I May Destroy You (2020)

Lately, I’ve been doing a number of short shows/seasons, which is nice because it gives me a lot of variety. With I May Destroy You, there may be a kneejerk tendency to draw comparisons with Fleabag, since both are half-hour series from British writer/actress creators that explore some dark themes, but the two series are complete different and hugely compelling in their own ways. Michaela Coel has created something gripping and visceral with this intensely-personal story (premise spoilers.)

Arabella has less than a day to finish the draft of her book. She plans to sequester herself in her flat and write, but she allows herself a short break to to meet a friend for a drink. The next morning, she’s hazy, and as she finishes her pages just under the deadline, a sudden image flashes into her mood: a strange man standing over her in a bathroom stall. As Arabella struggles to piece the events of the night together and figure out how to move forward, she’s forced into a journey she’s not sure how to deal with.

Creating stories about rape are always charged, and there are plenty of shows that don’t treat it with the weight it requires. I May Destroy You wades into the world of sex and consent among a group of young Londoners in a way that goes beyond the “violent stranger in the shadows” images that give horrible people cover to make smug legal distinctions about so-called “legitimate rape.” The series hinges on the night when Arabella is roofied in a bar and raped, an experience about which she has only fragmented, shaky memories, but it’s not the only one that pervades the lives of Arabella and her friends. Her experience begins to shake loose other moments for her and those close to her, sexual encounters that they didn’t think of as rape but which they know made them feel violated. The series examines so-called “gray” issues and allows them the severity they deserve: withholding necessary information that a partner would need in order to consent, changing agreed-upon protection decisions in the middle of sex, recording without permission. These acts and others are portrayed as they ought to be, without wiggle room for equivocating terms like “a bit rapey” or “rape-adjacent.” Additionally, it explores issues like false accusations and the deep shame that men face in coming forward about being raped.

Something else I appreciate the about the series is how it really takes its time to show Arabella’s actions and state of mind in the days, weeks, and months after the rape. This is not a tragic backstory to inform our strong heroine’s guardedness. This was a horrific thing that happened to her on one random night when she was just out having fun, and it knocked something loose in her worldview. It becomes something she has to deal with everyday – whether that’s in major ways like reporting the crime to the police or becoming a champion for survivors on social media, or in the constant whispering reminders like her newfound fear of drinking anything in public or the way her brain superimposes the faces of men she knows onto the image of her rapist, testing to see if they “fit.” Sometimes she reaches out for help, sometimes she throws herself into distractions, sometimes she desperately tries to take back her power, sometimes she’s a shitty friend, and sometimes she finds moments of clarity. It’s not a linear journey, and I feel so much truth in that.

Michaela Coel knocks it out of the park with her writing, as well as with her performance as Arabella. I love how she can be heartbreaking and infuriating in almost the same moments, as well as the way she often reveals so much in the instances where she’s the most closed-off. Weruche Opia and Paapa Essiedu are also excellent as Arabella’s best friends Terry and Kwame. Everyone turns in really strong, naturalistic performances that make the difficult subject matter feel even more immediate.

Warnings

Violence (including rape,) sexual content, drinking/smoking/drug use, language, disturbing images, and strong thematic elements.