I May Destroy You

I wasn’t sure if I was going to write about this show.  In fact, I had already decided that I wouldn’t.  It was never up for debate whether I would watch it.  I was committed to viewing the whole thing the minute its PR machine swung into action and my daily trawling of the Guardian app for things to read that are relevant without being depressing (favouring articles about slavers’ statues being thrown into rivers at the expense of content relating to Tory gammonflakes personifying genuine incompetence and alarming inhumanity) saw me clicking on anything and everything to do with Michaela Coel.  Regular readers will have noted in my post on Chewing Gum that I have strong feelings about Michaela.  I’m not being funny (and, indeed, those same regular readers (both of them) will know I rarely am) but I am committed to her being recognised with national treasure status.  Friends are still only just uncovering Chewing Gum in lockdown, but if you’re expecting the same laughs generated by our Tracey, you’re in the wrong boxset.

I wasn’t going to write about it because I wasn’t sure I would have anything of value to say.  But now I am definitely writing about it.  I should have expected this, but I May Destroy You is a deeply affecting piece of television.  I have no choice but to throw my unwanted voice into the mix of unpopular online commentators looking to influence others’ behaviour.  As such, I urge everyone to watch this.  I’m not sure if the BBC felt the same, scheduling broadcasts of the twelve half-hour episodes in late-peak Monday-and-Tuesday pairs over the last few weeks, though the whole thing was available on iPlayer throughout.  We’ll get into why it’s a necessary watch, but I’ll first take it upon myself to tell you how to watch it as well.  Put your phone in a different room, settle down somewhere comfortable, give the screen your full attention and, most importantly of all, make sure nobody else is in the room who might make you feel awkward about some of the scenes that will ensue.

Like her previous hit, I May Destroy You has roots in Coel’s own real-life experiences.  However, if I were to say what it’s about, I would need to cop out with a list of things.  First and foremost, it deals with consent, particularly in the sexual sphere, and more specifically, the lack of it.  Whether this absence relates to hard-and-fast undeniable crimes, or shifts into a spectrum of permissibility that examines the interplay between deception and reticence, it’s a journey that is gruesomely fascinating.  The hooks that this series gets into you latch in deeply and quickly, and soon the onscreen action captures your attention to such an extent that you won’t even have twitching thumbs for your phone in the next room.  It’s a challenge on all levels.  Yet, it’s also entertaining, rewarding each provoked thought with a gem of universality, a raised eyebrow of humour or an eyeful of delicious delicious cinematography.

I promised myself I wouldn’t gush till the fourth paragraph, but it’s too late now.  You’ll get the point though: I rate this show.  Coel, whom I’d watch do anything, plays the central role of Arabella, a new writer approaching the twilight of her young adulthood.  She can follow her impulses to make bad choices, both enabled and thwarted by her two best friends: wannabe actress Terry (Weruche Opia) and Grindr addict Kwame (Paapa Essiedu).  These three things are brighter and younger than I’ll ever be, forming a sparkling trilogy of city-dwelling points of intrigue.  Through their lenses, we examine the discourses on consent that form our various plots.  But we look at so much more: race, gender, relationships, ambition, creativity, youth, family, heritage.

As if these three didn’t have mileage enough, they are surrounded by a seemingly endless swirl of supporting cast.  Coel creates the unique situation where you want to find out more about every incidental character and supporting role.  They are not just there as a foil or device to contrive along our next plot beat.  Why is Susy Henny so manipulative?  What has become of Theo (credit to Harriet Webb for genuinely making me forget I was watching acting)?  Why can’t I work Simon out at all?  In an honest reflection of London’s diversity, the glorious casting of such talent really lands the point that we’re all sick of seeing so many white people on TV.  In the neat packaging of the twelve episodes, you’ll find yourself wondering what happened to so and so from an earlier instalment, proving that Coel has created a universe of such credibility that it presents as truly real.  But, in throwing out the generic rulebook about how a drama should be constructed, that universe is also as enhanced as the colours of Arabella’s various wigs.  Suddenly we’re in Italy, then we’re back in the noughties, then we’ve moved on from those people to these people – keep up.  Coel doesn’t need your rules.

I only hope we continue to give Michaela Coel carte blanche to tell her stories.  The burden on one person to produce and replicate such quality TV must be enormous.  Even the soundtrack feels laced with sly nods to a greater understanding of her own message (great to hear Babycakes again).  She’s taken on sexual assault and revenge, creating in the process something that demands everyone’s attention, dancing between gravity and levity, but ultimately making you hold your breath through each episode.  This is intense viewing and I would like part two straightaway please.  And this is why I wasn’t going to write about it, because my only response would be to ask for more.