written by Nic Porter
Jules Latimer wants me to feel at ease. I can tell right away. They offer a warm smile, a self-deprecating joke, a generous laugh. They’re wearing a plain white T-shirt, and behind them hangs a slightly crooked picture of a woman napping on the steering wheel of a red sports car — Flaming June by Sir Frederic Leighton meets ’80s car catalogue.
Off the jump, Latimer is charming in a way that feels authentic and easy. I later learn “Cool Jules” was hard-won. Their story is one of coming out while being raised in a religious household, of finding belonging in unexpected places, of being one of the only Black, queer, masculine-presenting people in elite acting spaces. It’s about learning how to be relied on, then becoming that person for others. About discovering they have the power to build the world they always wanted.
Before Rustin or Fire Country, before directing, Latimer was a self-described small-town misfit with a bad attention span, a teenage musician who imagined themself as “if Jimi Hendrix and Tracy Chapman had a baby,” a Juilliard student, a Juilliard dropout, a restaurant worker, and eventually, a Juilliard student again.
The first time I saw Latimer onscreen was in Rustin, the Oscar-nominated film about queer icon Bayard Rustin and the deliberately obscured work behind the March on Washington. As Joyce Ladner, a real-life student activist, Latimer is watchful, loyal, and deeply committed to the movement around her. It’s easy to see why this was their first major film. They carry that same groundedness, that sense of taking everything in with compassion, even themself.
In conversation, Latimer is kind, disarming, and quick to laugh. There’s also a discernible caution, a sense that they feel protective of Eve in Fire Country, of the fans who love her, and of their family, given and chosen. Still, Latimer is incredibly candid. They talk about discipline with the clarity of someone who had to learn it the hard way, about queerness with the honesty of someone who has lived through its costs, and about love with the softness of someone still surprised by how good it can be.
You’ve said school wasn’t really your thing, but something shifted when you found theater and began performing.
I liked history, but I didn’t like school. I had a really bad attention span. My mom always put me into theater, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do full time. I loved music.
I did a talent show at my school because they gave the top prize $500. I lost to some dude who did Cirque du Soleil. But the drama teacher came up to me. “You’d be a way better musician if you did theater.” That made so much sense. We did this play, and I got so into it. My character was in the military, so I shaved my head. I fell in love with acting after that.
The drama teacher told me, “You know, you could go to school for this.” Nah, I wasn’t planning on going to school. I was playing in my band. But I come from a family of musicians, and I saw how hard that road can be too. I asked what the best school was. She said Juilliard, and I knew my grandmother had gone there for music.
I was such a misfit. I took the SATs one good time, but I don’t even remember what I scored on them. I auditioned at all these schools, and it was “You’re great, but your grades suck.” When I went to Juilliard, I was shocked. I thought they were going to say, “There’s no way we can admit you to this school.” But they just kept saying yes.
At Juilliard, they just saw me and saw that there was potential that I could grow into something. That was the first time in my life, I really felt a sense of home. I felt a sense of investment. I felt a sense that they thought I could really be somebody.
It’s kind of a rigid school, and I eventually grew to understand discipline and have a love for it.
You came out in high school around the same time you were moving deeper into music and theater. Can you talk about that?
I came out when I was 15. Bumpy road with my parents. I was religious through a good chunk of high school. In transitioning into doing music and doing theater, I told my mom that I was gay. And that was pretty horrible. I grew up in a religious household. I got kicked out of my house, lived with some friends. Finally my dad let me stay with him.
My parents weren’t really supportive of any of this, but eventually my mom came around a bit. She had the resolve of, “You know, you’re the only daughter I have.” So when I wanted to go to school and be an actor, she got behind that. But I think it was really conflicting for her because she was like, ”You know, you’re really good at this one thing, but I wanted you to be this other thing. I wanted you to be good at that. ”So when I dropped out of Juilliard I felt like I failed her again.
But being in New York, I was able to sort of garner a chosen family, and that was super hopeful.
Did New York feel like the first place where you could really build a queer life?
It started mainly in New York. It’s funny because I was the only Black queer masculine-presenting person in my class, and in the whole acting division. I think that’s partially why I was shocked they admitted me because I know that’s unique.
But it was hard. Even at school parties, if I flirted or connected with a girl and people saw me, I’d hear about it a lot, which felt embarrassing. So I tried to find that sort of community outside of school, but I found it quite difficult because there just weren’t a lot of people who were out as actors.
I got into jazz at Lincoln Center at a nightclub called Dizzy’s. The guy who ran that club was this tall, gay, Black dude named Michael Mwenso. He was like, “Well, you need to come and shake your ass here.” And I was like, “Bet. I’ll do that.”
But I didn’t really go to gay clubs yet, and I was still primarily in straight spaces dating straight women. I’d say it was… informative [laughs]. I’m not sure I’d recommend it. But, I didn’t really make that turn to be around queer folks for real, for real until I was in my mid to late 20s.
What was it like discovering that and maybe becoming more at ease?
That happened when I dropped out of Juilliard. Around that time, I met a fashion designer going to school at Pratt. They were more comfortable in those spaces, and helped me come into my own. That was my first sort of encounter with queer community.
They showed me everywhere. They took me to all the clubs. They were my first like – they’re a queer person and I’m a queer person – relationship.
I was away from school for about two and a half years, and I felt so free. I had struggled with drugs in college, but I got sober during that time. I felt like I was actually getting to know myself, for real.
You ended up leaving Juilliard and then auditioning again. Which was more intimidating?
It was scarier the second time. The first time, there were about 500 people at the audition, and I knew only about 10 people would get called back. At every turn of that audition process – which went for about three months – I was kind of laughing, like there’s no way they’re going to choose me. There were so many special people there.
The second time, I was really fighting embarrassment. I was fighting my ego because I was like, I know I’m good enough to be here. Obviously, I’d gotten in before. But I was fighting to really show them a different version of me.
I learned how to work. I learned discipline. I was working in kitchens. I was working 80-hour weeks as a waiter, as a prep cook. I wanted them to see that I was ready to be a leader. I was ready to actually be present.
I did Hal in King Henry. I suck at Shakespeare, but I chose his speech anyway. It was about Hal trying to prove to his father that he could be the king. And I’m trying to prove to this school that I have the ability to stand on my two feet and really fight to do this for a living and for the rest of my life. I’m not only committed to the program, but I’m committed to myself and my sobriety.
The head of the department was there. Afterwards, he was crying. He got up, hugged me, said, “I love that piece so much. I’m so happy to see where you are right now. You are much stronger than when I first met you.”
That cemented my dream real life role as somebody that people can rely on.
How does that experience show up in your life today?
It’s so hard to quiet the noise that you think other people are thinking about you. We live in Los Angeles near where I can go for a hike, and I take one every other day. And I’m not getting any better at it. Steep ass hills and I hate it. But I love doing it because once I get to the top of the mountain, it really does remind me how much of a battle it is to quiet the noise, to stop, see that you made it, and go back down the hill. And try again tomorrow.
You worked on Rustin with an incredible cast. What was it like, having that experience so early in your career?
I remember the first day was meeting the other student activists, and we all bonded. There were a lot of queer folks in the cast. Talk about a hell of a time.
Colman [Domingo] is amazing. He’s a theater guy, and he’s a leader. Talk about taking notes from somebody who was a phenomenal number one. Colman was hilarious on set. He’d make people dance. And then as soon as George called action, it was on.
Glenn Turman gave me one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever gotten. He was like, “You have a director’s mind. But when you’re acting, you’ve got to turn that off. You’ve got to be present.” He was like, “But you’re going to be a director.” And I was like, no, I’m not, but I appreciate you.
To have just directed my first episode of television, I really thought about that a lot because he noticed me watching people’s movements, watching the camera. I was trying to learn.
On Fire Country, you’re a leader onscreen as Eve, and now behind the camera too. What was that process like?
Our co-creator Tony Phelan was on Grey’s Anatomy, and he implemented a program for folks to shadow the directing process. I took him up on it. Then, I got a phone call from my producer “Everybody keeps saying that you’re ready to direct. We want to offer you a slot.”
So I didn’t really have to fight. But when she offered me the slot, I said, “let me think about it…” [laughs]. Our show is really hard to shoot. I knew for a fact that I’d be in the episode and having to figure out how to shoot it. I was worried I’d be stretching myself too much. But then I watched my castmates do it and realized, I can do this. I just need to bite the bullet.
It was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I was walking the sets, walking my blocking, making sure I was on the right side of the line. My superpower is that I’m able to take the script and interpret it from the actor’s perspective. I came up with so many ideas for how to fix problems with the writing. I dove deep and discovered that directing is the most incredible thing ever.
What has the response been from queer viewers who see themselves in Eve?
I was in Austin for one of my partner’s shows and maybe four or five Black queer masc-presenting people came up to me. They talked about being in the Marines and being in service. I was so moved by how connected they felt to Eve. Eve is so nerdy with relationships, but at her core, she is somebody you can rely on, someone you can trust. They’re like, “Yo, you’re crushing it. I feel like I’m watching myself.”
I don’t think anybody watches anything that I do, so I’m always shocked. It’s really overwhelming and I’m also just so grateful. It’s different because I’m a theater kid. You work in an ephemeral space. But to be a part of something that is in people’s living rooms every Friday night – they have such an intimate relationship with you. It’s a dream come true. I’ll give them all the time in the world.
You mentioned that romantically Eve can be very awkward. Was that important to you?
At first, they wanted me to be like Rico Suave, really cool with the ladies. I didn’t like that. I think people struggle more with love, and particularly queer folks struggle more with love, with making that commitment. That, to me, feels true to my other queer friends and what they experience. I don’t want her to turn into this serial monogamist, which is what I am. I think it rings true to people, just the complications of navigating being queer in a small town. That’s another thing I hear from a lot of people.
A small town and when that one person shows up, it’s “oh, this feels great.” And then it’s, “wait this is horrible.” And then what do you do? Dealing with the loneliness of that.
What about in real life? What resonates more for you?
Out in the wild, Rico Suave is not how I would describe myself. My partner [Kat Cunning]--we met online– remembers exactly what I was wearing on our first date – a striped mint green outfit with Nike shorts and tall socks. I was so immediately enamored with them that I was just trying really hard not to sound dumb.
I think the thing I told them was that I kept coaching myself while talking to them. I was like, “Self, now it’s time to break eye contact because you’re lingering for a little too long.” I’m really bad when it comes to that actually happening. Out in the wild, no. No, no, no, no.
I have to ask about the three proposals.
I saw that headline and I was like, damn, it’s so excessive. [laughs] We’d gone back and
forth about getting married, and I was like “I don’t want to do that.” Little did I know, over the course of nine months, Kat got a ring made and was planning the proposal. When I saw the ring, peace came over me like I’ve never felt. Kat proposed to me in a hot tub under the stars in Joshua Tree. I’ve never cried so much in my life.
It just felt right.
While I was directing, I started planning to propose back to them, but I didn’t know where to begin. I wanted an intimate moment, but I knew in Kat’s dream world we’d capture the proposal. So I planned both. I proposed to them at sunset on a boat with Dirty Dancing playing in the background. After dinner, I brought us out to the beach to propose to them again with fireworks in the background, a photographer, a videographer. It was a whole thing.
My partner’s in the other room and I’m pretty sure they’re like, “no, it was three proposals and it was beautiful.” Okay. That’s the quote. That’s the takeaway. [laughs]
I like to pride myself on being a private person. I am so happy and I am so in love, and I always go back and forth about how much to share or not to share. But I think the thing that pushed me is that if I were a younger version of me and I saw somebody that looked like me, who was able to find love and to declare it publicly, younger Jules would have been super proud because it’s just something you don’t see.
I do like being loud about it, especially being Black and queer. I think we need to celebrate ourselves any chance we can get. And be loud about it!
You’re both creatives and performers. What's it like to find your person in someone who understands that world?
It’s a dream come true. I always wanted to find someone I could wake up with every morning and not know what the day would bring. That’s very true with them. I’m always surprised by Kat. I’ve found a partner who I’m in awe of, especially their creative motor, how they can come up with stuff. I never see them afraid of doing things.
The first time Kat invited me to a gig, I knew they’d be in this really cool, sexy outfit, and they told me, “Okay, I’m inviting you to my gig. You need to look nice.” [laughs]
They’d never seen me all cleaned up, so I went and bought a really expensive suit. I got a great haircut. They didn’t think I would go to the degree that I did. They were looking for me throughout this huge ballroom. When they found me, they just fell to the ground, “Oh, you look so amazing!” I had a black and white tux on. They were so enamored by me.
Then, I was just celebrating them. Look at them! This whole ballroom is just eating out of the palm of their hand.
I’m dating a rock star and it’s a dream come true. I never thought that would happen.
How do you think Kat would describe you?
They think I’m so funny and ridiculous. They know I love them a lot, but I keep them on their toes too. I think Kat loves that I’m a really secure person. I don’t get jealous, and I’m really cool, calm, and collected.
My mom used to always call me Jules Cool.
I grew up stressed out a majority of the time, and I don’t want other people to feel how I felt. We moved all the time, and I always wanted to keep it cool for my mom. My mom’s a single mom. I just always wanted to be secure for her, be there for her. And that just kind of became part of my personality.
Even on set, I’m just reliable. I’m a “there when you need me to be” type of person. Through a lot of trial and tribulation, I’ve become Cool Jules.
What does community mean to you now?
Finding community comes in really surprising ways for me. I have this chosen family that doesn’t look like me. But I have an actual family that I have so much history with that is hard and complicated to move through. And yet, I love being there for people and showing up for them.
Community comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors. As long as we have allies and we have people who love us, who genuinely want to show up for us, that’s queer community.
What advice would you give to young queer people who maybe feel isolated, who don’t see or know people who look like them or love like them?
If you admire people in the queer community, be brave and reach out to them. As far as mentorship is concerned, people I’ve looked up to, who have consistently been there for me, have been the ones I reached out to and shared that I really appreciate what they’ve done for me.
That’s the best part about being creative. You get to make the world that you always wanted to be in, or that you’ve been dreaming about being in. If there is a “lack of” in your environment, then there's definitely the power to create it.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity. Photos 1, 2, and 5-8 by Kat Cunning.
Fire Country airs on Friday nights at 9:00 p.m. ET/PT (8:00 p.m. CT) on CBS, and is available to stream on Paramount+
Find Jules on instagram @juleslatimer
