Form vs. Content

One person always tries to impress another. That’s the way we live here. We write emails filled with form — structured, sophisticated — far more than with the content itself. We’re impressed by frescoes on the ceilings; it’s part of the Western artistic tradition. But this way of existing creates an imbalance that can culminate in a crisis, as it did at the end of the 19th century and again in the 1960s.

Cinema — and especially cinematic series — was born at a time when content regained power, overcoming mimesis. While essentially a realistic art form, cinema quickly revealed itself to be more abstract than it first appeared. And with that realization, it becomes painfully obvious when something is off — when a film is too stupid to be so beautiful, or too dull to be so enlightening. 

What works?

Which brings us to Adolescence, a UK miniseries written by Stephen Graham and Jack Thorne, which became quite a phenomenon this spring. Unfortunately, it’s also an example of the imbalance discussed above. 

The show follows the aftermath of a crime committed by a 13-year-old boy. We see him only in the first and third episodes, while the second focuses on the police investigation, and the fourth on the family’s struggle. This captivating premise drew millions of viewers. However, not to underestimate the work done by the creators, the overall viewer reaction somewhat overestimated the quality of the writing. You don’t make a good war film knowing nothing about war, just as you don’t make a good psychological drama knowing nothing about psychology. Adolescence is well-written, but it’s not exceptional. 

Take, for example, the father-son dynamic in episode two — an exceptional detail that deepens our understanding of violence among children. But the series fails to reach a strong conclusion. Moreover, two female characters seem to be overshadowed compared to the father in the last episode — perhaps an attempt to portray different human protective mechanisms, which actually results in an unequal amount of attention dedicated to each character.

What is exceptional, however, is the acting. If anything stands the test of time after the hype fades, it’s the quality of performances. Owen Cooper and Stephen Graham are both remarkable. While Graham’s excellence is no surprise — his performance is only slightly weakened by certain stylistic choices, which we’ll discuss later — Cooper’s work deserves specific praise. 

To be an actor at the age of 15 must be an unusual experience. While film history often reminds us that children make perfect actors, either by nature or by lack of artifice, that doesn’t diminish the complexity of what Cooper achieves here. The third episode is almost a two-hander, a short film in itself, performed with astonishing subtlety. A partly improvised dialogue — a technique that requires a unique skill set — went so unnoticed that the scene feels almost as if it were “written” by Cassavetes. Only written though — not shot.  

Where Does It Fall Apart?

We haven’t yet touched on the duration of the scene that might be considered a great addition to the list of impressive achievements by a young actor, but won’t look at it this way. In fact, the overall impression of the series, despite everything mentioned above and all the hard work by the UK team, is that it is extremely dull. It doesn’t provoke feelings. Yes, it did provoke a discussion — but afterwards, and not within artistic circles.

First things first — plan sequences have evolved. This technique has been rethought and repurposed countless times. So it’s hard to believe it could be used in such a way that only undermines the actors’ hard work by trapping them in a kind of melodramatic theatre, full of awkward close-ups — for which Epstein would’ve hit someone on set. The camera should serve the actor, not obstruct them. 

Still, the first episode does work. Indeed, the plan sequences perfectly translate the feeling of confusion that dominates this episode. In this case, the confusion is justified — it’s what the episode is about. But by the time we reach episodes two, three, and four, this stylistic choice starts to feel less deliberate and more like a crutch.  

Why are we still meant to feel disoriented in the third episode, where clarity and psychological nuance should take center stage? We’ve had cinema for over a century, and in that time films like 12 Angry Men already proved that you don’t need constant camera motion to make dialogue gripping. Or take Anora, which uses long takes only at moments of real emotional or narrative tension.  

This is not to say that all plan sequences are used this way, but to highlight that episodes two, three and four chose to be lazy rather than creative. The infinite staircases, the aimless walking — none of it adds to the drama. Last episode, again saved by the performances, lacks both sharpness and discomfort. The often-cited “feeling of discomfort” could have been created using a long take, for example in a shopping mall scene, then why go further? The confusion of plan sequences and long take is what doesn’t work in this series. And then there’s the final scene. It’s beautifully written; on paper, perhaps the strongest moment of the series. But instead of giving it space to breathe, the direction turns it into a confused mix of shoving, pacing, and yet more stair-climbing. 

Paradoxically, Adolescence is still a must-watch. Because of its themes. Because of the raw, human performances. But it should be watched with a critical eye—ready to appreciate or question every side of the artistic work.  

Smolkin Viktor