You're (probably) wrong about The Idol
The backlash against the backlash.
I’ve resisted opinion writing for a long time. Tried it once; didn’t care for it. Over the last year or so, I feel like pop culture commentary has become increasingly lazy. Binary takes, groupthink en masse, and any content that falls short of near-universal praise is dismissed as “mid” without a second thought.
I had three options: read Twitter and seethe, hide Twitter on my phone, or become part of the problem.
So, here I am, becoming everything I hate: an opinion writer.
And the thing that’s dragged me kicking and screaming back to opinion writing? The most critically maligned TV show of the summer. HBO’s The Idol.
Hot take: The Idol is a good show.
Outside of two episodes of Euphoria, which were not for me, I’m not familiar with Sam Levinson’s work. And I’m not here to litigate the Rolling Stone piece on the production of The Idol or whether The Weeknd’s a good actor (even though he reminds me of many a sketchy club promoter I’ve known, and his presence has been no more distracting than any other music artist who’s tried their hand at acting).
I’m here to provide a different perspective on The Idol, a show I feel has been unfairly overlooked and misrepresented in lieu of tired criticisms about sex scenes and unfair readings on the intention of the creators.
I can think of many shows over the years with more explicit sex scenes, more nudity, and less self-aware depictions of toxic relationships, but I can’t think of the last time a show has been so widely misunderstood, and so obsessively picked apart.
(Of course, if we’re including movies, there’s always Don’t Worry Darling…)
Created by Abel “The Weeknd” Tesfaye and Sam Levinson of Euphoria fame, The Idol follows Jocelyn, a pop star trying to mount a comeback after her mother’s death, a toxic relationship, and a psychotic break. It’s a narrative reminiscent of Britney Spears’s struggles told with a specificity, courtesy of Tesfaye’s first-hand experience in the industry, that adds a layer of authenticity.
The first two episodes of The Idol follow a dual narrative: Jocelyn’s frustrations with her team and her escape from those frustrations, which she finds in Tedros Tedros [sic], a Hollywood triple threat—cult leader, talent manager, and Hollywood night club owner.
Jocelyn’s team, all of whom rely on her as a source of income, talk about her as if she’s more of a commodity than a person. They’re manipulative and definitely controlling. All of this leads her into the arms of Tedros (played by Tesfaye)—the lightning rod of the show’s criticism.
The scenes between Jocelyn and Tedros have, without exception, featured graphic sex and awkward dirty talk (“Make that mouth wet for me”). Critics of the show have blasted everything from the inclusion of the sex to the dialogue and Tesfaye’s acting ability. GQ labeled the sex scene at the end of the second episode as “the worst sex scene ever.”
Could these scenes be written differently? Yes. Would the show work without them? Almost definitely. Would that make it a better show? I don’t think so. It also wouldn’t make it a worse show. It would just make it a different show.
The Idol blends satire, neo-noir, and horror. To appreciate this cocktail of genres, it might help to dive deeper into The Idol’s inspirations. The Weeknd’s videography homages many movies up to and including American Psycho, Lost in Translation, The Neon Demon, Eyes Wide Shut, and Eraserhead. Beyond film, one of his songs, “Less Than Zero,” is presumably named after the Bret Easton Ellis novel of the same name. These inspirations have also carried over into The Idol.
Let’s focus on the novels of Bret Easton Ellis and The Neon Demon, both of which have two things in common with The Idol: their unique combination of satire with scenes and moments that are so extreme they become (intentionally) farcical.
Glamorama by Ellis has a threesome that lasts ten-plus pages. It starts funny, becomes uncomfortable, then cringeworthy, before becoming so gratuitous, explicit, and over-the-top that it circles back to funny.
Likewise, The Neon Demon builds tension in its final act through a series of increasingly dark developments until such a point that the last ten minutes of over-the-top gratuity and darkness double as a pressure release of gallows humor.
Ellis’s novels and Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon can’t be fully understood from dialogue and plot points alone. Their meaning comes from the style in which they’re told—the choice of words, tonal incongruencies, lighting, music, colors, camera angles, narrative non-sequiturs, etcetera.
If the sex scenes make you uncomfortable, that’s the point.
If the sex scenes make you cringe, that’s also the point.
If the sex scenes take such a weird turn you burst out laughing… Also the point!
Refn and Ellis aren’t alone in leaning on style, mood, and atmosphere to convey theme. Many shows over the last several years have dabbled in a similar approach. Twin Peaks: The Return (Showtime), The Girlfriend Experience (Starz), Atlanta(FX), Too Old To Die Young (Prime), and The Leftovers (HBO) are as much about the experience of watching them and the feelings they inspire than the plot, character arcs, and dialogue.
And so is The Idol.
In the first episode, Tedros, wearing a trench coat, stands backlit in Jocelyn’s drive like Dracula. It’s weird. It’s ominous. It’s also fucking ridiculous. And that’s the point. The show wants you to feel all these things. And in feeling them, you know everything you need to know about Tedros.
The sexual content of the show isn’t there to turn you on. And Tedros isn’t supposed to be attractive. The sexual content is exploitative and Tedros is a sleaze, and they both function to give you insight into Jocelyn and further the themes of the show.
How toxic are Jocelyn’s label and management that Tedros’s scummy alternative seems like a safe haven by comparison? The show is intentionally drawing a comparison between the music industry apparatus and a sinister sex cult, and it’s not a flattering one.
These scenes are shot like a music video. Not because the show is style over substance, but because the style is the substance. By portraying these disturbing scenes in the style of a Britney Spears video, The Idol’s asking you to look beyond skimpy outfits and highly choreographed dance sequences to the performer underneath—one part human being, one part commodity.
Sexually provocative songs have topped the Billboard charts for as long as they’ve been a thing. The Idol is the story behind the lyrics. It’s asking us to engage with the songs we’re familiar with and interrogate the stories that inspire them. Some of which are raw, ugly, and—even—cringe-worthy. Just like the sex scenes in The Idol.
Everything about The Idol—from the situations, the way they’re shot, and the music—is geared to reflect where Jocelyn is emotionally. Everyone sympathized with Britney Spears when she was trying to escape her conservatorship. Maybe if more people had The Idol’s perspective on how the music industry commodifies talent, they would have sympathized sooner.
Is it realistic that a pop star like Jocelyn could fall for a guy as weird as Tedros? Go to an LA nightclub any night of the week and you’ll see a dozen girls who look just like Jocelyn making out with sketchy promoters with hair that would make Tedros’s rattail blush.
Does the show sympathize with Jocelyn? Yes.
Does the show empower Jocelyn? Not completely. Not yet. But we’re only two episodes in.
In the first episode, Jocelyn and her assistant watch Basic Instinct.
“A detective falls for the wrong woman,” says Sharon Stone, smoking a cigarette (a la Jocelyn).
“What happens?” asks Michael Douglas.
“She kills him.”
A Los Angeles Love Story
A Novel by Pasha Adam
A tale of two Angelenos snorting and fucking and killing their way through life in the pursuit of love.
Amazon.com | Amazon.co.uk | Apple Books
Praise for A Los Angeles Love Story
“The latest novel from Adam (Keep Santa Monica Clean, 2016, etc.) is a twisty and transgressive tale of two jaded and troubled strangers discovering an unlikely connection… Adam’s sharp and economical prose is punctuated by moments of acerbic humor.” – Kirkus Reviews