"Fleabag" And The Excess of Living
Parodies of Human Nature
I have the attention span of a peanut and the confidence of a churro on Main Street Disneyland so I apologize for my hiatus and lack of vernacular spewage in your inbox.
Every week is a reminder to write for this newsletter and as stressful and exciting as that is, it is also something that I do not have as much time for anymore.
Like Voldemort, I have promised bits and pieces of myself and my time to many many people and I aim to deliver, lest they actually make good on their promises and collect.
I only have so many kidneys ;_;
The problem is that I really like doing this so 😬 guess I’ll have to make time or D I E trying hahaha
You may remember my last newsletter on Fleabag from way back when and I ended it with the comment that Fleabag, for all intents and purposes, is a love story.
Not a conventional one that we see every February in the form of a rom-com or other poorly thought out love triangle. This is a love story about…love.
Parody
It took an offhand comment from my sister for me to realize that as terrible yet relatable as all the characters in Fleabag are, they are massive parodies of human existence.
Everyone is terrible.
Everyone is absolutely terrible.
There is no exception to that rule. Not even the titular character, as charming and sardonic as she is, is exempt. Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s character is actually the worst of the lot, her humor a shield to deflect unwanted attention from her problems and a cutlass sharpened against herself more than it is to other people.
When we regale others of tales of our lives, to trim it out as a he-said-she-said narrative is oftentimes boring, and we embellish the story, whether we mean to or not. The way we see the world is tainted by our lived experiences and other’s actions may seem excessive in relation to our own existence.
Like in Fleabag, everyone is a caricature of their best and worst attributes. It makes for highly stylized and memorable characters, but it is the excess in all the wrong ways.
Therefore, how we expect things to play out is often not how it actually does because the story progression relies on the absurd and pushing reactions to the extremes.
This, paired with the fact that nobody has names, adds to the relatability but the distancing of these characters.
Sure you might have a bitchy stepmom. But do you have a bitchy stepmom who’s manipulated your father into marriage and is an absolute cunt to any and everybody she meets? Cinderella for you right there. We might have some experience with a sliver of that extreme, but not its entirety, but as audience members we will latch on to whatever is familiar.
On the flipside, we usually don’t have these Kardashian-esque characters in our daily lives so we can see them, relate to them a little bit, but feel grateful that that massive bitch in whatever episode is not real in our lives.
The namelessness is a beautiful technique I didn’t think about until I read both of the pilot episodes (EP 101 and EP 201 are available online! And the Scriptures is also available for sale) and realized everyone is just a title. Even Fleabag.
Their name is oftentimes a description or their relation to Fleabag and while, in theory, this should make it difficult to pin characteristics to characters, it does the opposite because the characters are so full of themselves, so boundless and annoying that we, too, fondly refer to them as “Dad” or “Hot Priest” or “Bitchy stepmom.”
Lust
This entire show is dripping with desire.
Lust for one another, physically or emotionally. Fleabag’s sexcapades are yet another outlet for her to hurt herself, but also to dip her toes into what may be love. To explore feelings beyond in a hope for something better for the future.
The tragedy is the comedy, once you’ve watched it once and rewatch it looking at Fleabag’s tells and how she navigates her family dynamics.
The person she presents to her family is someone funny and out there and it is ironic that every deeply emotional, character progressing moment is with a stranger.
The strangers don’t have any perception of Fleabag they can compare her to, past mistakes or null.
These strangers can see Fleabag at face value, recognize how broken and sad a woman this is, and lend an ear.
One of the best scenes is the ending in 106:
Fleabag is heartbroken and distraught. Caused by (you guessed it) her family. And who do we see? The banker from the pilot episode.
The banker who has had strong NPC vibes throughout the series, who isjust passing by, who is more compassionate to our protagonist than anyone in this series, including herself.
He can immediately see that this façade of lust is just that: a façade.
And he offers her an out. Not with sex, not with banal words. He actually, really does, help Fleabag.
It’s these small moments that I love in Fleabag. You’d expect the grand moments of self-actualization and epiphany to come from a loved one or with her family.
Instead, they come from strangers. The Good Samaritan Parable.
Love for your fellow man because they are suffering but accepting that within this stranger’s faults, there is good.
Love
I said this before and I’ll say it again, trumpeting to the high heavens on their pearly gates: Fleabag is a love story.
But like an excess of anything, an excess of love is bad for you. Who knew love could be so toxic, when it’s hot and sweaty and does nothing for you emotionally?
Whoulda thunk.
The funny thing about the parody of love is that it lands on a spectrum, swinging around on a dial that is almost a complete circle. No matter where the heart falls on the spectrum, it is within reason because we will justify the ends of the world for love.
Love for others. Love for yourself. Love for the universe at large.
But when does the love for one’s self devolve into narcissism? When does love for the world turn into recklessness?
When does love become vitriol and hate?
By the end of the series, I would say that Fleabag has an understanding of the good kind of love, the one that is forgiving and wholesome. She understands it in theory, not so much in practice.
She’s on the way there, but she hasn’t made good enough strides to say that yes, this is a new her.
Theoretically, we could’ve continued the series with her as she navigates this new understanding of love and acceptance and we could’ve been gifted with a few more seasons.
But the ending of S2 is exactly why there cannot be another season of Fleabag:
She walks away from us. Our journey with her has come to a close and she leaves us at the bus stop.
The simple motion of shaking her head and walking away is the greatest act of self-love she could have done.
And that is all we need to know, to know that she will be okay.