#33 It’s Not Them It’s Me
07/10/20 15:21
There’s a fleeting scene in Us that sums up both its central characters, Douglas and Connie. They’re getting ready for work, brushing their teeth – Douglas wields an electric toothbrush, while Connie has one of those bamboo ones. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because I’ve recently discovered that while bamboo brushes are good for the planet, they’re not very good for cleaning your teeth, and I suspect Douglas knows that, too. I imagine they had an argument about it at one stage; perhaps that’s what tipped Connie towards deciding to leave him, the fact that Douglas cares more about his teeth than the Earth.
As you might have guessed, I’ve been thinking a lot about Us this week, and it’s left me tied up in knots. It hinges on such small things, but they loom so large. Connie wants a separation not because she hates her husband, or he was unfaithful, or she’s met someone else, or any other dramatic, end-of-EastEnders reason. Just a series of tiny shifts towards ennui - a faint dissatisfaction, a vague feeling that things could be better. Douglas goes to the dump to find solace – we’ve all been there – and finds himself sobbing in the car to Mozart’s Così fan tutte (the title loosely translates as ‘women are like that’).
Because they’re British, they go on their family holiday anyway - it’s booked, the insurance is tricky, and it can be a last blow-out before their son Albie goes to college (and, possibly, they divorce). So we go with them, but we’re also taken back, to when they first met, so we can see how, where and when it went wrong. Thus, the series flows along two timelines that tug at the threads of who they are, and what they want, until it unravels.
There’s so much to enjoy about this series – the potent soundtrack, the glorious European backdrop, the delicately-drawn, flawed characters who love each other yet can’t quite find a way to live with each other, even in Paris. Tom Hollander is, of course, wonderful as Douglas – the straightest of laces, tightly tied, endearingly poleaxed by his wife’s decision, and determined to change her mind. But change is the problem here. As we go back, we discover that Douglas is the same as he always was. The pedantic, self-righteous young man at the drug-addled 20-something dinner party is still there, still pontificating. Douglas hasn’t changed, but Connie has. That intoxicated, free-spirited artist has been compromised, worn down, replaced by a tired, frustrated middle-aged woman who longs for something more. If Douglas wants there to be an ‘Us’, it’s him who has to change.
My husband found it a complete delight, chortling away, entirely entranced. But it left me feeling melancholy and rather bleak, and I couldn’t work out why. Was it because I was Connie, dissatisfied and looking for a way out? Was I about to have a midlife crisis, and run off to Amsterdam to smoke dope? But, as the episodes meandered on, it struck me that the reason I was upset is because I’m Albie, their only child.
As only children know, it’s all on you. No one else to share the burden. So Albie, a teenager about to make his own way in the world, tags along with his parents on their last-gasp-dash around the continent, as they work out whether they really want to be together. Albie should be living it up with his mates in Ibiza, but instead he’s following the aged Ps, panicking when Dad teases that he’s sharing a room with them. It’s a lot to load onto a child – and he is still a child, even if there’s a man lurking there in the wings. I felt that faint mortification and pressure so keenly – traipsing round art galleries, weighed down by the sense that their happiness and satisfaction ride on him having a good time, making it work. And he’s not having a good time. It’s not working.
When Albie runs off, to complete his own Grand Tour, I felt a sense of relief, as if the natural order had been restored. From then on, there is no ‘Us’ – Connie is in the UK looking after their old dog (I fretted about where he was when they were away), Albie is busking somewhere and Douglas is looking for him, getting increasingly bad blisters. He meets a fellow solo traveller, Freja, played by the marvellous Sofie Gråbøl. She corrects his pronunciation of ‘Accademia’, which makes you realise she would be perfect for him. It’s the little things.
There’s a duff note in the form of the school quiz, a flashback scene which is lame and badly staged. Albie is there, seemingly the sole student representative, along with about six other parents – had they blown the budget on the European location stuff? Although there’s wine, no one is drunk, and when Douglas queries the results at the end, he should be accompanied by at least four other irate dads. I wonder if David Nichols has never been to a school quiz, and am happy to extend an invite to one of ours, if they ever happen again.
Apart from that, though, it’s all rather perfect. Charming, bittersweet, real and profound. I’m still sad about it, though – like my family, there should have been more of Us, but it was not to be. I might be due a trip to the dump.
As you might have guessed, I’ve been thinking a lot about Us this week, and it’s left me tied up in knots. It hinges on such small things, but they loom so large. Connie wants a separation not because she hates her husband, or he was unfaithful, or she’s met someone else, or any other dramatic, end-of-EastEnders reason. Just a series of tiny shifts towards ennui - a faint dissatisfaction, a vague feeling that things could be better. Douglas goes to the dump to find solace – we’ve all been there – and finds himself sobbing in the car to Mozart’s Così fan tutte (the title loosely translates as ‘women are like that’).
Because they’re British, they go on their family holiday anyway - it’s booked, the insurance is tricky, and it can be a last blow-out before their son Albie goes to college (and, possibly, they divorce). So we go with them, but we’re also taken back, to when they first met, so we can see how, where and when it went wrong. Thus, the series flows along two timelines that tug at the threads of who they are, and what they want, until it unravels.
There’s so much to enjoy about this series – the potent soundtrack, the glorious European backdrop, the delicately-drawn, flawed characters who love each other yet can’t quite find a way to live with each other, even in Paris. Tom Hollander is, of course, wonderful as Douglas – the straightest of laces, tightly tied, endearingly poleaxed by his wife’s decision, and determined to change her mind. But change is the problem here. As we go back, we discover that Douglas is the same as he always was. The pedantic, self-righteous young man at the drug-addled 20-something dinner party is still there, still pontificating. Douglas hasn’t changed, but Connie has. That intoxicated, free-spirited artist has been compromised, worn down, replaced by a tired, frustrated middle-aged woman who longs for something more. If Douglas wants there to be an ‘Us’, it’s him who has to change.
My husband found it a complete delight, chortling away, entirely entranced. But it left me feeling melancholy and rather bleak, and I couldn’t work out why. Was it because I was Connie, dissatisfied and looking for a way out? Was I about to have a midlife crisis, and run off to Amsterdam to smoke dope? But, as the episodes meandered on, it struck me that the reason I was upset is because I’m Albie, their only child.
As only children know, it’s all on you. No one else to share the burden. So Albie, a teenager about to make his own way in the world, tags along with his parents on their last-gasp-dash around the continent, as they work out whether they really want to be together. Albie should be living it up with his mates in Ibiza, but instead he’s following the aged Ps, panicking when Dad teases that he’s sharing a room with them. It’s a lot to load onto a child – and he is still a child, even if there’s a man lurking there in the wings. I felt that faint mortification and pressure so keenly – traipsing round art galleries, weighed down by the sense that their happiness and satisfaction ride on him having a good time, making it work. And he’s not having a good time. It’s not working.
When Albie runs off, to complete his own Grand Tour, I felt a sense of relief, as if the natural order had been restored. From then on, there is no ‘Us’ – Connie is in the UK looking after their old dog (I fretted about where he was when they were away), Albie is busking somewhere and Douglas is looking for him, getting increasingly bad blisters. He meets a fellow solo traveller, Freja, played by the marvellous Sofie Gråbøl. She corrects his pronunciation of ‘Accademia’, which makes you realise she would be perfect for him. It’s the little things.
There’s a duff note in the form of the school quiz, a flashback scene which is lame and badly staged. Albie is there, seemingly the sole student representative, along with about six other parents – had they blown the budget on the European location stuff? Although there’s wine, no one is drunk, and when Douglas queries the results at the end, he should be accompanied by at least four other irate dads. I wonder if David Nichols has never been to a school quiz, and am happy to extend an invite to one of ours, if they ever happen again.
Apart from that, though, it’s all rather perfect. Charming, bittersweet, real and profound. I’m still sad about it, though – like my family, there should have been more of Us, but it was not to be. I might be due a trip to the dump.
- Us, 4 episodes, BBC One
