Contains spoilers for episode 1 of The Idol.
The Idol, created by Sam Levinson, Abel Tesfaye aka The Weeknd, and Reza Rahim, follows aspiring pop star Jocelyn (Lily-Rose Depp) after a mental breakdown derailed her last tour, likely due to the death of her mother. She is determined to reclaim her title as the sexiest pop star in America as she begins a complex relationship with nightclub owner Tedros (Tesfaye), who is also a modern-day cult leader (reminiscent of NXIVM and Scientology) with a mysterious and sordid past. Will Tedros unlock Joss’s sexual and musical potential or drive her further into the darkness?
The idea for The Idol was originally sparked by a disturbing remark Tesfaye made: “ If I wanted to start a cult, I could.” Speaking to W Magazine, Levinson explained, “What he meant is that his fans were so loyal and devoted that they would follow him anywhere. That was the germ of the idea for [the series]: what happens when a pop star falls for the wrong guy and no one speaks up.”
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The Idol opens with a close-up of Joss’s face as she is being photographed. The camera flashes as a man’s voice gives emotional direction, taking her from laughter to innocence to “pure sex” to emotional vulnerability. By the end, tears stream down Joss’s face. This opening scene is pivotal because it shows us that Joss can perform on cue—but she is empty inside. Once the camera zooms out, we see that Joss is sitting on a table in her own living room, wearing an open red robe that exposes part of her breasts. It’s also not just her and the photographer—this is Joss’s album cover shot, so there’s an entire crew of people present, including multiple people from her management: creative director Xander (Troye Sivan), record label executive Nikki Katz (Jane Adams), and co-manager Chaim (Hank Azaria).
Looking at the scene, Xander asks, “What is this image saying?” Nikki says, “That she’s young, beautiful, and damaged.” Chaim jumps in to say, “not damaged. She had problems that she overcame beautifully.” It sounds like a rehearsed soundbite, because it is. Xander doesn’t buy it though. He looks at the medication and alcohol bottles dressing the set, Joss’s exposing robe and the hospital bracelet around her wrist. “Are we glamourising mental illness?” he worries. “Absolutely,” Nikki says. “You people are so out of touch… you college-educated internet people. Will you let people enjoy sex, drugs, and hot girls?” As a big believer of “sex sells,” Nikki goes on to say that “mental illness is sexy” and people will only believe that a girl like Joss will fuck them if she has “some very serious mental health problems.” Xander disagrees that mental illness is sexy, while Chaim thinks it’s actually a very good point. This scene perfectly captures a clash of generations, how they conduct business, and what they choose to care about. To the older generation, that’s business, baby, but the younger generation thinks they should do better—especially when it comes to Joss’s wellbeing. Management teams often treat their talent as a product rather than a person.
This dynamic is explored further when Joss reveals her full breasts during the photoshoot. The intimacy coordinator explains that Joss’s nudity rider states she can only show “side boob, under boob, and side flank,” but not her areolas, as previously negotiated with her label and her people. Joss says it is her body, and while the intimacy coordinator supports her decision, he says it will take at least 48 hours to change the rider, which Xander calls “fucking annoying,” but is met with: “it’s actually very progressive, so she doesn’t feel pressured.” As Chaim cannot pay for a reshoot and Joss says she doesn’t feel pressured, he solves this by locking the intimacy coordinator in the bathroom, paying someone $5,000 to hold the door shut for the next three hours. This scene hits the satirical notes of the music industry, but I don’t think the critique here is that intimacy coordinators are anti-feminist nuisances there to drain money. I think it’s a really interesting portrayal of a complex situation where people are making decisions for Jocelyn, and when she wants to make one for herself, they don’t talk it through with her (is female nudity always empowerment?), and they don’t “pay the price of safety”—even if it would cover their own backs, too. These scenes remind us that the industry is messy; always has been, and probably always will be.
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While this is happening, Joss’s team, with the additions of publicist Benjamin (Dan Levy), best friend and assistant Leia (Rachel Sennott), co-manager Destiny (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), and events and venue promoter Andrew Finkelstein (Eli Roth) of Live Nation, gather on a balcony for damage control when a photo of Joss leaks with cum on her face. Joining Joss’s team is also Vanity Fair writer Talia (Hari Nef) who is there to profile Joss. The reactions range from an empowering “who among us has not had cum on their face?” to “she’s fuckin’ famous, she can’t do that.” Joss’s team debate how to spin the story around “revenge porn.” Nikki says, “Tomorrow, I wanna wake up to, like, 150 Google Alerts telling me Jocelyn’s some kind of feminist hero, right?” and Ben says, “Me too, but I’m gonna start with ‘victim’ and move up from there.” Nikki replies, “Well it’s the same difference.” The line between victimised and empowered is blurry and is a prevalent theme in the series which can be seen in each scene I’ve described so far.
Following this, the team and Talia watch down on Joss in dance rehearsals. After a disheartened performance, Joss is told to watch her friend Dyanne (Blackpink’s Jennie Ruby Jane, who will hopefully be utilised more in the series), who is a better dancer than her, perform the routine instead. Joss sits to watch with her sunglasses on, giving her a private moment to cry, while, from above, Nikki says, “Look at [Joss], does that look like someone on the verge of a psychotic break? […] She’s a trooper.” Afterwards, Joss contains her emotions and performs the Britney-Spears-inspired routine drastically better, though constantly aware she is being watched.
When Joss finds out about the photo, she says, “I mean, I feel like it could be a lot worse.” During her Vanity Fair interview, Talia asks Joss if she’s gonna fuck up the guy that leaked the photo, telling her she thinks it would be inspirational for young women and girls who have been targeted and humiliated like her. “Revenge is empowerment?” Joss asks, unconvinced. “Look, I think five years ago when people would tell me that it was important to comment on something publicly, I would buy. But now I just know that I’m being hustled.” It’s obvious that Talia is pushing for a delicious soundbite for the #MeToo era that will drive traffic to their website—in fact, she even admits she is because her editor is breathing down her neck—but Joss doesn’t bite. She isn’t willing to be manipulated into vulnerability for clicks. “I get it,” Joss says. “We all have to answer to somebody.” When Talia asks Joss who she answers to, Joss looks away, takes a drag of her cigarette, and then says, “God.” There are plenty of shots of Joss smoking in this episode alone, seemingly for aesthetic purposes, and even though this scene is a little cringey, I can’t deny that it’s not interesting. We know so little about Joss because she hardly says anything of substance (or anything in general), but we know that Talia isn’t getting the real answer, either.
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After a tough day, Joss goes to a club with Dyanne, Xander, and Leia, where she meets Tedros. The pair are drawn to one another and end up talking about music. “Pop music is the ultimate Trojan Horse,” Tedros says. “You get people to dance, you get people to sing along. Could say whatever you want. Shit’s powerful.” He tells Joss she has the best job in the world and she should be having way more fun. “I’m trying,” she says, and I believe her. They sneak off to make out in the stairway, which is interrupted by Leia looking for Joss and almost catching them. “What a fucking boner killer,” Tedros says. “I know. She prevented us from starting our family, I’m so sorry,” Joss jokes. She has a personality after all, but doesn’t seem willing to let it out too often.
After her encounter with Tedros, Joss masturbates at home with her own hand around her throat. When she tells Leia that she wants to invite Tedros over, Leia tells Joss that she hates his vibe. “He’s so rape-y,” she says. “Yeah, I kinda like that about him,” Joss replies. “Joss. No. Gross. So disturbing.” When Tedros does come over, dressed like he’s from Gotham City for some reason, Joss asks him what he thinks of her song, explaining that everyone tells her it’s really great but she doesn’t believe them. Why? “‘Cause when you’re famous, everyone lies to you,” but she thinks Tedros is enough of an asshole that he’ll tell her the truth.
“So get down on your knees / get ready to become my bitch / I’m just a freak, yeah / you know I want it bad.”
Joss knows the song works commercially, but she feels embarrassed every time she listens to it. She tells Tedros she doesn’t know if the song is honest. “So, you’re not a freak?” he teases. He says he likes the song, but there’s one minor issue: “If you’re gonna sing a song called ‘I’m a Freak,’ you should at least sing it like you know how to fuck.” What makes him think she doesn’t know how to fuck? Her vocal performance. He tells her that when Donna Summer sings ‘Love to Love You Baby,’ “there’s no doubt that she knows how to fuck. You can hear it in her voice. You can feel it.” During this entire exchange, Tedros has been slowly seducing Joss, rubbing an ice cube along her thighs, then down the bikini line of her underwear. “But not with me?” Joss asks. “Not yet.” Joss smiles, because she knows what’s coming: this man is going to change her world.
When you can’t trust the people you’re closest to in life—like your friends and management, who are the same people and make decisions for you—and your mother dies of cancer, it’s going to make you feel empty and have no sense-of-self, which makes someone like Tedros all the more appealing. He is going to bring out another side of Joss, one that makes her feel more alive. Tedros tells her that she’s “too locked up” in head, thinking too much and needs to “block out the world.” There is something to be said about young mentally ill women who will throw themselves into dangerous men and situations, using sex to let go of their inhibitions, feel free, silence their minds, and escape. It doesn’t matter if he’s an asshole, he just needs to be confident, interesting, and crazy about you.
With that said, it’s hard to believe that Joss would go for Tedros because Tesfaye’s on-screen presence is boring and his acting is poor. He doesn’t have an ounce of charisma or sex appeal, which are heavily needed if you’re playing the alluring but sleazy asshole who likes to take advantage of vulnerable, young women. And we’re supposed to believe that man is a cult leader, too? Maybe people would follow The Weeknd, but no one would follow Tedros. He is sexy and exciting to Joss, as is the intention, but will he ever convincingly become those things to us, the audience?
On the topic of performance, we’re also supposed to believe that Joss is “one of the greatest stars to ever live.” While the character is intentionally emotionally repressed, there’s still something missing from Depp’s performance which creates a hollowness. Not a strong actor, she lacks the depth, charisma, and magnetism to feel like a talented superstar, even taking into account her mental health problems. Depp, however, does do a decent job in portraying Joss’s timidity with below-the-surface sexual energy eager to burst out. Will Depp have the skill to further embody her character as Tedros helps her to become more confident in her sexuality and therefore more connected to her music and performance?
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Many characters are introduced to us in episode one and they all talk a lot, in ways that are both fascinating and overwhelming. As mentioned previously, it’s interesting to see them interact with one another because of the diversity in age, gender, and beliefs involved. With some big name, experienced actors, the supporting cast are excellent—making Depp and Tesfaye stand out as the weakest links in their own show. I could go through every actor and talk about why they’re amazing, but it’d get very repetitive, so I will say that I love seeing Roth play an asshole because he’s good at it and, for some reason, I imagine he’s like that in real life (apologies or shrug emoji). I also really enjoyed Sennott’s performance, whose character provides some comic relief but also needs a big hug. Oh and I simply love seeing Hari Nef pop up anywhere.
With all these cast members, though, it makes it harder to get a better read on the detached Joss. She is the main character, but then again… is she? After 80% of the six-episode series was finished under director Amy Seimetz, she suddenly exited the series and production underwent major cast and crew adjustments, in addition to rewrites and reshoots, with Levinson taking over. There was little explanation for this, except for reports that Tesfaye felt the series was heading too much into a “female perspective,” perhaps meaning less focus on his character. Whatever happened, Joss isn’t always centred. It’s like her story is told in third person, rather than a first-person focus, which is how I think it should be—even with an emotionally distant character. I wouldn’t exactly call it an ensemble though, either, as the series is definitely about Joss and her relationship with fame and Tedros, but it will depend entirely on how the other episodes unfold.
The Idol has also been likened to “torture porn” due to a report Rolling Stone published in March, where 13 sources close to the production claimed the seris had “gone disgustingly off the rails.” While I can’t comment on the series overall yet, episode one certainly isn’t “torture porn,” despite that term being parroted in a high amount of reviews for the episode. The worst thing comes at the episode’s end where Tedros pulls Joss’s red, nylon robe over he head after telling her she cares too much about what people think in relation to her career. “Don’t be scared,” he says, hand around her throat. He pulls out a knife and tells her to open her mouth. She does so, moaning slightly, then he cuts a hole for her mouth. “Now you can sing,” he says. It’s an interesting scene that Joss is thrilled by, but it’s also… cringe. The performances aren’t strong enough to pull off such a bold scene that has an amateur feel, but it’s not torture porn. Maybe it will become that way, nothing here is deserving of such a strong term, despite the nudity and sexual/erotic themes.
Levinson is often cited as being more style over substance, which is often true (look at Euphoria season three), but regardless of what people say, Levinson is highly skilled in making entertaining television about sex, drugs, relationships, and trauma, with his interesting camerawork and complementary cinematography by frequent collaborator Marcelli Rév—even if the quality of Levinson’s writing drops (again, see Euphoria season three). It’s frustrating because he has demonstrated that he has the capacity for substance that feels deep and authentic, and can include biting satire, but it’s not always there. Such is the case with episode one of The Idol, which is let down by poor dialogue, poor performances, and some cringe sexual scenes—because the filmmaking is there, and so are the themes. Despite its flaws, episode one shows great potential, but it depends on the direction they’ve gone in after all the rewriting and reshooting. I’m not fully convinced, but then again, at the Cannes press conference, Levinson did say, “We’re looking at how the world perceives pop stars and the pressures it puts on that individual,” so maybe there’s still hope for the original vision.
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In the UK, episode one of The Idol is available to stream on NOW and airs on Mondays at 9pm on Sky Atlantic, with new episodes airing weekly every Monday. Season one features six episodes. In the US, episode one is available on HBO (MAX) with new episodes airing every Sunday.
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