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As for the main character, Rue—with her myriad addictions, constant relapses, and scheming pursuits to get high at any cost—I could name countless counterparts: kids who took handfuls of Benadryl to try to hallucinate, sipped a mixture of cough syrup and Sprite out of water bottles in class, experimented with opioids. (One acquaintance emerged from rehab and contacted me for the first time in years to ask if I could send him $20.) Even before Euphoria, my former classmates occupied a transient position of coolness because of their self-destructive traits. They were frenetically throwing themselves into all the treacherous and injurious acts that we’d been trained, by popular culture and the media that preceded Euphoria, to believe were the markers of young adulthood. Social media was central to the unfurling of their tragic sagas, inundating their peers’ Instagram feeds with photos of red cups, bags of bud, hot-boxed cars—all of the indications of a so-called real coming of age.
Notoriety and popularity were the same thing. The appeal of these acts lay in the public proof of participation. They had sex so that their peers would know they had sex; they did drugs so their peers would know they did drugs. They were motivated, it seemed, by the petrifying prospect of being left behind, of growing up too slowly, of making it to graduation day and having no scars to show for it. My criticism of Euphoria, which returns this Sunday for its second season, is not that it’s inaccurate; on the contrary, I find it horrifyingly on target. My criticism lies in the way it aestheticizes the traumas it depicts, an aestheticization that my generation is particularly vulnerable to. Perhaps the only character who truly faces the consequences for her vices is Rue; the other characters repeatedly endanger themselves and others and yet miraculously continue to avoid major catastrophe or even parental intervention. They dance through morally and legally dubious scenarios to a theatrical soundtrack and emerge mostly unscathed and always flawlessly groomed, episode after episode. While it may have been intended to serve as a warning, Euphoria often feels more like an instructional tutorial or a road map, one that sensationalizes its subject matter while neglecting to fully disclaim its risks and hazards.
In some ways, Euphoria is following down a well-beaten path. The nihilistic teen drama has been a cinematic cultural staple for decades. When Nicholas Ray’s landmark film Rebel Without a Cause was released in 1955, it was banned in New Zealand out of fear it would incite teenage delinquency. Film critic Roger Ebert described Larry Clark’s 1995 coming-of-age film Kids as “the kind of movie that needs to be talked about afterward. It doesn’t tell us what it means.” Similar in that regard, Euphoria seems to have no thesis beyond evocative documentation—but optically the show exists in a lane of its own. The cast certainly doesn’t look like your average high school classroom, made up almost entirely of former or current models above age 21. The main characters are all stunningly beautiful and decidedly postpubescent, and their day-to-day attire frequently features glitter, immaculate makeup, and over-the-top outfits, which they wear even through their most traumatizing experiences. The cinematography of the show almost resembles that of a music video, with moody, glowing lighting and dramatic, elaborate motion shots.
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