Euphoria

Following on from I May Destroy You and Normal People (let’s forget about Final Space for now), we’re continuing this week our run of blogging ourselves silly about outstanding drama.  Fair enough, this show was on a while back, so I’m well behind the curve here (we can even call it a second wave unless people find that triggering), but, realising I wasn’t making the most of my Sky subscription, I decided to go for something available on Sky Atlantic here in the feudal state of the UK (where you can be a lord if you’re mates with the government).  I’ll admit that Chernobyl was top of my list when it came to getting more into the channel that became the British home of Game Of Thrones, but people had been telling me about Euphoria since it first broadcast.  However, what they said was kind of off-putting.  They talked about club kids.  Whatever these are, they’re not inherently interesting.  I myself am immune to FOMO and therefore haven’t been awake past midnight for many years.  However, TV shows about people who do go out at night can offer a useful vicarious route to the thrills, chills, spills and queuing up outside in the cold to pay real money for the privilege of going inside a place experienced by the kinds of people who do have social lives.  The Euphoria advocates also talked about drugs.  Again, not a part of my life, unless you count the crazy crazy highs of pre-dawn crossfit sessions, but I suppose I thoroughly enjoyed Narcos, even if I only used my post on that show to point out that, currently, buying illicit substances funds criminality.  As such, my expectations of Euphoria were that it would simply be sequences of drugged-up teenagers raving to house music under the glow of colourful lights.  Superficial, yes, but potentially just what I was after.  For some reason.

Euphoria is so much more, however, and I am now grieving for the fact I have finished all eight episodes.  Set in East Highland, presumably a generic American neighbourhood that feels a bit Californian but could be anywhere, this is a show about high school teens that elevates the trope to new (drug-fuelled) highs.  I’m sure I could research the actual location, but I’m bashing this out during a lunch break, and the one thing about working from home (slash living at work) that I’ve learnt during lockdown is that nobody is allowed a lunch break, so speed is of the essence – something by now we’ve hopefully grown used to in my weakening week-on-week prose.  At the heart of our stories, we have the main character of Rue.  She is our guide to this world and the point around which a lot of it revolves.  Rue is played by Zendaya, who is an actor who doesn’t need a second name.  I think there has been news about her, but I’ve never really seen it.  What I have seen, though, is her mesmerising and heart-wrenching performance as Rue.  Freshly back from rehab following an overdose, Rue is a victim of America’s addiction to prescription drugs.  A lot of our narrative tension comes from her palpable struggles with keeping clean.  Intersecting with these are the challenges of her budding friendship with Jules, a brightly dressed new student who forms a kindred spirithood with our Rue.

This would be compelling in itself, but I have to confess that Rue’s arcs are, to me at least, some of the least interesting in the whole of Euphoria.  They’re still more gripping than 99% of TV out there, but it’s the surrounding cast of other high school classmates that really hooked me in.  Rue, however, serves as our introduction point, often narrating the opening scenes of each episode, sparing no production expense in bringing to life scene after scene depicting various tableaux of childhood dysfunction.  Every family we look into is a hot mess and a product of visceral pain.  Whether we’re introduced to McKay’s (father’s) dreams of NFL stardom (a dramatised Last Chance U of sorts) or given a whistle-stop tour of the origins and undoings of Maddy’s incredible confidence, you can’t take your eyes off the screen until everything is divulged.  This renders the ensuing plot points all the more significant, serving as a grounding for our teens’ otherwise reckless actions.

This structure also permits Euphoria to tread tired old high school and growing up themes in a way that completely resists any definition as generic.  Instead, we are awash in originality as we consider the blossoming (ugly head rearing) of such onset-by-adulthood innocence losses, including but not limited to: gender, sexuality, body image, parental disappointment, mental health and many many more.  Seriously, all your favourites are here.

Somehow, this plays out with a high level of stylisation while retaining a contrasting grittiness.  Euphoria is at once dreamlike yet realistic.  And yes, I’ve just said the same thing twice, but with some of you I really feel a need to labour the point.  There’s nothing for me to criticise with my usual archness.  Sure, maybe I could do without so much importance being placed on eye make-up/furniture, but it’s an aesthetic that gets confidently owned.  Euphoria loves a tracking shot as much as I do; we’re either following a single character on the march, or watching a beautifully choreographed ensemble march play out in varying directions.  This adds a compelling and masterful intensity to the glorious unravelling that brings together all the characters’ narratives in the fairground episode.  No doubt the originality of the soundtrack helps glue the individual strands to each other.

Everybody, this is the show Skins wishes it had been.  I am desperate to find out more about the whole gang.  I want to be told more about the sadness behind Cassie’s eyes.  I want to know if Kat will persist in her delusion that she is using sex as a weapon on others rather than on herself.  Why do I feel such sympathy towards Fezco?  Can we get more of Lexi (whether dressed as Bob Ross or not)?  And dare I ask: how can things end between Nate and his father?  So let’s view my gushings here as a well-deserved round of applause for something that will guarantee you at least eight evenings of entertainment and thought-provoking diversion, all while looking pretty nice on your telly and leaving nobody uncertain that the televisual golden age rumbles on.

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.

Fleabag

It seems I’ve been going around handing out national treasure status to people willy nilly.  So let’s just recap those who have been adorned with this accolade so far on Just One More Episode.  I’m pretty sure I would have said this about Julia Davis for her work in Nighty Night (and Gavin & Stacey), plus there’s Michaela Coel from Chewing Gum.  Surely there were others, but I’m not about to read through eighty-something blogposts to check.  And it doesn’t even matter, anyway, as we are today adding another name to the list.  Step forward and wink at us cheekily, Phoebe Waller-Bridge.  There are three reasons she could be here.  The first is Killing Eve, but I haven’t actually watched that yet, as I kind of find assassins a bit unappealing (it’s a meh career, like being a surveyor) and, although it’s trapped in my iPhone on the iPlayer app (ha – two things starting with a little i) I just haven’t got around to it.  She also did Crashing, but I haven’t seen that either…  No, this week, we are doing Fleabag.

We’ll skip over my viewing’s genesis here (a friend literally asked if anyone had seen it, and I immediately died inside because I hadn’t), and get straight into why it’s great.  Fleabag is unflinchingly honest.  The opening scenes of episode one, series one revolve around our (anti-)heroine, Fleabag, actually called Kate, as she receives what is essentially a booty call.  She bends over backwards to accommodate her gentleman caller, rushing to get her body ready for his standards before finally opening the door and putting just as much trouble into pretending the whole preparation performance was no trouble at all.  I was floored by the honesty.  It felt ballsy and painful, laying bare the fact that, even in 2016, women were still busting a gut to perpetuate the myths men expect of them.  The issue was treated with even more transparency, thanks to Waller-Bridge’s pieces to camera.  That’s right, just like Miranda’s end-of-pier winks, Fleabag breaks the fourth wall and interacts directly with the viewer.  We are let in on her secrets, which in turn boosts her universality through intimacy and proximity.

But why is Kate called Fleabag?  It seems to be a mixture of her lack of self-esteem and her conviction that she probably isn’t a good person.  I don’t know about you, but I sometimes look at myself and conclude that I am a bit of a shit.  The other week, when returning from dinner with friends, a large man had collapsed in the street.  Some Chinese tourists seemed to be on the case with wrestling his gargantuan frame from the concrete and A&E was just around the corner.  My friends were desperate to stop and help, but I refused to break my stride (I wanted to go home and watch Netflix).  My pals were appalled at my assertions that it was probably the man’s own fault, the Chinese seemed to be coping and, as mentioned, A&E was just around the corner.  Well, like me, and like all of us, Fleabag seems to end up doing bad things.  The first series gradually reveals in flashback the poor choices she has made, costing her dearly and leading to her current predicament.

There’s laugh-out-loud comedy, driven by the awful characters that constitute her family.  But, because of the above, this is only ever a knife edge from being sliced into desperate sadness.  The show’s origins as a one-woman show blow my mind – what could have been packed into those ten minutes which Waller-Bridge first produced after a friend challenged her?  And now look!  She’s a few months younger than me but has achieved about 15 times as much.  Why haven’t my friends been challenging me?  Although, I suppose they challenged me to help that fallen man and I just ignored them.  But yes, it seems the one-woman show is a rich environment for narrative brilliance.  If you’ve never seen Luisa Omielan, please do so immediately.  Or Google Tiannah Viechweg’s Carnival Queen and get gut-punched by its strength.  I’ll wait.

Fleabag, though, is an ensemble.  Sian Clifford’s performance as her older sister, Claire, rings frighteningly true.  I’m reminded of so many people who confuse happiness with success and who conflate ambition with humanity.  Claire’s expressions are electric and her conflicts with Fleabag mirror the worst parts of sisterly relations in a way never seen before.  Meanwhile, having far too much fun as the self-centred godmother-cum-future stepmother is Olivia Colman.  I’m not sure why she’s only cropping up now and wasn’t in my initial list of national treasures (see her work in Peep Show and watch out for her coming to The Crown).  Sure, she’s got an Oscar now in her downstairs cloak, but she still knows where the good writing is (I mean, in the programme, Fleabag, right; not necessarily in this sentence of this blogpost…)

Series two has just begun (praise be) and I managed to catch its first episode on my phone while flying from Innsbruck to Gatwick.  Despite the lack of sleep on a boozy work ski jolly, despite the appalling Samsung J5 headphones I am forced to use, despite the tiny iPhone screen and despite wanting to be anywhere but on an economy flight, I’m going to bandy around words like masterpiece and genius.  We open on a family dinner, with most characters as yet unreconciled from the fallout of the previous season’s climax, some months ago.  Throughout the thirty minutes, we barely leave the restaurant, the claustrophobia and tension increasing with every additional pouring of wine (by the very enthusiastic waitress, with Waller-Bridge making even an incidental character hilarious, and tragic).  The sisters end up confronting each other in the loos; a bombshell is dropped and handled with such brutality that my gasping could be heard three rows back.

So, here’s me, staggered someone can produce such telly with such consistency.  This is the bleakest black humour, with raw truths I can barely handle, yet jam-packed with LOLs, cheekiness and bad human behaviour.  Phoebe Waller-Bridge, welcome to the hall of national treasures.

Celebrity Big Brother

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Borehamwood, but it’s not worth it.  I’m from a crap town myself so I can say these things.  I have, however, found myself there before, and both times it was due to Big Brother.  Can you believe that the largest commercial operation (probably) in this part of North London is the Big Brother studio?  And every January and summer it is descended upon by a raft of household names (I didn’t say ALL households), each desperately hoping to get a bit of work in showbiz by taking part in Celebrity Big Brother.

Given the show’s home has been Channel 5 since 2011, contestants’ chances of getting back on the telly after a series ends are actually higher than ever.  Hold tight for the inevitable: a heavily promoted four-episode run of Posh Former Politician And Working Class Hero Go Dog Grooming or a three-part special of Disgraced Ex-Popstar And Washed-Up Child Actor Test Lilos.

But if we go right back to 2001, we’ll find a much more tasteful approach to Celebrity Big Brother, designed to be more palatable to the broader tastes and narrower minds of middle England.  There were only six celebrities (and you had heard of them all).  It was for charity.  It was co-broadcast on Channel 4 and the BBC.  The BBC!  And it only lasted ten days.  Today’s celebrity housemates have to stick things out for up to 30 days, though lest we forget that beloved Vanessa Feltz did manage to have a breakdown in series one after only a handful of days.

Sixteen years later, it must be fair to say that it’s really only a hard core of lifelong fans still tuning in, as series 21 hits our screens on a nightly basis.  You won’t be surprised, given my love of trash TV like Bromans and Geordie Shore, that I count myself firmly among this number.  Celebrity or normal, I will take Big Brother in any guise.  With the normos, their desperation for attention drives them to be locked into the house for days on end.  But for the celebrities, it is often their desperation for attention they have had and then lost that drives them, which leads to even more compelling viewing.  It’s not even important if you’ve ever heard of them.  Whether they’re a runner up from some awful US dating show, or they were in that sitcom from the seventies that your parents remember watching, they all end up completely sucked into the highly pressured communities of tension that take shape in the house with each series.

There’s always excitement as they go in.  Who will it be?  What will they say?  Will they get booed?  Will they fall over in the rain?  Why does everyone in the crowd look a bit overweight?  I’ve taken to watching the insertion broadcast on fast forward, as it’s often incredibly awkward.  It’s the first real episode that gives you the insights on the entrances, as the overnight editing that takes place allows the important snippets to be properly sound-mixed and thus begins our journey.  Before long, you’ve forgotten all you knew and assumed about these people and it’s all about what they say and do in the house.  For me, this is perfect entertainment.  While the environment and circumstance are utterly utterly fake, the relationships and interactions become real.  It’s not a soap opera whose script has been generated by cliché bingo, it’s real people struggling to articulate themselves and control their emotions.  Drink it in!

Earlier series were won by whoever was the biggest name going in, such as Julian Clary or Ulrika Jonsson.  2014 was a particularly tough year when the two series were won by the most awful individuals: Jim Davidson and Gary Busey.  But now, with just the biggest fans still watching, it’s whoever has the most harrowing journey in the house that is rightfully rewarded.

So, let’s take a look at my favourite moments from these 21 glorious series.

Series 7 Alex Reid kick-boxes a snowman

It snowed heavily and the housemates made a snowman (see, the famous are just like us, aren’t they?).  Then Alex Reid went out and kick-boxed it into a pile of nothing, all while make weird breathing noises that proved he really knew what he was doing about martial arts.  The editing drew this out into a long segment and it took on a strangely poetic quality.  Fantastic.

Series 18 James Whale pours coffee on Stephen Bear

Bear was an absolute nightmare to live with, antagonising everyone for his own amusement.  Yet it was very gratifying to see how riled up he got right-wing slop-jock Whale.  Sinking to Bear’s level, he slowly emptied a bag of ground coffee over the lad’s head.  It escalated quickly and you could just feel the violence in the air, but Bear was somehow savvy enough to know that underreacting was his best strategy.

Series 3 Jackie Stallone enters the house

She waltzes in and is first spotted by her ex-daughter in lax, Brigitte Nielsen.  Understandably, Brigitte screams Jackie’s name in surprise, to which Jackie replies, in a broad New York accent: “Yeah, Jackie.”  Try shouting it when you next enter a room full of people and you’ll be amazed at the respect you gain.

Series 3 Kenzie is dressed as an egg

Kenzie used to be Blazin Squad, but he isn’t Marcel.  I forget the task, but Kenzie had to spend a considerable amount of time in a giant, encumbering egg costume.  He wouldn’t fit in something like that these days now he lives in a gym, but he was still a wee thing in 2005.  Lisa I’Anson was complaining about her Bo Peep costume.  Deadpan, Kenzie was heard comparing his fate, muttering under his breath about having the raw end of the deal.

Series 4 George Galloway pretends to be a cat for Rula Lenska

I don’t want to be predictable, but this cannot be beaten.  My skin still crawls at these two adults role-playing like children.  Just think about George mewing and licking himself for a moment.  Go on.  The standout moment was how he suggested it to her: “Do you want me to be… the cat?”  That pause, bookended by his Scottish brogue and the subdued volume, gave the whole scenario an air of specialist porn (that I have never seen).

Series 3 Lisa I’Anson calls John McCririck a fox

McCririck is a vile bigot, with high expectations of how women should look.  However, these expectations didn’t extend to his own body.  Undergoing a quick change in the Celebrity Big Brother bedroom, shuffling around to get some trousers on in his saggy, baggy whities, he showed the effects of his lifestyle choices.  Lisa I’Anson (who I can’t believe has come up twice in my best moments) ironically catcalled him, and, of all the words, picked “fox” in order to respond to the sight confronting her.  Cruel, but hilarious.  Sometimes, when I need cheering up, I think of this moment, and it always works.

There are many more, including Jedward, the Austin Armacost and James Hill bromance, Speidi and Kim “I wouldn't shit on you if you were on fire” Woodburn.

The current series has taken a worthier approach.  This isn’t going to be a laugh-and-point exercise at the expense of fame’s failures.  We are celebrating the year of the woman.  Such endeavours have attracted the likes of Ann Widdecombe (who refuses to have any fun) and Rachel Johnson (who I once had tea and cucumber sandwiches with at the offices of The Lady).  At first, the girls were alone, but they have since popped some men in.  So now, I am watching Ginuwine (whose song, Pony, my sister and I innocently sang along to as children) sitting on the same sofa as Ann Widdecombe.

This is the beauty of the show.  But so much for the year of the woman, this has become the year of gender: the casting has thrown together a male-identifying drag queen and a fully transitioned woman who was born a man.  Cue fascinating discourse as to whether their individual gender expressions are at odds with each other.  Hopefully nobody is surprised that men have taken over from women the conversation about women.  What is surprising however, is that this really all does happen in Borehamwood.