The Irresistible Intimacy of 'Normal People'

A story of first love that leaves viewers wanting more whilst crying in the process, just like first love itself.

True intimacy is something that seems rare in the modern world. In a time where social media etiquette governs so many aspects of our lives, sometimes it seems as though we are constantly performing, surveying our peers, and alienating what we perceive to be our true selves from the rest of the world. In fact, a simultaneous need for and disillusionment with intimacy may be one of the few consistent truths of human existence. What 'Normal People''s Marianne and Connell find however is that on those rare occasions in which one does find themselves closely connected to another person, it can come with great pain but also great joy.

Adapted from Sally Rooney's novel of the same name, this BBC/Hulu series gets to the heart of a young, but enduring, relationship between two Irish classmates from their sixth form years right through to their final year of university. Not only does the 12-episode format ensure viewers become fully invested in private lives of Connell and Marianne, the undeniably perfect casting of Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal, the latter of whom appears to have become the Internet's new boyfriend, results in a believable and profoundly visceral story of first love that pours through the screen. The choice to embrace rather than abridge the novel's multiple sex scenes is the most glaring aspect of this apparent intimacy; directors Lenny Abrahamson and Hettie Macdonald retain the sensuality of intimate relations without appearing gratuitous, convey the awkwardness of sleeping with someone for the first time without appearing cliché or removing the audience, much like Rooney's writing.

Where 'Normal People' really thrives, however, is in its more subtle depictions of closeness. Whilst Connell's and Marianne may appear to be too dependent a relationship at times, probably on account the show's dramatized format, it is clear that each of them views the other as the only person in the world who can even come close to understanding their respective selves. Maybe more so from the perspective of a perpetually anxious Connell, who will not go public with Marianne over fears his school mates will reject him, their relationship is both a respite from the exhaustion that comes with his quotidian performance of the charming, chilled Irish lad and a space in which he is free to explore his more cerebral interests and ambitions. When his college girlfriend Helen (Aoife Hinds) questions why he 'act[s] so weird' around Marianne, Connell claims that how he acts with her is his normal personality, alerting viewers to the overarching theme of the series and asking us the question of what our version of 'normal' is.

For the more outwardly spoken and confident Marianne, Connell is a symbol of safety and warmth, those affections she is denied by her abusive older brother and distant mother. Being a lonely outsider during her school years, Marianne has consistently felt unwanted in both her public and private life. Although she seems to fit well into a new group of upper-middle-class friends at Trinity College, it soon becomes apparent that most of these relationships are superficial and status-based. Aside from perhaps Joanna (Eliot Salt) who is established to be an authentic friend amongst the university crew, Connell is the one person Marianne feels she can rely on. Sometimes she takes this dependence too far: the emotional numbness she experiences upon her breakup with Connell finds her in an unhealthy sadomasochistic relationship in Sweden. In a later rekindling that ends in her leaving in tears, Marianne asks Connell during coitus to profess her as his possession and to hit her, to which he calmly refuses. For the most part however, their relationship is one of almost unquestionable and exceptional care. Despite their social distinction and outwardly disparate personalities, Marianne and Connell form a bond unlike any other, one which is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally agonising for both parties.

Unpicking the brilliance of 'Normal People' could be an endless feat. Nevertheless, the ultimate point that Abrahamson and Macdonald, as well as Rooney, appear to convey is that intimacy is both scary and brilliant. The relationship they depict is not perfect nor is it trying to be. Marianne and Connell are still young and figuring themselves out even by the final episode. The on-again, off-again nature of their relationship is never really 'off'; they possess that uniquely beautiful combination of physical and psychological intimacy, the kind that will undoubtedly invite viewers to reflect on their own first loves.  Meeting the first person who makes you feel understood, worthy, and loved in a way you have never felt is a distinctly human privilege, one that Marianne and Connell approach with a relatable reverence and apprehensiveness. In all its glory, 'Normal People' is a small-screen triumph that will inevitably break hearts and set them on fire.