Language: English
What would a version of Black Mirror be if it starred women negotiating the terms and conditions of womanhood against the backdrop of an inherently sexist world? The answer would probably look like Roar, the star-studded Apple TV+ anthology series co-created by GLOW’s Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch.
Adapted from Irish author Cecilia Ahern’s eponymous 2018 book of short stories, the eight-episode series tempers the vision of a dystopian future with fable-like magical realism, dark humour, and at times, on-the-nose metaphors. Even when the show’s inquiries of “what it feels to be a woman today” feel predictable, stretched, or tame, Roar is never not rewarding.
It is enlivened primarily due to affecting turns by a star-studded cast and a genuine curiosity in investigating gender inequality at the intersection of power, money, race, trauma, and memory.
The series opens with “The Woman Who Disappeared,” a cheeky-serious take on white Hollywood executives erasing a black author from her own narrative while adapting her bestselling book. Starring a dependable Issa Rae, this is perhaps the only Roar episode that boldly strays from the source material — in Ahern’s book, the story revolved around society’s routine invisibilisation of older women. Roar makes it better by exploring the fault lines of racial divides. Directed by Channing Godfrey Peoples (Miss Juneteenth), the half-hour long episode (also featuring a calmly villainous Nick Kroll) unfolds as chilling body horror that keenly underlines the hypocrisy of white men monetising black trauma as they go about preaching “Black Lives Matter” on social media.
Then comes “The Women Who Ate Photographs,” perhaps the strangest episode of the entire series. Starring executive producer Nicole Kidman, the storyline revolves around a woman who, as the title casually informs, eats old photographs, to experience the intoxicating rush of childhood memories when her dementia-ridden mother (Judy Davis) starts losing control of her own mind. Reminiscent of the tone and approach of Big Little Lies, the episode takes a familiar premise of a frayed mother-daughter relationship but goes inventive with moments of disarming visual beauty — a dreamy sepia-toned montage of memories cloud a motel room — and its exploration of caregiving. Alternating between the redundancy of nostalgia and the crushing responsibility of the present, the episode, single-handedly steered by Kidman’s (and her Australian accent) deeply-tuned performance.
Not every episode can manage that feat however, underscoring the inconsistencies visible throughout the entire season. “The Women Who Was Kept On A Shelf” for instance, feels like a one-line joke stretched for far too long. Starring the extremely watchable Betty Gilpin, the tale about a trophy wife whose husband literally forces her to sit on a shelf in the living room of their mansion unfolds like an anti-fairytale. But there’s not much to the half-hour beyond its premise — I kept waiting for the stakes to be higher or be subverted in a completely unexpected way but that moment never arrived.
“The Women Who Found Bite Marks On Her Skin” felt like another episode that undermined its own potential. Starring Cynthia Evrio, the episode tailored about the guilt of a working (black) mother treads complicated territory, weighing out the ways in which gender, ambition, and domestic labor affect each other. Except halfway through, the episode chose to take a simplistic route, laying out its themes and arguments in front of the viewer in as many words.
Like both these episodes, “The Woman Who Solved Her Own Murder” doesn’t for the most part, say anything beyond what is suggested by its title. But unlike its counterparts, it turns out to be an episode that doesn’t contain itself, embracing its bizarre premise all the way through. Starring a standout Alison Brie, the plot revolves around two male detectives who set forth on a murder investigation that ends up being solved by the ghost of the murdered woman. Designed like a parody of Mindhunter, the episode is a worthy critique of our collective obsession with true-crime, societal judgment toward promiscuous women, and male entitlement. If anything, Brie’s comic timing and the sharp but unconscious writing makes the episode supremely fun.
My two personal favorite episodes were both centered around the state of a woman’s love-life. In “The Woman Who Was Fed By a Duck,” Merrit Wever plays a flaky single woman in her 30s who falls for a talking duck (voiced by Justin Kirk) only to find herself in an increasingly toxic romance. If there was any doubt that Wever can completely transform any material she is given to work with, then the episode should clear that once and for all. Wever takes what looks like a simple “dating is hard for women” premise on paper and gives it a complex makeover with her beautifully measured turn. In a sense, her performance emboldens the episode to fully embrace its absurdity, making the fact that a beautiful single woman is forced to consider even a duck as a romantic prospect even though she deserves better, hit that much harder.
In “The Women Who Returned Her Husband,” easily the most moving and accomplished episode of the series, Meera Syal plays Anu, a 60-something woman who returns her husband, as if he is an unsatisfying IKEA delivery, at a supermarket. As Anu reassesses her 37-year-old relationship with Vikram after exchanging him for two sets of husbands, we get more acquainted with the restlessness that afflicts her and the futility of long-term love and companionship. It’s the kind of episode that knows exactly what it wants to achieve, hitting all the right notes. In a way, the sheer mastery of this episode encapsulates much of the joys of watching Roar — the nuance in its sensitive performances.
It also makes its weaknesses feel graver. I wish the series didn’t insist on being likable and instead took a darker route in its adaptations. It’s not that it is mediocre, but that the first season feels a little too content at playing safe. The mixed-bag of simplistic feminism (the theme music and title art is as on-the-nose as on-the-nose can get) prevent the show from heading out on any deep excursions of the female condition. It’s also worth pointing out that the series largely focuses on representing only one kind of woman: an upper-middle class, straight woman. Queer stories — or even sub-plots — are missing from the first season (“The Girl Who Loved Horses,” the concluding period piece in which a young girl dresses like a man comes the closest). The absence is notable, given that it robs the series of urgency, falling short of justifying exactly why these eight stories need to be heard at this point in time.
Still, these are teething issues that could be solved in the next series, provided the makers remain willing to listen, especially because these eight episodes are a strong start. They’re enjoyable and admirable, especially in how invested they remain in walking the talk — both on-screen and off-screen. Look no further than the episode credits, stacked to the brim with women in every department, for proof. In a few years, that will hopefully become the norm but for now, Roar is a rewarding exception.
Roar is streaming on Apple TV+
Poulomi Das is a film and culture writer, critic, and programmer. Follow more of her writing on Twitter.
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