evaluation must await the primary record.
The dramatic mode is intimate realism organized around a coming-out and first-love arc, with bereavement as its underlayer. Structurally, the story runs on internal rather than external obstacle: the impediment to Coley and Sonya's connection is self-doubt and unfamiliarity, not a villain or an external prohibition made concrete. This is significant. The 2015 video, by contrast, resolved partly through external conflict (a boyfriend, a physical altercation) — a compression the format demanded. The feature, as synopsized, relocates the drama inward, toward hesitation, grief, and the slow labor of allowing oneself to feel. That shift from external to internal obstacle is the clearest evidence of how the property has matured across its three iterations, and it aligns the film with the "quiet," interiorized register that has become the prestige default of the queer coming-of-age film since Moonlight (2016) and Call Me by Your Name (2017).
Girls Like Girls sits at the intersection of romance and drama, within the specific cycle of LGBTQ+ coming-of-age cinema that consolidated in the second half of the 2010s. That cycle's touchstones — Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013), Carol (2015), Moonlight (2016), Love, Simon (2018), Booksmart (2019), Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) — established a set of conventions the film inherits: the summer or transitional-season setting, first queer love as a vehicle for self-knowledge, and a tonal preference for tenderness over trauma. Within that field, this film's particular niche is the sapphic, working-class-coded, rural American variant — a less crowded corner than the urban or period-costume strains, and one with clear kinship to films like The Miseducation of Cameron Post (2018) in its non-metropolitan American setting. Its most distinctive generic feature is provenance: it is a coming-of-age romance that originated as a pop-cultural text and carries that text's built-in audience with it.
The authorship story here is unusually clean and unusually central. Hayley Kiyoko is the film's organizing intelligence across every prior version of the material — she conceived the 2015 video and authored the 2023 novel — and now directs. This makes Girls Like Girls a rare case of total authorial continuity from three-minute pop artifact to feature film, and it invites reading the picture as the culmination of a decade-long single-author project rather than as a discrete new work.
Kiyoko's method, as established in her music-video and performance career, is confessional and identity-forward. Her public persona — she has been widely embraced under the affectionate epithet "Lesbian Jesus" by a devoted queer fanbase — is inseparable from an artistic practice built on visible, un-closeted sapphic desire, and her videos have consistently centered that desire with directness and warmth. A feature carrying her name as director should be read through that continuity: the film is less an adaptation of an outside property than an elaboration of the artist's own recurring subject.
On the key collaborators the prompt asks after — cinematographer, composer, editor, screenwriter — the honest position is that the established record available here does not confirm those credits, and this dossier will not manufacture names. The screenplay's relationship to Kiyoko's own novel is the one authorship question that can be posed with confidence (the film adapts her book), but even the adapting writer's identity should be verified against primary credits rather than assumed.
The film belongs to American independent cinema and, more specifically, to the contemporary wave of queer American filmmaking that has moved steadily from the margins toward the mainstream over the past decade. It is also legible within a distinct 2020s phenomenon: the migration of pop musicians and other non-traditional authors into feature direction, often via streaming and independent channels, bringing pre-built audiences with them. It does not belong to a formal aesthetic movement in the art-cinema sense; its lineage is thematic and industrial rather than stylistic-programmatic.
As a 2026 release, the film arrives at a moment when LGBTQ+ coming-of-age narratives have become an established, commercially legitimate category rather than a transgressive one — a normalization that both enables the project and shapes its stakes. It also arrives amid a documented cultural and political backlash against LGBTQ+ visibility in parts of the United States, which gives a sincere, affirming sapphic love story a charge it might not have carried in a more settled climate. The rural American setting sharpens that resonance. Any more specific claims about the film's reception of, or intervention in, the politics of its release year should be grounded in primary commentary rather than assumed here.
The dominant themes are legible from the premise and from the property's history. First and most centrally: self-acceptance and the recognition of desire — the movement from self-doubt to avowal that structures both leads' arcs. Second: grief and its entanglement with intimacy — Coley's mother's death is not incidental but the emotional ground from which her openness to Sonya must grow, so that mourning and first love become inseparable processes. Third: the labor of first love — the film treats connection as something learned and worked toward, not simply fallen into. Fourth, implicit in the whole enterprise: visibility and affirmation — the political and emotional value, especially for a young queer audience, of seeing sapphic love rendered tenderly and without punishment, a value Kiyoko's entire career has foregrounded.
On reception, candor is required: as a very recent film, Girls Like Girls does not yet have a stabilized critical record, and this dossier will not invent reviews, ratings, or box-office figures. Its reception is best understood as pending, and the reader should consult primary aggregators and criticism directly.
The influences on the film (backward) are, by contrast, well established. The most immediate are Kiyoko's own 2015 video and 2023 novel, which supply story, character, and tone. Beyond her own work, the film descends from the prestige queer coming-of-age cycle of the 2010s — Moonlight, Call Me by Your Name, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, The Miseducation of Cameron Post, Love, Simon — whose conventions of interiority, seasonal setting, and non-punitive treatment of queer desire it inherits. Older sapphic cinema (Carol, Blue Is the Warmest Color) forms a more distant backdrop.
Its legacy (forward) cannot yet be assessed and should not be overstated. What can be identified is its potential significance as a case study in a specific 2020s pathway: the full-length realization of a story that began as a viral pop text, authored throughout by the same artist. If the film succeeds, its most likely influence is as a template for that pathway — musician-authored properties matured across formats into features — and as a further entry consolidating the sapphic rural-American coming-of-age story as a durable subgenre. Those are prospective readings, offered as such; the historical verdict remains open.
Lines of influence