Graphic Novel
A re-read of Normal People illuminates the brilliance of the new BBC series
Rarely, if ever to my eyes, has there been a screen adaptation that’s felt so perfectly in sync with the book as Normal People does, released on the BBC and Hulu at the end of April. Sally Rooney’s spare prose and matter-of-fact treatment of even the most oblique sentiments translates so seamlessly that no sooner had the credits rolled on the finale, I’d immediately begun my second reading of her 2018 novel, not wanting to give up even a minute of remaining wholly absorbed in Connell and Marianne’s private world.
The series has rendered these characters so precisely, it’s as though it had come into existence as the novel's twin, fully-formed and inextricably connected. This is surprising, in a way, because Rooney’s writing doesn’t much give over to lush descriptions, yet its plain-spoken imagery is animated with the sorts of details that make it clear to see why and how Paul Mescal and Daisy Edgar-Jones were able to so fully inhabit their roles. And how a feature as trivial-seeming as Connell’s silver chain has enough agency of its own to capture our rapt attention. (Well, that and Mescal’s gladiator-like physique.)
Some reviewers have criticized the lack of character development of those orbiting Connell and Marianne's dense stratosphere–the shallowness, in particular, of their other partners, who create just enough shadow to intensify the brightness of their counterpart. But this feels quite beside the point. It’s the view from the inside out that matters, how Connell and Marianne see themselves in relation to these others. Even then, what’s more important is how they exist in relation to one another, in their impenetrable intimacy, trying and failing repeatedly to erase all context that presents any obstacle to it.
This intimacy is what draws you in, not as a voyeur, not as a participant, but as a host that carries you into the space they occupy. All of the subtle sounds of their environment–breaths and sighs and swallows, yes, but also the setting down of a candlestick, the fluttering of pages–are amplified, made palpable. The intensity of this effect is nearly unbearable. I watched every short episode with a tightness in my chest, a shortness of breath, and more often than not, a lump in my throat; I don’t think I could’ve handled any more than twenty-five minutes at a time.
Connell and Marianne's sexual tension and chemistry is maddening and thrilling on a heartbreaking loop, a mixtape you want to keep rewinding over and over again, fearing the inevitable day you’ll wear it out beyond repair. The show is not shy about its sexiness, rather it is electrified by it, a steady, strong current with enough voltage to deliver a powerful, occasionally painful jolt at times. But it also tender, and bittersweet because of its youthfulness, calling up a kind of longing that might make you fleetingly wish you could go back to a time in your life that was entirely defined by your desires.
Not enough can be said (although plenty has) about the exquisite casting of the two leads, and also of the series on the whole. Mescal and Edgar-Jones are so young yet, with such undoubtedly brilliant careers ahead of them. Still, one can’t help but to want to preserve them in amber, so drawn are they in the image and likeness of Connell and Marianne that it feels impossible, bordering on unacceptable to imagine them becoming any other characters.
Of course, this is just a reflection of how we feel ourselves at that age, all horizon and no hindsight. Life does goes on, whether we like or not, and only by moving forward will we ever know what the best parts have been.