Intimacy, melancholy and far from 'Normal People'

Abrahamson’s masterful adaptation brings new life to Rooney’s superbly nuanced coming-of-age story

BBC Three’s wonderfully nostalgic and exceptionally poignant Normal People raises several pertinent questions around the nature of literary adaptation, including whether television creators should aim to replicate, elevate, or even reimagine the material on which their shows are based. Despite only being released in 2018, Normal People is a book that has gained a dedicated following, so when it was announced that Lenny Abrahamson would be making the high-profile novel into series, fans in their thousands waited in excited anticipation to see the Oscar-nominated director’s take on the story.

Thankfully, Abrahamson was able to satisfy die-hards and newcomers alike, delivering a faithful retelling of Sally Rooney’s much-loved book whilst also finding ways to breathe new life into the story and its characters. A scintillating coming of age story that understands the pain of first love, Normal People actually takes teenage relationships seriously and acknowledges the lasting effects they can have on us for the rest of our lives.

It comes as no surprise to me that Rooney, as well as Alice Birch, had a large role to play in the writing of the series, as it really feels like Marianne and Connell were ripped right out of her pages and projected onto the screen. A great deal of credit must be given to Paul Mescal and Daisy Edgar-Jones, who embody these characters so completely that it’s virtually impossible to imagine them being played by anyone else.

Mescal in particular delivers an outstanding debut performance – fully embodying the warm, likeable Connell, who quietly fears he cannot fit in anywhere. The contradictions in Connell’s life leave him feeling constantly uncomfortable in his own skin, whether it’s with his school friends where he downplays his intelligence for fear of being judged, or at Trinity where his social class and inability to speak in the ‘intellectual’ way his classmates do makes him feel isolated. Through subtle yet affecting facial expressions and minute gestures, Mescal is able to communicate Connell’s constant discomfort with himself perfectly.

The only significant change to Connell’s character is that he is slightly more emotive than the repressed, reserved young man from Rooney’s novel. This may well be a deliberate choice on the part of the show’s creators. After all, in a book where so much raw emotion is internalised, that same emotion must surely be externalised when translating that story to the screen. These scenes where we see the cracks in Connell’s otherwise calm exterior – when he’s sobbing down the phone on his way home from the Debs or when he’s breaking down in his therapist’s office – these moments reveal the storm raging beneath and stay with you long after they’re gone.

Equally, Daisy Edgar-Jones expertly captures the blend of intensity, bluntness and fragility that incapsulates Marianne. You can see how a lack of self-awareness and a history of alienation and abuse leads her to the conclusion that she is unlovable. Angelina Chapin from The Cut recently describes television’s Marianne as “too normal,” saying that “an element of physical repulsiveness is whitewashed from the show,” while New York Times critic, Parul Sehgal, calls her “too elegant and sweet,” claiming that “she’s been totally domesticated.” This so-called ‘repulsiveness’ misses the point: it was not the author’s intention to depict her as such. Indeed, it was never the case in Rooney’s book that Marianne was physically unattractive – this was merely the perception of her classmates who marginalised her for being different.

Edgar-Jones plays it a tad sweeter than her awkward and off-putting bookish counterpart, though I think that elegance is a trait she picks up at university, where she is finally allowed to blossom. ‘Totally domesticated’ isn’t quite fair. Marianne might be sure-footed and direct within the confines of academia, but in most of her relationships she is passive, submissive even – willing to be used because she does not believe she deserves better. The character has been lightened up somewhat; her self-destructive tendencies downplayed. Undoubtedly, what made for painful reading would have been amplified tenfold when set to screen – perhaps the creators thought it might have been too much. If that is the case, I can’t say I blame them.

Nevertheless, Mescal and Edgar-Jones do an outstanding job in capturing the essence of their respective characters; this is largely owed to the fantastic chemistry they have with one another. Normal People often stresses how these two people are ‘the same’, though this sameness is never fully realised. Yet, thanks to these exceptional performances, the nature of their connection need never be explained in full. We are moved to believe that these are two counterparts, destined to be forever entangled. They build each other up and look out for one another, which is why they always end up coming back together.

The sad reality for Marianne is that she is used or mistreated by every man in Rooney’s novel – including Connell. What sets Connell apart is that he manages to atone for his moment of teenage cowardice by saving her. They save each other, in fact, time and time again. Marianne is the only person who really sees Connell’s full potential: she encourages him to go to Trinity, defends his intellect to her snobby friends and encourages his writing until he finally has a breakthrough. Connell drives Marianne home when she is harassed at the fundraiser, steps in when Jamie becomes aggressive and ultimately ensures that her brother will never hurt her again. The extraordinary pull of their relationship is what makes this story so compelling, and its presence is felt between the two lead actors throughout the twelve-episode run.

One thing this show really nails is sex. It’s vulnerable, intimate, and even more explicit than in Rooney’s novel. There is a rare authenticity to it. It isn’t awkward to the point of humorous, nor is it a highly stylised montage. Instead, it seems considered, passionate and real. Praise must be given to intimacy coordinator, Ita O’Brien, who helped make the scenes feel empowering rather than exploitative. It’s never just sex for sex’s sake – instead, we learn about these characters from the subtext of these scenes. Marianne thinks herself unlovable, while Connell constantly doubts whether he is enough – yet in these moments together, it feels like their insuppressible desire and longing for one another is enough to quell these deep-routed insecurities.

That said, where the show triumphs in its depictions of intimacy, it tends to shy away from some of the novel’s more sinister themes. Marianne will do anything for Connell and makes it clear that he has total power over her. In the book, this makes Connell deeply uncomfortable – not because he is afraid of having all the control – but because he finds himself liking the idea. The show, however, chooses not to touch on these darker, more complex facets of Connell’s character, probably for fear of painting him in too unsympathetic a light.

Similarly, Marianne’s self-destructive tendencies (which are founded in her deep-routed belief that she is unlovable) are not explored to the same extent as in the book – particularly in the BDSM scenes. In the novel, Marianne’s self-hatred is fully realised during her time with the Swedish photographer, where she tells him to stop – not because he goes too far in hurting her – but because he tells her he loves her. Disturbing moments like this are too dark, it seems, for the series to explore. Perhaps this is because, through the lens of the camera, it becomes much easier for such scenes to come across as exploitative or even as glamourizing abuse.

What the show does best is making us root for these characters and believe in their relationship. Are they supposed to be together? We want them to be, but we are not told implicitly – and that’s probably for the best. This story is as much about friendship as it is about young love, and we glimpse that in the smaller moments, like the many rides home Connell gives Marianne or the embrace they share at Rob’s funeral.

The show might pull away from the novel’s heavier material, but that doesn’t make it a lesser story. The series does justice to the novel, in that it captures the essence of Normal People but also elevates it for the purpose of more engaging television. The show has more of a romantic, dream-like quality to it – its warmer tone setting it apart from the novel and saving the viewing experience from feeling too bleak or flat. It stands to reason, therefore, that the show’s creators would choose not to linger on the darker corners of Rooney’s pages.

The series has also done a masterful job in fleshing out existing characters. While memorable figures from the novel like kind, straight-talking Lorraine or the morally bankrupt Peggy who delights in being ‘outrageous’ are vividly brough to life, other characters are shaded in greater depth. I admit that, after reading Rooney’s novel, I almost completely forgot about Gareth: the posh, debate club predecessor of Jamie. In fact, were it not for Jamie’s disturbing penchant for sadism, I might have thought they were the same person. In the show, however, their differences are more apparent: one is an out-of-touch, mildly patronising social climber, the other is an insecure, deeply loathsome bully. Thus, the show succeeds in making these men three-dimensional.

The show also makes alterations to Rooney’s characters. Marianne’s family are not quite as deeply unpleasant as they are in the book. We feel a decent amount of sympathy for her mother, who is a victim living in fear of Alan alongside Marianne. In the original Normal People, however, Marianne’s brother constantly makes her life miserable while Denise simply ignores her – complicit in her passivity. Alan was certainly more repulsive in the novel. It’s possible the show’s creators were conscious of presenting Marianne as too much of victim. Whatever their reason, these slight character deviations didn’t particularly bother me.

One key aspect that did fail to satisfactorily transition from book to screen was the miscommunication between Connell and Marianne. For example, when Connell does not ask Marianne if he can stay in her University accommodation, it has far-reaching ramifications on their relationship moving forward. While both characters’ actions make sense when Rooney lays out their inner thoughts to us, their perspectives are not made clear on screen. A novel that primarily takes place inside its protagonists’ heads is bound to create barriers for the television format, as it is harder for us to understand how characters reach certain conclusions. This results in the conflict feeling like a device to break the couple apart, leaving some viewers feeling understandably frustrated.

All the same, Normal People compellingly unravels Rooney’s story, retelling it in a way that makes you feel as if you know these characters intimately. Dividing the series into 12 half-hour episodes rather than the traditional 6 hours was definitely the right call. The viewer is left excited for what happens next rather than overwhelmed by the many moments of heartbreak that the characters endure throughout.

The accompanying soundtrack is also very apt. Critic Jennifer Szalai points out that the “sad indie-rock curation” is not in keeping with the story’s setting, but in actuality the music works wonderfully on a stylistic level to provide a dreamy ambience – uninhibited by the limited confines of narrative context. There are only a couple of missteps: any scene in their Sligo local (no one’s hometown club has music that edgy) and the use of Imogen Heap’s ‘Hide and Seek’, which achieved meme status a few years ago thanks to The O.C. The soundtrack is otherwise a triumph, with ‘Only You’ by Yazoo being a particularly inspired choice.

This adaptation succeeds in capturing the unique appeal of Rooney’s novel by sharing with us the secret that lies at its centre: these are not just ‘normal people’. Certainly, class and upbringing play a part in making these two feel normal or abnormal depending on what stage they are at in their lives, but this is never explored in full. Perhaps this is because Normal People is to do with how alike the pair are in spite of difference, rather than how their differences define them. Here’s the lesson, then: ‘normal’ is a relative term.

Like the novel that inspired it, the series captures the wonderful impossibility of two imperfect people finding each other and connecting on a level so intimate that neither we nor they can hope to truly define it. As Marianne and Connell fall in and out of normality, they remain one another’s constants. They are different from the rest of the world and, in many ways, from each other. But at the core, they are the same – wrapped up in each other just like the little sardine tin figures on the cover of Sally Rooney’s novel.

This article was originally published on reviewplug.co.uk.