I watched my first episode of Skins last January. The series follows a set of teenagers throughout their two years of college, before replacing them after two seasons with a new ‘generation’ of characters. Typically there is much sex, drugs, and partying. Skins has been praised for painting a ‘realistic’ picture of teenagers’ lives, which is… debatable. Nevertheless, I latched on to Season 5, in a sort of unfounded, vicarious nostalgia for the wild adolescence I never had.
It wasn’t just the drugs, sex and rock n roll, though. Season 5 honestly contained some of the most affecting writing I’ve encountered on TV. The series began with the introduction of sexually ambiguous Franky, the new arrival at college, in a sensitive exploration of the bullying of LGBTQ teens, before turning to Mini, who at first seemed to function as a sort of walking amalgamation of every Mean Girl cliché ever, but then deepened into a suppressed portrait of sadness, insecurity and sexual anxiety; as well as Grace, who was everyone’s favourite. I know you’re supposed to disapprove of teen marriage, but the finale where she and her heavy-metal aficionado boyfriend Rich attempt to get married (by forging their parents’ signature on the permission slip you need for underage marriages – look, I never said this show wasn’t ridiculous) was adorable. I am very, very attached to Season 5 of Skins. I suppose there are worse things to be addicted to.
Riding on the waves of those high expectations, I tuned into the first episode of the new season and found that Season 6 is actually… kind of shit. It opens with them going on holiday in Morocco, where the locals function as some kind of vaguely offensive backdrop to the main show constituted by these crazy English kids. Franky is inexplicably femmed up and shouts things like, “Shut the fuck up, you fucking fucker!” at her new boyfriend. This causes Mini to observe cuttingly, “I liked it better when she may or may not have been a lesbian” (ughgh, really?). Mini also starts sleeping with Alo, who has been reduced to a cardboard cutout of his previously hilarious, almost-poignant, stoned cup-pisser persona. Worst of all, Grace dies, in the most supremely pointless of all fictional deaths. Everyone else shares a protracted hallucination that she’s actually woken up from her coma for days.
Whereas Season 5 was neatly drawn and soul-rending, the new series is reduced to a shambolic caricature of itself, although I am given to understand that this happens periodically. They’ve also just introduced a sociopathic gambler who cruises for sexual partners on a Grindr-clone app and seemingly conducts all his life choices by the toss of a dice. Oh, lord.
