For such a zeitgeist-defining show, “Episode 3” of Netflix’s miniseries “Adolescence” begins in an entirely unassuming place: Psychologist Briony Ariston, played by Erin Doherty, walks into a youth detention center and catches an elevator.
It’s what happens next that matters.
While 99% of crime shows would then cut to another shot, “Adolescence” doesn’t budge. In fact, over the course of its four-episode run, “Adolescence,” which follows the arrest of 13-year-old Jamie Miller—played by the hypnotic newcomer Owen Cooper—for the murder of his female classmate, never cuts once. While these long-takes, or “oners,” may be a gimmicky-sounding concept, they actually set a new bar for realistic portrayals of life in narrative television.
Tracing back to German theorist Rudolf Arnheim’s ideas on the “two authenticities” of photographic media (reality vs. representation), a good oner can be one of the purest unions of life’s “fleeting” singularity and human creativity.
“A preference for paintinglike photographs survives in the present,” Arnheim writes in essay “The Two Authenticities of the Photographic Medium,” “but it also has become clear that the photographic medium finds its highest achievement in works that preserve and stress the specifically photographic qualities of instantaneous exposure, the momentary revelation caught by the photographer as a vigilant hunter.”
Consider Sam Mendes’ “1917,” a film crafted with such transformative, disorienting long-takes that one literally feels like they’ve stumbled head-first into combat. Then look deeper into the rich, unsettling lineage of unbroken shots in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rope,” or Alejandro González Iñárritu’s “Birdman.” Afterwards, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to shake that eerie feeling that you’re being tracked by a cameraperson—or vigilant hunter.
It’s impossible.
It was inevitable that this technique would eventually extend to prestige television—an inherently episodic enterprise that rewards big swings and technological experimentation. Recently, an uptick in dazzling oners can be seen in episodes of hit shows like “The Studio,” “The Bear,” and “Severance.” So, what sets “Adolescence” apart? On paper, its oners are just as showy as all the others, tracking memorable moments like schoolwide evacuations and chase scenes, only to then fly off across town atop a drone.
However, unlike most projects that employ long-takes, “Adolescence”’s narrative has no room for gaudiness—nor should it. Since co-writers Jack Thorn and Stephen Graham are exploring ideas as grim as youth violence and toxic masculinity in the internet age, their job is to simply write a code that the oner can then turn into something universal—a societal mirror complete with heart-pounding anxiety, unclear morals, and a healthy dose of lineal ennui. The murder at the show’s center is undeniably heinous, but its visuals find a rhythm that forgoes bloodshed in favor of grounded nausea.
“Do you work here?” an off-screen attendant asks Ariston in the elevator.
“Um,” Ariston says. “I’m a visitor.”
She then exits and walks down yet another hallway. And then into a security office. And then into another hallway. And then waits at a vending machine. And then, for the next 50 minutes, she sits across from Jamie and engages in a simmering war of words so nerve-wracking that viewing it made me sweat. Few dramas of such explosive power have ever been born from such a strong emphasis on near-lackadaisical movement.
“The camera doesn’t blink in this show and by being unblinking, it allows for a certain rawness and honesty,” Jack Thorne told Variety.
Additionally, because “Adolescence” commits to oners for all four episodes, few programs have ever been able to wander in such a unique way from character to character. The two figureheads on the show’s poster—Jamie, and Jamie’s father Eddie, played by Graham—are physically absent for extended periods of time. Classic “supporting” character archetypes—such as psychologist Ariston—are given the chance to carry episodes. Due to the constrictions of the one-take formula, if a character isn’t on screen, we’re not guaranteed to see them again. When they are on screen, they’re all that matters.
There are no “main” characters. Only people.
“It’s just such a wonderful process,” Stephen Graham told The Hollywood Reporter, “but it is the most zen as an actor I’ve ever been. You are in that character from the moment we say ‘action’ and start until the moment we say ‘cut’ and finish.”
The spontaneous performances in “Adolescence” serve as perhaps the most unexpectedly satisfying result of its style, turning small imperfections into slick moments of thrilling unpredictability. Not everything can go right over the course of a 50-plus-minute take, and eagle-eyed viewers have pointed to certain scenes in which characters misspeak.
“Hot chocolate,” Ariston says politely about four minutes into “Episode 3.” She places a steaming cup of liquid in front of Jamie and smiles.
“Spri-sprinkles?” the boy asks, stumbling over his words.
Silly kid. Didn’t you mean marshmallows? Why didn’t we cut? Shouldn’t every line be delivered perfectly? Well, who says it isn’t delivered perfectly? This is a child being put on trial for taking another child’s life, and through something as simple as a stutter, “Adolescence” humanizes him and signals a weakness in his psychological armor.
We’re witnessing something new here, and though it would be intriguing to call it an experiment and move on, I can plainly say that I’ve seen few shows as powerful as “Adolescence” in my lifetime. I was glued to the television screen for all four episodes. I recognized every emotion, every tick, and every footstep. If more shows employ the oner in equally immersive ways, we might just enter a new era of realist television—an era not unlike the early days of photography.
“Once, however,” Rudolf Arnheim writes, “photography was able to take lifelikeness literally, it revealed more clearly the inherent imperfection of physical appearance.”
“Adolescence” doesn’t need to portray the ugliness of daily life—it is the ugliness of daily life.
