Lizzo’s ‘Worship’ plays as the credits roll on the final episode of this series and it perfectly encapsulates its spirit. Grappling with self-love, not in the consumerist, spa-day sense with which the term has become synonymous, but in the real, gritty, messy way we all experience behind closed doors. ‘This Way Up’ is unafraid of messiness. And I could honestly worship Aisling Bea – who both wrote and stars in the series – for this. She has captured the reality of navigating life as a young woman with more accuracy and honesty than any show I’ve watched for a long time.
‘This Way Up’ made me laugh and cry in equal measure. Every single episode provided moments of recognition and humour born out of truly relatable experience. Many will recognise the everyday stumbling-blocks Bea’s protagonist Aine faces; from living with her roommate’s loud shagging, to struggling to avoid the lure of her ex and acting as permanent third wheel to her sister Shona (Sharon Horgan) and her partner Vish (Aasif Mandvi). These more trivial elements are weaved effortlessly by Bea into deeper, but just as relatable, themes of mental illness, loneliness and shame.
We first meet Aine as she leaves the rehab centre at which she has been staying. Wit immediately abounds as her and sister Shona offer the receptionist ‘feedback’; like, where was the hot tub that featured in the brochure? And, at the very least, adds Aine, could there not have been a vending machine, where she could have bought herself a KitKat, without judgement? Jokes aside, their concerns artfully highlight the somewhat dehumanising experience of mental healthcare. This feeling underpins the entire series, which focuses on recovery outside of professional care, when Aine returns to her normal life. It reminds us that there is a human behind the illness.
Besides the receptionist’s suggestion of a ‘nervous breakdown’, the show refuses to give any concrete acknowledgement of what led Aine to treatment in the first place. Some have criticised this. Angelica Jade Bastién, writing in the US (where the series is now available on Hulu), claims that ‘the series undercuts its dramatic potential by talking around what really brought Aine to the hospital’, staying at ‘surface level’ without ever reaching the ‘heart of the matter’.1 But, for this show, the ‘heart of the matter’ is specifically within the ‘surface level’ of the everyday. Aine’s recovery is inseparably entwined with the general ups and downs of her daily life. If ‘talking around’ a diagnosis, Bea merely represents the way in which we rarely can speak plainly about mental health and the tough reality of recovering from such a silencing illness. Aine defies critics’ attempts to uncover why she’s depressed. The series actively fights against labelling and instead explores the reality that mental illness often occurs without rhyme nor reason. And that searching for a cause doesn’t necessarily help recovery.
Another, possibly even larger, taboo explored by ‘This Way Up’ is loneliness. Talking on Jameela Jamil’s podcast ‘I Weigh’, Bea jokes that the show has made her the ‘face of loneliness’; not exactly what she dreamed of representing. But many of us need only look in the mirror to see the face of loneliness. And it’s something Bea herself knows well. Those who contacted her about it after the show, she says, ‘didn’t look like anything.’ Because loneliness touches everyone, regardless of race, class, gender, or sexuality. In the show, Aine struggles with a lack of social plans and close friends which leaves her too much time alone with herself and her thoughts. Scenes of her walking through the city desperately trying to reach people on her phone juxtapose her isolation with the crowded bustling streets that surround her. London is full of people, but it’s a lonely place. Aine is alone in a room full of people – and who can’t relate to that? Her inherent fear of being alone plays out in her refusal in the last episode to enter a dance class alone, and her desire, expressed multiple times throughout the series, just to be held so that she can ‘feel something for five minutes.’
In one of the show’s most intimately emotional scenes, Aine performs to Bebe Rexha’s ‘The Way I Are (Dance With Somebody)’ to make her sister laugh. We witness her comic side in full force. But, once Shona has left, the façade crumbles. With the song still playing and the words ‘wanna dance with somebody’ ringing out on repeat, we watch Aine turn towards the mirror and then sink to the floor in violent sobs. Her vulnerability laid bare. Loneliness is normally hidden behind the social front she performs around others. However, at an age where it’s expected she should be having the time of her life, the inner reality could not be further from it.
Aine is not alone in being lonely. From the students in the English-as-a-foreign-language classes she teaches to the young French boy she tutors, many of the other people in her life face their own battles with isolation and loneliness. She is not held up as the odd one out but shown as a normal person experiencing a widely-shared but widely-concealed aspect of human life.
When it comes to the show’s presentation of relationships, refreshing is the word. Refusing to subscribe to the age-old template of dramas with female protagonists – identifying love interest, trying to win love interest, ultimately securing relationship with love interest – it instead places platonic female friendship centre stage. Aine’s relationship with sister Shona is the show’s very bedrock. Their love is unconditional; but their relationship still has its complexities. It’s presented not just in its endurance of major life events but in the small, everyday ways it enriches the two women’s lives. We watch Aine fake tan Shona’s back, curl her hair (even during a full-scale argument) and the pair constantly making each other laugh with impressions, inside jokes and the relentless teasing on which every sibling relationship thrives. They’re able to one minute be having an intensely serious conversation and the next be back to laughing at memes and discussing the trivial. Bea and Horgan’s on-screen chemistry renders this nuanced presentation of sisterly love and support effortless.
With Shona and Aine’s relationship in the spotlight, romance becomes a secondary storyline. It’s still important, but it’s crucially not the driving force, nor the end goal. Aine’s developing relationship with Richard, whose son she tutors, grows not from breathtaking, eyes-meeting-across-a-crowded-room moments, but a stilted and awkward banter which Richard’s socially-clueless character provides. Thanks to this, their romance is refreshingly realistic and organic. There are painfully relatable moments of miscommunication and uncertain flickers of sexual chemistry which have us oddly rooting for the unlikely pairing to succeed. However, the series does not build with growing fervour towards their happy ending. The romantic storyline isn’t allowed to obliterate every other. Far from it. We are firmly checked and reminded that romantic love alone won’t make Aine happy. She is already loved – and it is this unconditional sibling love which holds Aine, and the series itself, together.
Shona’s concern for Aine, from obsessively tracking her location, to confiding in new friend Charlotte because: ‘I had to tell someone!’, demonstrates the impact of mental illness on friends and family. Shona shoulders a huge weight of worry. We are reminded that mental illness has a far-reaching effect. That those who care for the sufferer often also need support themselves.
Shona finds support not solely in the form of boyfriend Vish (Aasif Mandvi), but in her budding relationship with Charlotte (Indira Varma). Another female friendship championed by the show. Together, the pair tackle the male-dominance and misogyny of the professional world in which they work by teaming up to create a networking space specifically for women. Shona and Charlotte joke about the lack of gender diversity at current networking events, referring to them as a ‘frat party’ and claiming they can ‘smell the Lynx Africa from here’. But the underlying truth beneath the comedy hits a nerve; many female and non-binary professionals watching the show will recognise this as the reality of working within institutions that were built for and are still widely dominated by cis-gender men. It is most perfectly encapsulated by the two women agreeing to do a shot every time they say ‘Sorry’, in a scene at a bar in which Charlotte agrees to help Shona with the project. Within seconds Shona has racked up at least three shots, just for changing her order from Sambuca to Tequila. Her need to apologise when making even the smallest demands or assertions as a woman is automatic, so deeply-rooted she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.
Shona’s constraints as a woman are further explored throughout the series. At a meal with Vish’s family, following hints towards children and the suggestion that ‘time must be a pressure at this stage,’ Shona blurts out ‘I actually don’t want kids.’ And the room falls silent. She may as well have picked up a forkful of food, lobbed it at the wall and thrown the plate on the floor for good measure. The bomb-dropping effect of her statement says it all. Having a family is, it seems, an opt-out rather than an opt-in decision for women. Choose not to and you’re actively renouncing your duty. Shona’s wider anxiety surrounding the progression of her relationship with Vish – from pressure to move in together to the possibility of marriage – is a ticking time bomb, just like the one society has seemingly placed on her womb. It’s a pressure that simply doesn’t exist in the same way for men. Shona may be in her forties, but she is not ready to sacrifice her independence. Nor should she have to. The simmering sexual tension between her and Charlotte further suggests she has more of herself to explore, which the traditional model of marriage and family seeks to confine.
Aine too finds herself up against sexist stereotypes. Cracking a joke during a conversation with her boss, he responds by laughing ‘no wonder you’re single’. Because who would want to date a woman with a sense of humour? Bea deftly demonstrates the propagation of the stereotype that women being funny makes them undesirable. She addresses the impact this has on female comedians during her interview on ‘I Weigh’. Recalling Katherine Ryan’s claim that she bought her own house with comedy, Bea acknowledges that she has too. And it’s something she is fiercely proud of. Especially given that her grandmother would have needed a husband’s signature just to have bought a house a mere two generations back. It’s ‘the house that jokes built’ she laughs. In other words, screw your sexist stereotypes, I’m successful.
Escaping stereotypes is a labour that has been necessary for women in all areas of the arts since the dawn of time. Most recently, Hannah Jane Parkinson observes in The Guardian, we’ve seen a rise in dramas both written and starred in by female actors, because ‘the only way they felt they could play the roles they wanted was to write them themselves.’2 The result? Refreshing, relatable and accurate representations of female experience. Finally.
Aisling Bea does not disappoint. I could go on for literal weeks about this show. But for now, I’ll say this: if you’re feeling a little lost, fighting loneliness brought on by lockdown or battling FOMO like never before, watch this series. At under 30 minutes a pop, each episode is a bite-sized chunk of joy that will wrap you in its arms and remind you that you are not alone. You’ll laugh out loud, you may even cry. But one thing’s for sure: you’ll emerge from the final episode asking, ‘which way to series 2?’
Feature Photo by Dave Weatherall on Unsplash.
1Bastién, Angelica Jade. This Way Up Is an Amiable But Aimless Exploration of Recovery. https://www.vulture.com/2019/08/this-way-up-review.html#comments
2Parkinson, Hannah Jane. This Way Up: why Aisling Bea’s show is the perfect tonic for our times. https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2019/sep/02/this-way-up-why-aisling-beas-show-is-the-perfect-tonic-for-our-times
Listen to IWeigh on most popular podcast providers, including Apple and Spotify.
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