Skin Deep

There was clearly a moment, however brief, in the Nineties when teenage dreams stretched as far as small-town, coastal America. In fact they aimed, not just for the town, but for a single creek, Dawson’s Creek. And that creek saw emotional melodrama and swathes of verbiage as deep and as thrilling as the creek was narrow. It was thrilling because this was the apotheosis of adolescent angst reassuringly set against the comfortable, homely vision of Capeside; the feelings were risky but the territory was safe. With its inescapable and perpetual movie referencing and its casual forays into adult problems, Dawson’s Creek was also a new chapter in teenage TV, allowing (apparent) adolescents acres of screen time, hectares of lines and hedgerows of intricately plotted stories to stop the heart of any viewer. It was not, however, England. The lesser-spotted English teenager had to wait for Skins before they became identifiable on TV. If Dawson’s Creek showed teenagers how to talk with the fluency of a badly translated Freud case study, Skins shows them the world. And you know what? It’s way more fun than in the movies, but it isn’t all that comfortable or small-town homely. A visit to the writers’ room certainly explains part of this.

In a room, barely large enough for a pygmies’ drinks party, about twelve people cram together to put together the scripts for the show under the watchful presence of Brian Elsley, the creator of Skins. It isn’t all the writers for the series but it’s still quite a spread. The age range in the room is quite daunting. Elsley tops it in his mid-forties and they wind their way down to an inferiority-inducing teenage.

This tribe of writers gather together for their weekly writing meetings on two sofas and as many chairs as they can find. Two Ikea coffee tables sag under the weight of cartons of fruit juice (apple and orange), biscuits (custard creams and jammy dodgers) and a bowl of fruit (grapes and apples). You might hope that, despite the smallness of this room, everyone is at least offered a lavishly padded chair. For now they must make do with a couple of sofas, not large, and some rackety, hard chairs. In the summer heat, a fan with a suspicious safety record whirs by a window, occasionally sucking the odd lock of hair into its tenacious grip. The whir of the fan blades against the stale air offers a rather charming rhythm against which the discussions, of plot, character development, jokes and general fun, take place.

These discussions are probably not what you might think. They are certainly less pretentious than half the chats between Joey Potter and Dawson Leary. Josie Long, mid-twenties, Eddie Award-winning comic (the new Perrier Awards), with her knitted iPod cover and charming humour, gently injects a modern wryness to proceedings, a humour which chimes well with the near double-act of Jack Thorne (27) and Ben Schiffer (24) who have a camaraderie which fills the room, momentarily, until their rumbling excitement is picked up by one of the others. They also had a fine line in gently jesting as Lucy Kirkwood’s (23) hair came closer and closer to that fan. It’s bursts of energy from these sorts of relationships that seem to drive everything on. The careful revelation from Jamie Brittain (23) that he has introduced an overarching scheme of the Orpheus myth into the episode he has been working on suddenly gets everyone’s attention. The exact intricacies of this are tested and proved until everyone is content that it works. It is persistently examined by Daniel Kaluuya (flush with post A-level success), one of the series writers and also – rather delightfully – the actor responsible for Posh Kenneth within the series, until he is finally sure of its merit and rests back into the sofa where he can comfortably consult with Daisy Swain-Wright. Daisy, in her final A-level year at school, interjects with a studiously casual cool which, in a sense, feels imparted to the entire show. It’s this authentic attitude which is everywhere in the Skins DNA.

There is a very matter-of-fact attitude in the room. Everyone is here to discuss their scripts and the characters; it’s not an issue, it’s just the way things are and if you are not comfortable with that then perhaps this isn’t the place to be. There is certainly a feeling of group understanding and badinage about the place. Someone can crack a gag and it flies round the room being polished until it is transformed into a new species of observation. Then someone mentions they like the idea of a harmonium in one of the character’s rooms. A chatter breaks out, questions fly:

‘What’s a harmonium?’ – ‘You know one of those instruments.’

‘How big is one?’ (a worried producer)

‘What, exactly, do they look like?’

‘They’re quite big.’

‘They used to travel with them.’

‘You know in the 1850s, there are, like, travelling ones.’

‘So can we fit it in the bedroom?’ (the producer again)

‘Well they come in all sizes, don’t they?’

The definitive answer, that settles it then: harmonium in, worries out.

On to the next plot twist. Each member of the team seems to have their own episode, their own baby. They work on it in the privacy of their own time and then show and tell, as it were. The others say what they like about it and what they don’t. Questions arise, questions are answered. There is no competition because it is the same for everyone. Everyone is playing on the same field. Tripping someone up with a sneering comment doesn’t happen because it is self-defeating. Cutting someone with a joke really is like cutting off your own nose to spite your face. There is a deft trick going on in this room. Anywhere else in the country if you put together a group of people of this youth to work on something, the competition would be insurmountable and untenable. Look what happened with Robbie and Take That. Hand in hand with that bustling self-promotion comes a corresponding awkwardness. Nobody is prepared to expose themselves if someone is ready to score a point off them. It’s the hallmark of adolescence, a time - for everyone - of retreat. Teenagers stereotypically don’t speak because they are terrified and awkward. Somehow, in this room, as if by magic, they are able to remove the awkwardness and everyone is prepared to put themselves on the line. And all to write about life. Somewhere there is a fundamentally reassuring aspect to this.

The world being created here is new, not neophile, not in love with its own novelty, but young, fresh

But then fundamentals seem to be at the centre of everything that happens in this particular session. As they discuss certain developments in the plot, questions of wrongdoing and evil raise their startling heads. Harry Enfield, who of course, plays Tony’s father in Skins and appears as a guiding light in the writer’s room, mentions the monstrously abject murders committed by the Wests. The writer he is talking to looks blank. It doesn’t raise a flicker of recognition; they happened before he was born, and they were discovered before his memory begins. The world being created here is new, not neophile, not in love with its own novelty, but young and fresh. And yet, sitting in the corner, Brian Elsley watches what is going on and makes sure that it retains certain qualities, qualities some might be naïve enough to call old-fashioned, though they are in fact what allow Skins to spark with life. Brian Elsley has something of Dennis Potter about him as he sits, hidden from view every time the door opens. He doesn’t confine anyone in the room to do anything, he’s not there to control. He does, however, have an adamantine strength about certain things. One of the characters’ actions is in debate, Cassie’s in fact. People are worried that their plans for her are too outlandish, too far-fetched. But they wrote them down because somewhere they know it is the right thing to do with Cassie. They believe in it. Far-fetchedness isn’t a problem for Brian; what matters to him, more than anything, is that what happens ‘has a sense of truth as well’. Everything that they discuss and everything they write must feel true. That is his magic trick.

Somehow, as if by magic, they are able to remove the awkwardness and everyone is prepared to put themselves on the line

Dawson’s Creek was the grandfather of teen-drama. It allowed teenagers on screen and it allowed them to have their own fantasy lives. It was the first and it was thrilling. But, my God, on reflection, what a fantasy it was. Skins may be the coolest show on TV, everyone may want to be in their gang but thank God it’s not in Capeside. Thank God it’s true, thank God it’s Bristol. Well, thank God it’s true, at least.