Have you read Rophy’s "Freddie" recap yet? If not, drop what you’re doing and run to it! Run like Freddie! Run like the wind!
As always, graphics and commentary by Rophy. And mind your step: season four spoilers ahead.
Hamlet is English literature’s favorite puzzle. People have been tearing it apart and putting it back together in different shapes and sizes before Shakespeare’s quill even dried over "The End," and every time we run out of ways to interpret and analyze it, someone goes and invents an entirely new form of literary criticism.
Have we talked about the vanilla stuff like the mystery of death and the complexity of action/inaction? Yep. Have we talked about God being a micro-manager? Yep. Have we talked about how truth is less black-and-white and more like a pallet of infinite watercolors? Yep. Have we analyzed the space between the letters between the words between the lines to make sure we didn’t miss any weird sex stuff? Have you met Sigmund Freud?
[Rophy says: Old Sigmund would have a lot to say about Naomi's banana-crunching in 306. In fact, I think maybe he will have a lot to say ... in macro form.]
And so Skins is going to tell it a little bit, too, with Freddie, whose similarities to the Prince of Denmark line up thus: a) Dead parent. b) Inability to make a simple decision because c) Sometimes you’re just f-cked if you be and f-cked if you not to be, because: d) Your friends might be your real family. Or e) They might just want to kill you. (There are days when Skins, just like Shakespeare, is a choose-your-own pirate-adventure story.)
[Rophy says: And then there are days when Freddie gets offed via the means of bat because he packed a bag.]
There’s other Hamlet/Freddie business I can’t get into because, frankly, my eye is on the prize of the next episode.
And anyway, Naomi is going to explain it so sexily in a few minutes that I do not know how Emily doesn’t jump her desk, flip the script, and drag Naomi out into the hall for a mad pash up against the lockers because if I can’t stand it (And I can’t. I can’t. Jesus.), I honestly do not understand how Emily doesn’t just explode.
(You know how Sonic the Hedgehog shatters into a dozen adorable baby animals from the forest and, like, a shower of gumdrops and lollipops and cupcake sprinkles? That’s what would happen if Emily exploded, I think.)
[Rophy says: Ah, Emily Fitch. Still Cutest Human Ever, even in pieces.]
Anyway. Slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune: After a day of skateboarding around Bristol, Freddie returns home to find Karen camped out in front of the telly watching herself on Search for the Next Sexxbomb. Before she starts gyrating and dropping lyrics like "I’m juicing down tonight / I’m gonna make him moan / I’m juicing down tonight / I’m gonna take him to the zone" Karen dedicates her performance to her dead mum — because everyone needs a story to win a show like this, which is gross. And entirely accurate.