Although this show tackles so many vital aspects and troubles of contemporary life, one of my favourite things about this show was their portrayal of platonic intimacy. Although all the characters in the show are complex and make mistakes in their actions, they are also hugely supportive friends that lift each other up through their journeys to recovery. Revenge doesn’t easily bring catharsis and there are no simple fixes for trauma. Without giving too much away – the ending of the series reflects the uncomfortable reality that there are no easy answers for how to deal with the pain caused by sexual assault. Whilst IMDY tackles difficult themes and is at times uncomfortable to watch, it is also a vibrant portrait of navigating modern millennial life in gentrified London that is filled with humour and warmth. No matter the other hardships you may face, such as living in extreme poverty or living as a woman, the colour of your skin hasn’t been a source of your mistreatment. The show clearly documents white privilege for what it is, that no matter how hard your life as a white person may have been, the colour of your skin has allowed you a certain power. At this point, the storyline highlights the way that innocence is presumed for white children, but the same allowances aren’t given to Black children.Īt one point Terry makes the comment that “white girl tears of high currency”, which is a reflection of the differential treatment at the hands of their teachers and the inherent biases of white-run institutions. This is particularly clear in the episodes of the show that follow Arabella and Terry when they were in school. Although the majority of the cast in the show are Black, the viewers of the show are reminded of the UK’s problem with institutional racism by the white doctor who misassumes Arabella’s identity, her white agents, and her white school teachers. Although the white columnist Allison Pearson was allowed to publish claims in the Telegraph that IMDY was a “rebuttal of systematic racism”, the lived experience of race permeates the programme and is an inescapable part of it. The arrival of the show in the summer of 2020 amongst the social uprising for Black lives also feels hugely timely. ![]() The consequences that sexual violence has on people can impact on their lives in such different ways, with the paths to recovery being varied and often messy. Following the trajectories of multiple survivors also serves as a reminder that there is no such thing as a ‘perfect victim’. All of the three main characters experience some form of assault throughout the programme, in violations that vary from the obvious to the obscured. In the words of Arabella, any changes to the grounds of consent isn’t “rape-adjacent” or “a bit rapey”, it’s a form of rape. So-called ‘grey areas’ are traversed such as stealthing, coercion, and acts which change from being consensual to non-consensual.Īs the viewer experiences the reality of these acts, it becomes clear that these aren’t unclear territories at all. ![]() With a topic as uncomfortable as sexual violence, approaching the layers beneath the surface is an incredibly difficult thing to do, but is something that the show handles in an outstanding way. ![]() Whilst many fictional portrayals of sexual assault can fall short for slipping into simplistic dichotomies of innocence versus abuse, I May Destroy You stands out so well for its exploration of nuance. After two and a half years of writing and an extensive 191 draft episodes, Coel produced a 12-part series which is simply outstanding from start to finish. After battling for some time she took her ideas to the BBC, who offered her the complete rights to her work as well as full creative control (Lesson? Never settle for less). When she pitched her concept for the show to Netflix, they offered a $1 million upfront fee but didn’t want to let her retain any of the copyrights. ![]() In her recent profile for Vulture Magazine, Coel spoke about how creating the show was part of her process of making ‘sense of the senseless’ and learning how to be whole again after being ripped apart by trauma. Whilst Michaela Coel was writing the second season of her BAFTA award-winning show Chewing Gum, she experienced sexual assault in an attack similar to that of Arabella’s.
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