"Your book is about consent, right?"
Before I review this episode, I feel that I should also briefly review what happens in the penultimate episode. In it, Arabella re-encounters Zain, who uses a female pseudonym for the novel that Arabella reads and loves, The Sundial (an intentional reversal of women using pseudonyms throughout history so as to gain literary "merit" and credibility from predominantly male, white publishers, moving from the Brontë sisters to J. K. Rowling). He has also "stealthed" (removed his condom without the partner's consent during sex) Arabella in an earlier episode. In order to aid her in finishing her debut novel, he gives her a "plot diagram for creative non-fiction," in which he (re)introduces her to the basic elements of a story: The set-back, where the internal logic (or rules) of the story-world are introduced and then disrupted, conflict, obstacles, characters - including the all-important antagonist (which, in Arabella's case, is her inner demons as much as it is an actual person). Perhaps most importantly, a story must have a resolution, but its form can take multiple (or circular) narratives. This is exactly what happens here. After eleven episodes of carefully crafted build-up, and after screaming at my television screen about Arabella's choices (which, after thinking about it, I've come to realize that I was actually screaming at, and recognizing, myself), we are presented with four potential resolutions, or rather with four endings-within-endings (in the style of a film's mise-en-abyme that looks like the disturbing lovechild of Michel Gondry and David Lynch). Arabella changes personas, wigs (having a short hair is as much a political declaration as having a platinum-blonde wig), and acting abilities. The quadruple conclusion is in line with the series' thematic concerns as a whole, as trauma repeats itself over and over in a person's mind, up to the point of emotional overload. I too have felt this overload, if only in a miniaturized, fictional scale, after watching an episode that lasts for approximately half an hour but that is very condensed. The first "ending" features a plot resolution that's typically found in American cinema/literature (e.g. Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Paul Thomas Anderson, Tarantino, and many others), that of revenge and redemption through violence and blood. But Arabella throws away the blood-stained note that features this stereotypical ending of black, feminine rage, dismissing it as reductive and unsatisfying. The second ending complicates the characterization of the predator/villain by humanizing him, giving him a personal history, and evoking sympathy and empathy from the viewer, as you realize that pure descriptors such as "good" and "evil" are never enough for a person in their true complexity. After all, "there are wars, there are people who are starving," Arabella/David say. The third ending is perhaps the most stylish, gender-bending, surrealist, and intriguing one. It is daytime, and the symbolically titled "Ego Death" bar is emptied of people except for Arabella, Terry, David, and his friend. David mimics Arabella's former insecurity when ordering gin and orange (sorry, uh... gin and tonic). Terry is no longer an object of an hetero-erotic male fantasy, as David's friend is the one dancing and objectifying/feminizing himself for Terry's pleasure, bringing the entire scenario into a state of absurdism. Meanwhile, Arabella and David engage in consensual sex in the women's/men's bathroom now having inverted gender signs. Gender roles (or sexual positions) are then reversed even further when they are teleported to her bedroom, her most intimate, private space. Arabella has finally gained control. Michaela has also gained control, of a different kind: BBC and HBO, unlike the heads of Netflix, have given her full creative control and ownership in a show that is as much about authors as it is about authority, and it shows--nothing in this show is incidental or half-formed, from the writing and direction, the chilling dreampop music, the beautiful cinematography, the excellent acting, and virtually any other element. Morning comes, and David--and the former imagining of him--must then "go," that is, leave her and her troubled psyche. The subsequent, fourth ending is the one that made "sense" to me the most, as emotional recovery and healing don't necessary entail returning to the physical scene of the crime. Arabella/Michaela herself as someone who experienced sexual assault, chooses to write down her fractured memories into a brilliant, original and timely narrative instead, a narrative about power dynamics between sexes, genders, and sexual orientations. She ultimately publishes her book/TV series with a cover-image that has been drawn in an earlier episode and that features no clear distinctions between "angel" and "demon," between "subject" and "object". You are (or can be) both.
Before I review this episode, I feel that I should also briefly review what happens in the penultimate episode. In it, Arabella re-encounters Zain, who uses a female pseudonym for the novel that Arabella reads and loves, The Sundial (an intentional reversal of women using pseudonyms throughout history so as to gain literary "merit" and credibility from predominantly male, white publishers, moving from the Brontë sisters to J. K. Rowling). He has also "stealthed" (removed his condom without the partner's consent during sex) Arabella in an earlier episode. In order to aid her in finishing her debut novel, he gives her a "plot diagram for creative non-fiction," in which he (re)introduces her to the basic elements of a story: The set-back, where the internal logic (or rules) of the story-world are introduced and then disrupted, conflict, obstacles, characters - including the all-important antagonist (which, in Arabella's case, is her inner demons as much as it is an actual person). Perhaps most importantly, a story must have a resolution, but its form can take multiple (or circular) narratives. This is exactly what happens here. After eleven episodes of carefully crafted build-up, and after screaming at my television screen about Arabella's choices (which, after thinking about it, I've come to realize that I was actually screaming at, and recognizing, myself), we are presented with four potential resolutions, or rather with four endings-within-endings (in the style of a film's mise-en-abyme that looks like the disturbing lovechild of Michel Gondry and David Lynch). Arabella changes personas, wigs (having a short hair is as much a political declaration as having a platinum-blonde wig), and acting abilities. The quadruple conclusion is in line with the series' thematic concerns as a whole, as trauma repeats itself over and over in a person's mind, up to the point of emotional overload. I too have felt this overload, if only in a miniaturized, fictional scale, after watching an episode that lasts for approximately half an hour but that is very condensed. The first "ending" features a plot resolution that's typically found in American cinema/literature (e.g. Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Paul Thomas Anderson, Tarantino, and many others), that of revenge and redemption through violence and blood. But Arabella throws away the blood-stained note that features this stereotypical ending of black, feminine rage, dismissing it as reductive and unsatisfying. The second ending complicates the characterization of the predator/villain by humanizing him, giving him a personal history, and evoking sympathy and empathy from the viewer, as you realize that pure descriptors such as "good" and "evil" are never enough for a person in their true complexity. After all, "there are wars, there are people who are starving," Arabella/David say. The third ending is perhaps the most stylish, gender-bending, surrealist, and intriguing one. It is daytime, and the symbolically titled "Ego Death" bar is emptied of people except for Arabella, Terry, David, and his friend. David mimics Arabella's former insecurity when ordering gin and orange (sorry, uh... gin and tonic). Terry is no longer an object of an hetero-erotic male fantasy, as David's friend is the one dancing and objectifying/feminizing himself for Terry's pleasure, bringing the entire scenario into a state of absurdism. Meanwhile, Arabella and David engage in consensual sex in the women's/men's bathroom now having inverted gender signs. Gender roles (or sexual positions) are then reversed even further when they are teleported to her bedroom, her most intimate, private space. Arabella has finally gained control. Michaela has also gained control, of a different kind: BBC and HBO, unlike the heads of Netflix, have given her full creative control and ownership in a show that is as much about authors as it is about authority, and it shows--nothing in this show is incidental or half-formed, from the writing and direction, the chilling dreampop music, the beautiful cinematography, the excellent acting, and virtually any other element. Morning comes, and David--and the former imagining of him--must then "go," that is, leave her and her troubled psyche. The subsequent, fourth ending is the one that made "sense" to me the most, as emotional recovery and healing don't necessary entail returning to the physical scene of the crime. Arabella/Michaela herself as someone who experienced sexual assault, chooses to write down her fractured memories into a brilliant, original and timely narrative instead, a narrative about power dynamics between sexes, genders, and sexual orientations. She ultimately publishes her book/TV series with a cover-image that has been drawn in an earlier episode and that features no clear distinctions between "angel" and "demon," between "subject" and "object". You are (or can be) both.
