I’m not going to say that Skins* series five is the best series of television in all of history on every plane of the space-time continuum, because if I said such a thing — nay, if I conceived such a thought — you would come at me like a mob: one of you kicking me in the kidneys while another of you punched me in the jugular while another of you kneecapped me in the knees while another of you axe-murdered me with an axe while another of you wrote “Naomily forever, bitch” on my forehead in permanent marker.**
Probably then you would open up my laptop because I always carry it with me and so it would be there and you would wonder about it. And you’d see with your own eyes the way I track the “Naomily” Tumblr tag and all that fan fiction I’ve written and the recaps and the photos on my desktop and everything, and you’d feel pretty bummed and maybe you’d say, “Perhaps she wasn’t being literal.” Or, “Perhaps what intrigues her is the cohesive nature of series five, and the exploration of the discrete way each individual relationship is represented, the way every character rubs up against each other, and this whole different idea about how each character’s individual episode is a catalyst for personal change, and change for the entire urban family unit.” But it wouldn’t matter by then because I’d be dead, dead, dead.
So I won’t say it.
(*When I write Skins in this post, I mean UK Skins, OK? Because US Skins and UK Skins fall in entirely different places on my feelings spectrum. “Intrigued” and “cautiously optimistic” for the former. “Smitten beyond the telling of it” for the latter.)
(**I motherf–king defy you to try to diagram that sentence.)
What I am going to say, though, is that you should probably be watching Skins gen three because it is an absolute pleasure. It’s familiar but also fresh, artistically and conceptually and narratively. It’s the same substance with a whole other texture. I’m meant to be focusing on Franky here, and I’m going to in just a second because it’s easy because she’s incredible, but also: Every character in this generation deserves your attention. And I mean, every time someone tells me to be objective about Skins, I’m like, “How would you like me to be objective about YOUR FACE!” Because I write and write and write about TV, and God, I love it, but Skins transports me to this place where the glory is the act of story.
So, Franky. Franky, Franky, Franky Fitzgerald. I’ve written a bit about Franky already, so get to know her over here in a discussion on The Great Gender Binary if you’d like. I’m going to pick up where I left off, but here’s a quick refresher:
Franky Fitzgerald is uninterested in your box. She’s uninterested in conforming to your ideas about gender, and she’s uninterested in conforming to your ideas about sexuality. She’s suffered her whole life at the hands of box-makers — with their labels and their hammers and their saws and their fears. They want a definition, to hack off one thing and tack on another and work her into a shape they recognize, a shape they relate to. But Franky’s not having it. She’s the kind of courageous you never even dreamed about because her quest is no old trope.