Revisiting: U.K.’s ‘Skins’ 

“Skins.” A world where parents 
don’t care about their children, 
teachers have sex with their 
students, friends treat each other 
like shit and the 16-17 year old 
protagonists somehow have the 
money to fund the drug usage 
of an erratic Wall Street broker 
(How are the joints always so big? 
And always so perfectly rolled?). 
“Skins,” more than any other TV 
show or movie I’ve watched in 
the coming-of-age genre, asks its 
audience to suspend disbelief.
If there’s one accomplishment 
“Skins” should be praised for, it’s 
the ability of its co-creators, father 
and son duo Jamie Brittain and 
Bryan Elsley (“Dates”), to write 
dynamic and compelling teenage 
characters. Every two seasons, 
“Skins” switches its entire cast 
(save for a few adults that overlap 
stories) and the audience has 
to develop attachments to the 
characters all over again. It only 
took a few episodes at the start of 
each series to grow fond of the new 
cast that is a testament to the duo’s 
ability.
“Skins” often gets knocked for 
its slow decrease in quality with 
each new cast. However, this has 
nothing to do with the characters 
themselves. “Skins” seems to 
have a list of tropes that it glues 
to different people each season. 
There’s the brain, the pretty boy, 
the druggie, the loser, the party 
animal, the misunderstood girl, 
the one overshadowed by their 
peer — the list could go on and on. 
All of these are used every series, 

just in different combinations.
The show does its best to mix 
them differently enough to create 
characters that feel new, but one 
can see some obvious similarities 
in characters between seasons. 
Season 
three-to-four’s 
Cook 
(Jack O’Connell, “Godless”) is 
season one-to-two’s Chris (Joe 
Dempsie, “Game of Thrones”) 
with just a little more “I don’t 
give a fuck”; scorned, red headed 
twin Emily (Kathryn Prescott, 
“24: Legacy”) of seasons three-
to-four is the overshadowed, 
hopelessly romantic virgin — aka 
Syd (Mike Bailey, “We Are The 
Freaks”) of seasons one-to-two; 
and overly-hormonal Alo (Will 
Merrick, “Poldark”) of seasons 
5-6 has only one motivation: to 
get laid, which parallels Anwar 
(Dev Patel, “Lion”) of seasons one-
to-two. However, they’re almost 
always captivating individuals, 
similarities be damned.
The cast of the first series 
balances these tropes the best 
across 
characters, 
but 
the 
other series’ casts also contain 
fascinating personas. Cook and 
Effy (Kaya Scodelario, “Pirates of 
the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No 
Tales”) from the second series are 
my favorites of the entire show. 
They go beyond their tropes. 
Cook’s more than just a drugged 

out lunatic, and his past is both 
tragic and privileged. Effy, above 
all other characters, is the face of 
“Skins.” Nobody, including the 
audience, ever really knows what 
is going on her head. Frankie 
and Grace from the third series 
go beyond their tropes as well 
(although they grow a little too 
fast for the narrative’s own good).
The problem with “Skins” is that 
it has no idea how to insert these 
well-constructed characters into 
the real world. In the first series, 
the parents of the protagonists 
are present but not impactful; the 
teenagers go to school, but only 
when it is convenient for the story. 
The last two series only exacerbate 
this dilemma. The only relevant 
parents in the second series are 
those of Emily and Katie, and the 
only reason they’re relevant is to 
showcase the toll divorce takes 
on a family, which they already 
did with Tony and Effy’s parents. 
So I’m edged to ask — what is the 
point?
In the second series, there are 
points where school disappears 
altogether. In the first few episodes 
of series three, the protagonists 
are seen in school every day, 
seemingly more than during any 
point in the first two series, but this 
is only because it’s the convenient 
way to start getting them all to 
interact with one another. By the 
end of the series, Emily is living 
with Naomi and never going to 
school (where the fuck is Naomi’s 
mom, by the way?). Katie is dealt 
a head injury and can apparently 
never handle education again but 
can work for her mom. Effy and 
Freddie treat Effy’s house as a 
permanent love nest, and Cook is 

miraculously house jumping after 
having somehow escaped prison. 
The Cook storyline, in particular, 
is straight up lazy writing on an 
unforgivable level.
“Skins” can’t decide what it 
wants its identity to be. Half the 
time, it aims to be a dreamy are-
we-in-reality-or-not 
Lynchian 
commentary 
on 
the 
general 
absurdity of life. The other half, 
it aims to be a British teenage 
melodrama.
The show admirably attempts 
to comment on contemporary 
social issues. LGBTQ+ youth, 
mental health, divorce, misogyny, 
immigration, etc. are all brought 
to the surface, but it’s hard to 
relate to the characters when they 
don’t feel grounded in reality and 
everything works out for them in 
the end.
The only aspect of “Skins” that 
makes it often legitimately painful 
to watch is its obnoxious use of 
music. If you remove season seven 
from the equation, there are an 
average of 14.7 songs per episode. 
14.7! That’s insane! Not only does 
the music completely oversaturate 
the sound of the episodes, but 
the lyrics often parallel the exact 
action or emotion of the characters 
on screen. It’s like there’s an 
unnecessary narrator explaining 
to the audience exactly what is 

going on even though it’s obvious 
enough already.
Despite 
all 
its 
absurdity, 
“Skins,” at the very least, is 
entertaining from start to finish 
(excluding season seven). It has 
its share of problems, some larger 
than others, but the characters 
always pulled me back in. I wanted 
to know what happened to them. I 
cared about them, and that’s why I 
watch television.
Lastly, don’t watch season 
seven. Never have I watched 
something so pointless to the plot 
of a television show. When I think 
of “Skins,” I pretend that season 
seven doesn’t exist.
“Chris,” season 2, episode 5:
There’s a point in this episode 
where the entire group of friends 
is at a party. Chris is selling drugs 
and the first line of dialogue at the 
party comes from the leader of the 
group he sold them to. “I hate this 
conformist repressive society,” 
says the kid as he continues to go 
on a rant about how everyone has 
the same “plastic” job and wears 
the same “plastic” clothes. Then 
the camera cuts to a long shot 
and we see that the boy speaking 
and all his friends are wearing 
the exact same outfit and are all 
clearly high on what Chris sold 
them. Then, the boy looks at Chris 
and says “I mean, you’re cool cause 
you got drugs, but everybody 
else...” and then buys more drugs 
from Chris.
A hallmark theme of “Skins” is 
communicating that there is no 
such thing as “normal.” Everyone 
has traits that separate them 
from the crowd. Anyone who says 
everyone is the same is themselves 
a part of the culture they are 

judging and their eagerness to 
comment on others most likely 
stems from their own insecurities.
This episode also is a perfect 
example of “Skins” as a teenage 
melodrama. Chris and Jal take 
giant steps in their relationship. 
Chris gets a job at a real estate 
company, Jal is pregnant and the 
two decide to move in together. 
Keep in mind these people are the 
same age as an American senior in 
high school.
“Effy,” season 3, episode 8:
This episode, above all others, 
parallels my perception of “Skins.” 
It combines dreamlike absurdity 
and surrealism more than any 
other episode.
The gang decides to go camping 
in the woods for Katie’s birthday, 
and from the very beginning, we 
know that everything is going to 
go wrong. Why the hell would 
Katie let Effy, who’s tearing apart 
her relationship with Freddie 
(Luke Pasqualino, “Snatch”), come 
to the woods with them and the 
rest of season’s characters? Effy 
somehow finds magic mushrooms 
conveniently growing right next 
to their campsite and coerces all 
of her fellow campers to eat them. 
Secrets are brought to the surface, 
Effy hooks up with Freddie, 
Katie is hit over the head with a 
rock by Effy and Cook shows up 

JOSEPH FRALEY
Daily Blog Editor

NETFLIX

TV SERIES

‘Country Dark’ is a largely 
unsatisfying, lacking read

“Country 
Dark,” 
Chris 
Offutt’s return to fiction, is 
an 
ultimately 
unsatisfying 
and disappointing tale. Set in 
rural Kentucky during the ’60s 
and ’70s, Offutt attempts to 
interrogate a number of social 
issues — poverty, post-traumatic 
stress disorder, incarceration, 
violence — but the result leaves 
much to be desired.
“Country 
Dark” 
follows 
Tucker, 
Rhonda 
and 
their 
five young children, four of 
whom 
have 
intellectual 
or 
physical 
disabilities. 
Two 
social workers investigate the 
family. Midway through the 
novel, Tucker murders one of 
the social workers because he 
threatens to put Tucker and 
Rhonda’s children in the state’s 
care. Tucker is subsequently 
sent to jail. He returns home, 
seemingly unchanged. Rhonda 
cares for their children, some 
of whom are eventually taken 
from her. Tucker comes home, 
and the novel ends. No one in 
this book is especially invested 
in what happens to themselves, 
and it’s that lack of interest and 
agency that ultimately sabotages 
“Country Dark.”
If there’s one thing “Country 
Dark” does well, however, it’s to 
create a sense of place. Offutt, 

who was born and raised in 
Kentucky, describes the setting 
of “Country Dark” with intimate 
attention to detail. “The world 
appeared for the first time 
beautiful,” Offutt writes. “The 

air scoured of dust by the rain, 
each surface holding a sheen 
of water like a tiny prism on 
every leaf.” That close, familiar 
description deposits the reader 
into 
an 
easily 
imaginable 
world. 
Unfortunately, 
it’s 
a 
world populated by people who 
resemble robots.
Offutt is certainly a talented 
writer in many respects, but 
he struggles to create three-
dimensional 
characters. 
His 
female characters are especially 
lackluster. Of Rhonda, Offutt 
writes: “She wondered if their 
children would have his eyes. 
She took his hand and silently 
vowed to stay near him forever. 
She would never forsake this 
man.” For context, this scene 
occurs the day after Rhonda and 
Tucker meet. The pace of the 
novel is arbitrary and confusing; 

even a traumatized 14-year-old 
girl seems unlikely to pledge 
her life to a boy she’s just met. 
There’s 
nothing 
surprising, 
lifelike or transgressive about 
Offutt’s characters. “The storm 
would pass,” Offutt writes. “And 
(Tucker) didn’t care one way or 
another.” Why doesn’t he care? 
He should care! For readers 
to care about characters, the 
characters 
themselves 
must 
care. One keeps hoping Offutt 
will give his characters some 
humanity, 
but 
instead 
they 
seem to float through their lives 
with no internal reasoning or 
complexities, 
their 
emotions 
simple 
and 
surface-level. 
Everything is as it seems.
It 
should 
be 
noted 
that 
“Country Dark” is a novel 
propelled 
by 
violence, 
an 
authorial choice that always 
puts the writer to task. If 
violence is to be a central theme, 
it must be justified — in the 
formal of social commentary, 
insightfulness or even character 
development. Unfortunately, the 
violence in “Country Dark” is 
simply a foreboding and often 
indiscriminate presence. The 
world is violent, certainly — 
but what do we do with that 
violence? How to we come to 
terms with it, or explain it, 
or understand it? These are 
questions raised by “Country 
Dark,” but not ones it offers any 
meaningful answers to.

MIRIAM FRACISCO
Daily Arts Writer

BOOKS

“Country 
Dark”

Chris Offutt

Grove Atlantic 

April 10, 2018

SINGLE REVIEW: ‘BACK IN BROOKLYN’

 Brooklyn-based artist Nandi 
Rose Plunkett has been mak-
ing music for her project Half 
Waif for a little over half of a 
decade, but it feels that now 
more than ever she’s on the 
cusp of breaking through to 
a larger audience. Since the 
beginning, her focus has been 
on crafting a delicate blend 
of classically inflected vocal 
melodies and hyper-modern 
electronica. Someone will 
probably come for me for 
saying it, but I’m tempted to 
draw a comparison between 
Half Waif and Flume, or at 
least between some of the 
otherworldly textures and 
syncopation that characterize 
significant portions of their 
respective bodies of work.
 Conspicuously absent 
from “Back in Brooklyn,” 
the third and final single 
ahead of Lavender’s Apr. 27 
release date, are those same 

electronic features that popu-
late the vast majority of her 
discography to date. Instead, 
Plunkett’s vocals and piano 

are the main characters in 
a largely soft-spoken ballad 
that offers reflections on 
being away from home — love, 
separation and the interplay 
between the two. On the one 
hand, “It’s easy and it’s right 
/ It’s freezing and it’s bright 
/ It’s everything I like,” sings 
Plunkett, referring to the city 
she calls home. On the other, 
“It’s easier to stay / Half a 
world away / Forgetting every 
name.” In between, the men-
tion of someone, presumably a 

lover, whom the narrator calls 
upon her return. “‘Where 
have you been?’ / Don’t ask 
me that,” she anticipates their 
conversation.
 After lulling her listener 
into a daze, Plunkett silences 
herself to a whisper. But 
it’s when she makes this 
comparison that her voice 
crests, grating with emotion 
in the song’s most cathar-
tic moment: “Listen for me 
now,” she shouts. It’s hard 
to tell what exactly Plunkett 
means when she sings that 
she’s “Casting off (her) half-
empty shell,” but it’s hard 
not to believe her. Like her 
songs, Plunkett becomes more 
complex with every passing 
moment. Lavender could be 
any number of things, but it’s 
bound to be captivating.

- Sean Lang, 
Daily Arts Writer

FLICKR

“Back in 
Brooklyn”

Half Waif

Cascine 

NETFLIX

out of nowhere. It’s predictably 
ludicrous.
“Freddie,” season 4, episode 5
“Skins” has a lot to say about 
love. The most memorable love 
story of the show also takes the 
longest to come to fruition. When 
they finally become a couple, Effy 
and Freddie take refuge in Effy’s 
house and turn it into a palace of 
sex and drugs, but the honeymoon 
doesn’t last forever. Effy’s mental 
health deteriorates to a point that 
Freddie has to seek help.
Like 
everything 
portrayed 
in “Skins,” the writers handle 
mental health in a paradoxically 

problematic 
and 
progressive 
way. As Effy’s well-being gets 
worse and worse, Freddie does 
the best he can to help her. He 
asks for advice, tells her mother, 
spends as much time possible 
with Effy and urges her to seek 
professional help. Yet when Effy 
is suffering from mental illness, 
she is portrayed as losing any 
grip on reality. She, quite literally, 
seems to go insane. This isn’t how 
mental illness should be thought 
of by the millions of teenage 
viewers watching. Mental illness 
is a spectrum, and its intensity 
is individual to each person who 

experiences it. To depict mental 
illness as something that pushes 
you beyond the bounds of reality 
for 
dramatizing 
purposes 
is 
irresponsible. However, making 
the subject of mental health a 
cornerstone of the plot is, by itself, 
quite progressive for 2010.
“Skins” tries so hard to be a 
progressive show that comments 
on the contemporary issues of 
the time, but it always pushes it 
a little too far. Regardless of its 
flaws, “Skins” remains a staple in 
the TV arsenal of youth today due 
to its well-written characters and 
addicting over-dramatization.

5A — Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

