Getting rid of sex scenes is a debate that rears its ugly head among film and TV fans time and time again. The arguments against on-screen sex and nudity are a many-headed hydra of puritanism: they are unnecessary, they rarely serve the plot and making acting co-workers recreate intimacy is fundamentally icky. My position has always been that sex is part of life – and art should be able to depict all of life’s foibles. Until, that is, I started watching The Idol, which makes it hard not to join the ranks of this new wave of prudes. After all, if sex on screen can facilitate a show this terrible, maybe it’s worth embracing televisual celibacy.
It is not just that The Idol is one of the worst programmes ever made – it’s also possibly the most squandered opportunity ever. Giant budget aside, post-Britney Spears, Kesha and Amy Winehouse, it’s high time to satirise pop starlet tragedies – and with this production featuring Hank Azaria, Da’Vine Joy Randolph, Hari Nef and Rachel Sennott, it had more than enough talent to do so. Instead, we get the limp, glazed-over, chain-smoking nothingness of Lily-Rose Depp and a performance from Abel “The Weeknd” Tesfaye that should be tried at The Hague. After all the sex, nudity, swearing and scandal surrounding The Idol, we were braced to be shocked. We were braced to be appalled. But nothing can prepare you to be so incredibly bored.
Five episodes in, we are left with the dampest squib of a finale. There are hints early on that something larger may be afoot. That Jocelyn (Depp) may be turning the tables on Tedros (Tesfaye), with Azaria’s character, Chaim, seemingly warning Tedros of the potential consequences of his actions, via a speech that twists Little Red Riding Hood into a dark tale involving the little girl cutting open the wolf and stitching rocks into his belly. But by the end of the series, we are left with a pop star who is much as we found her, except with a boyfriend. She has made a decent comeback single and is doing the tour that was planned all along. When the first episode debuted, and we were promised the most shocking show of the year, it was inconceivable to think that this is where we would end up.
The giant twist? It is ambiguously hinted at that Jocelyn may have been more savvy than previously suspected. At one point, we are expected to believe that an international pop star’s profile is scrapped by Vanity Fair because they get a scoop about a seedy nightclub owner being … seedy. To have so little happen in a concluding episode is utterly bizarre. Theories abounded – would Tedros kill Joss? Would Joss become a mass shooter on tour? Would she become some kind of vessel for a cult and absorb the talents of the many hangers-on that populate her mansion? Would something, anything, actually happen?
The answer is no. The only real seismic shift comes for minor player Rob, Jocelyn’s ex-boyfriend who is falsely accused of rape and is digitally replaced in the film he has just acted in – which is cultural commentary of the most odious kind. The Idol is not content to just be boring, but feels the need to make the occasional point about how feminism and #MeToo get in the way of a good time. Much like the intimacy coordinator who hinders a great photoshoot in the first episode, The Idol reserves its only comprehensive moments to highlight how lame it is when women are listened to.
As the series concludes, we have spent five painful hours watching a tortured pop star be miserable and arrange a tour and a new single that seem fine. People stripped off and moaned and delivered poorly written monologues, but it was all OK in the end because Joss got to be the horny singer of her dreams and Tedros ultimately proved to be a good influence. HBO – which was until recently regarded as the home of the best that TV had to offer – spent millions upon millions of dollars to deliver women gleefully writhing, being sexualised and finding peace in admitting how much they suck. No number of nipples and butt cheeks can distract from just how unattractive the show finds its subjects, and as it concludes, it’s clear that this is intended to be only the beginning, that further cat and mouse games between Joss, Tedros, the music industry and feminism are intended. Mercifully, for us, this is the end. Hopefully the ickiness of The Idol will be cast to the annals of history. I would rather never see a nipple on screen again than have to watch a show this lousy.
• The Idol aired on Sky Atlantic and is available on Now TV in the UK and Binge in Australia
