Normal People: A First Love Story Finally Told Right

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

I came away from a longer-than-I-care-to-admit Sunday-evening stint of binge-watching Normal People, wondering how I could be so gripped by something so unentertaining? Because it doesn’t do a great job of traditional entertainment. It is a first love story that doesn’t entertain the so-frequently amplified exoticism of a first relationship. It is a forbidden romance that doesn’t entertain the idea that betrayal is thrilling, or you should pine for the chase. It is a coming-of-age story that doesn’t entertain the idea that you should have it all figured out by 21. So rarely does it endorse the naïve tropes YA fiction founds itself upon to trick their innocent, impressionable viewership into believing this is what is in store for them. Instead, it showcases something agonizingly true-to-life. That’s what makes it so addictive.

Normal People has been inescapable, and rightly so. It is beautifully unique in the themes it presents, but also the way it presents them. The story, based on Sally Rooney’s novel of the same name, follows Connell Waldron (Paul Mescal) – a shy yet popular student, navigating his position in friendships, relationships and greater society – and Marianne Sheridan – an outspoken and intelligent girl, shadowed by the horrors of abuse. The two form an unlikely friendship due to Connell’s mother working for Marianne’s, and the will-they-won’t-they conundrum that underscores the first episode sets the rest of the series in motion.

The show is both a breath of fresh air and a hurricane. Not since Sex Education have we seen a series that is so conscientious and refreshing, tackling issues that are imperative to many young people’s worlds but are rarely reflected in any mainstream media. It’s truly validating, but also at times so painstakingly raw that it’s difficult to watch. When you get a peek into some of the more mundane elements of Marianne and Connell’s lives, closely tailed by Marianne’s shocking abuse, or Connell’s heart-wrenching therapy session, the contrast is shocking and thus the impact, giant. Yet in the more relaxed scenes, the appearance of topics seldom addressed in YA TV normalises them – especially consent, which is momentary, but it’s striking simplicity was all that was necessary.

As a show that is built upon intimacy and – perhaps misplaced – trust, directors Hettie Macdonald and Lenny Abrahamson do well to include the audience in the relationship. The cuts are unembellished, picking us up and dropping us into the next scene without warning; we know as much about what is going to happen next as the characters. The cameras are often so close to the actors that their faces are like open journals. I haven’t read the book, but hear it is told from Connell and Marianne’s perspective mostly; the extremely close-up shots are a nice parallel that allows viewers to understand exactly how they are feeling without Sally Rooney telling us. There is rarely any music in the background or any intrusive sound effects, to ensure we are truly just there, planted in their conversation, invading their headspace.  It’s very artfully done, the willingness for them to rekindle their love is so fiery within the audience because we viewers are tangled up in it too.

The real reason this show shines is the characters. Connell and Marianne: a couple too embroiled in their own self-loathing and anxieties, so used to not loving themselves they wonder how anyone else could. Their decisions and their faults are so very human that they almost don’t seem like mere characters at all, and every move they make noticeably influences the people they become. It’s interesting to watch the dynamic between the two fluctuate. Marianne learns to find herself in a crowd of others, thus unhinging Connell’s power position, as he soon realises his role as Sixth Form’s most likeable jock can only take him so far and he struggles to work out where he truly belongs.

Their pasts haunt them. Marianne is clearly scarred from Connell’s embarrassing readiness to keep their relationship under wraps, and the way he wore pretty blonde Rachel on his arm at the school dance instead of herself – so much so that any prickle of shame or suspicion in her is cause to up and leave. Opposingly, Connell’s desperation to prove he will never hurt Marianne again culminates in his threatening of Alan, her abusive brother, after he breaks her nose. I think this is when Connell realises he truthfully loves Marianne; before now, he has been a fairly passive character, trying to look out for others but often stalled by fear of a dampened image. Threatening Alan – one of the richest boys in Sligo – is the peak of his arc. It's when he finally recognises the way others perceive their relationship should not come between it. The risk of losing his love again forces him to liberate himself from this anxiety that has been holding him back throughout the series. I also believe this sequence is what initiates the show’s ending: Marianne has confirmation Connell won’t hurt her anymore, and when he receives his offer from New York, she understands she must set him free because she now knows she loves him. This is just one of the many examples in this show that demonstrate how everything happens for a reason. These characters are calculated to a T, warranting a finale that feels so aggravating and wrong to us invested viewers, but also perfectly fitting. That being said, two people so magnetised will always find their way back to each other.

Normal People is a visual pamphlet to the human condition. First love stories are often performed in one of two ways: they are not taken seriously, or they are treated as the be-all-and-end-all. This show flips both on their head. Not only does it demonstrate that your first real relationship is formative and plagues numerous decisions later in life, it also shows that it as is messy and unwritten as the people in them. And I think that is the most beautiful way to tell a love story.