expectations

It was always difficult to manage his expectations. He wanted authenticity he would claim. Something that felt real. The issue came from his understanding and definition of authenticity. What he viewed as real, as tangible, was ultimately based on myth. It took me a while to realise this. Months of taking him on trips to apparent real places, only for him to express his disappointment with reality. Complaints of working towns appearing as run down and lonely without the recognition that the visit had taken place on a weekday. Noted that the museum could have been improved, or how the bar staff weren’t particularly welcoming. The reasons were highlighted to him but immediately dismissed. It doesn’t take much to put up some notices to explain what was on display he rebuffed. I gave up after that. But the expressions of dismay and disappointment still had the same impact. We took them out for the day. It was too expensive. Too far. Asked where we should go the following day. We were told where he didn’t want to go. Determinations made through a process of elimination didn’t leave us with many options. Especially when I knew the reality could never live up to this nebulous definition of what he wanted to experience. How could I plan for anything when I knew that the result would be critiqued and analysed. A visit to a quiet town on a Sunday was left wanting. Wasn’t much going on apparently. Comparisons were drawn to the larger town, three times the size, and told me it wasn’t as good. I could have explained that wasn’t how comparisons worked but knew where that would lead to. His historical knowledge was questioned last Christmas and he immediately left the table. Had no concerns over causing a scene. I did. The thought of it made me feel ill. So we let it carry on.

figure it out

It took me a long time to figure out what I did and didn’t like. I was always so worried about not liking the right thing. Worried that I would be laughed at. I think I spent most of my childhood worrying that I would be laughed at. Never really being myself, with anyone. Not even myself. I look back at the things I professed to like I feel nothing. And I can’t imagine ever liking them. But that’s what you were supposed to do. At least that’s what I thought. So I bought the albums, watched the films, wore the clothes that I thought would make me feel like everyone else. I would loudly protest and proclaim my hatred of certain music declaring it inauthentic. Does everyone feel that way? Scared of saying the wrong thing? I still feel like that now. Delay replying to people as I find the process of formulating sentences too stressful. Agonise over the words, the syntax, the tone. What shall I say? I ask you. Does that sound all right?

Expectations

After we had known each other for a few weeks she told me she was surprised I had my ears pierced so many times. I wouldn’t have expected that of you she said. I’m not what she expected of me after only a few weeks, but it felt empty. Like I had already defied her limited expectations of me. I didn’t realise I could create such limiting expectations within only a few weeks and I asked myself, what did she think of me? I was already constrained by someone I had barely met and had no sense of how to combat this. But I wasn’t annoyed at her at the time. I was annoyed at myself. Annoyed that I’d already quashed any chances of being seen as different and I didn’t even know how I’d done it.

Looking and listening in Normal People

The highly praised adaptation of Normal People achieves that rare feat: an adaptation that successfully retains the spirit and mood of its source text without ever feeling like it is needlessly including every last detail of the original narrative. Readers of the Sally Rooney novel will know that much of the narrative features interior feelings and desires: ones that are often not spoken aloud, but instead, felt keenly by the protagonists Marianne and Connell. Indeed, Rooney dispenses, quite rightly, with the need for speech marks – so much here is interchangeably interior and exterior that there is simply no need. The reader feels what the characters feel, and there is no requirement for a distinction between what is said, and what it is left unsaid.

In adapting the novel, particularly one that features so much of a character’s inner thoughts and feelings, the temptation may have been to mine these feelings to create dialogue, or even, in less-skilful cases, make use of these feelings to create a narrative voice, with a clichéd, and dull voiceover serving the purpose of allowing the viewer to identify and understand what the characters are saying.

Neither method is successful in most cases, and instead, simply panders to those that stridently argue the case for fidelity to a source text. The adaptation of Normal People quite rightly chooses to use neither of these methods, instead utilising close-ups, and camera angles, to highlight the fact that Connell and Marianne spend a lot of their relationship simply looking at one another. The phrase, looking at one another, does not truly highlight the effectiveness of this method.

They do not simply glance, or stare, but instead, really see one another. They look at each other in a way that no other characters do. The adaptation features extended scenes of them glancing at one another, catching each other’s eye: in the school corridor, in the exam hall, by a swimming pool, at an awkward dinner party. In these moments is a clear realisation on the part of each character: they understand one another. As Connell remarks at seeing Marianne again at college, he used to think he could read her mind, but he supposes that’s normal. Marianne recognises, before Connell does, that this isn’t normal. It is unique to their relationship.

These moments of seeing and listening are emphasised in the way that their most intimate moments are shot. The camera moves constantly in close-up. Both Marianne and Connell are a sum of their parts, each almost trying to consume or drink one another in. The focus here is on the smallest detail, and there is a clear sense that the camera is serving as the narrative voice here. As Rooney has noted herself, the sex scenes often act as a form of dialogue, and it is clear that this is the aim of the camera here. Compare the camera use in Marianne’s sex scenes with other partners, ones that she doesn’t truly care for. The camera is static, barely involved, and removed away from the scene in medium or long shot. Here again, it is clear that the camera is standing in for Marianne’s interior voice. She feels little for these partners and as such, the camera itself doesn’t truly engage.

This is not to suggest that these moments of interiority are highlighted just in the sex scenes between characters. Moments of close discussion between Marianne and Connell are highlighted through the lack of camera movement. Instead of a rapid shot, reverse shot, the camera lingers, and holds on the character, slowly moving. When Connell is unsure what to apply for at college and voices his confusion, the camera simply rests on both he and Marianne in turn. Later, when he again discusses a life decision that will impact upon their relationship, the camera holds on Marianne. It is clear in these moments that the characters are truly listening, and paying attention to one another. That each is invested and involved in each other’s thoughts and decisions, and in turn, the viewer can witness the strength of their connection without the need to voice any interiority.

call

It’s the call that feels jarring. Jerks you awake. It feels like an intrusion. You can shut yourself away from everything else. Lock the door and turn off the lights so the people on the street think the house is empty. But when the phone rings and rings. It’s like they know you’re there all along. And there’s nowhere else to go. Sometimes you think that they’ll arrive uninvited and demand to be let in. And you wonder what you will do if this happens. Really you’d like to tell them to leave. But really, you’re not sure if you’d dare.

ask

She asked if he could come over. I wasn’t in the room at the time, I just heard the aftermath. She was upset of course. He explained to me afterwards what had happened. At the moment I don’t think anything will ever change.