Review
Culture
Film & TV
Romance
6 min read

What’s love got to do with it?

Watching Lovesick, a surprisingly profound comedy about chlamydia, prompts Beatrice Scudeler to consider permanence in relationships.

Beatrice writes on literature, religion, the arts, and the family. Her published work can be found here

A row of young people stand and talk to each other
Lovesick's cast.
Netflix.

This article contains spoilers for those who have not seen Lovesick

I was working on my English MA in 2019, just before the start of the pandemic, when a friend first told me about a Netflix show that had just aired its final season, Lovesick. The premise, I will grant, was not the most inspiring one for an unmarried, socially conservative graduate student whose only experience of dating had been an unfortunate three-day courtship with her at-the-time best male university friend.  

In Lovesick, Dylan Witter is the usual twenty-something-year-old: out of university, sort of purposeless, dating a string of women he thinks he’s deeply in love with, but breaking up with each of them no later than at the four-month mark. Unsurprisingly, he is diagnosed with chlamydia; shaken by the realisation that eleven years of sex out of marriage has left him with little more than sadness and a disease, he decides to meet with all of his ex-girlfriends, both to warn them that he may have given them chlamydia, but most importantly to try and figure out why he can’t find permanence in his relationships.  

From this point, Lovesick spends three seasons going back and forth between Dylan’s past and his present, building towards the final confrontation, at the end of season three, with his best friend Evie, with whom, he eventually realises, he has been in love for seven years. Along the way, we meet Dylan and Evie’s other best friend, Luke, who proposed to his girlfriend while still at university, was rejected, and now lives a sexually reckless lifestyle, as well as Angus, the kind-of-forgotten friend, who married a woman he didn’t really love, had sex with a maths student turned one-time stripper, divorced his wife Helen, and is now having a child with ex-stripper Holly. 

By the time we are out of university or school, it is unsurprising that our sense of certainty and purpose should crumble, when suddenly the burden of finding meaning is solely on our shoulders. 

Based on this description alone, you’d be forgiven if you thought this show quite a depressing drama, and certainly not one worth your time. In fact, it is a surprisingly profound, honest comedy about our generation’s struggle with the false promise of freedom, and our deep-seated desire for permanence, for a more sacramental view of reality. Dylan’s trials in his youth all point him towards the realisation that making commitments (whether that’s sticking to a career and becoming actually good at your job or finding permanence in a romantic relationship) is ultimately the one thing that makes life worth living. The writers of Lovesick would perhaps not put it this way, but this truly is a show about people who desperately need God, and fail without His guidance.  

The same applies to all of us, to those who are not Christians, but also to those of us who profess Christianity, but live as though we are atomised and self-sufficient (which we can all be tempted to do). When we are children, we have our parents to guide us; they are not a replacement for God, but they provide some guidance. Later, at school and university, it’s our teachers. By the time we are out of university or school, it is unsurprising that our sense of certainty and purpose should crumble, when suddenly the burden of finding meaning is solely on our shoulders.  

If we go to church, if we have a community in Christ to support us, the burden is somewhat lifted. But Dylan, Evie, Luke, and Angus have no such thing. They rely on each other alone, and, since they are lost, all they can do is commiserate each other about how difficult adult life is.  

Even so, the suggestion is there in Lovesick that there are moral standards external to our conscience, that there is something sacred and greater than us. In the very first episode of the show, Angus begins his ill-fated marriage to Helen. They get married in what is presumably an Anglican church, and Dylan makes a curious remark that, even though he’s ‘not religious’, a wedding in a church seems more appropriate. He laughs it off by suggesting that you have to sit somewhere hard and cold to really enjoy the ceremony, but it’s clear that he’s talking about more than this.  

What he’s experiencing is an intuition which I would guess is still in so many of us even in our post-Christian society, that is, the intuition that there is something sacred about promising to love and care for another person for the rest of your life, that it’s not merely a contract. It is a duty to uphold such a promise, and this is a kind of promise that ties us in love to what some people may call ‘the universe’, though what we really mean, who we really mean, is Christ.  

They have chosen to make an attempt at permanence, not to dismiss adult life as a senseless heap of broken people.

Sure enough, the rest of the show is about our protagonists watching all their significant relationships fall apart, and trying to rebuild them. I will have to spoil the ending for you, but that does not really matter, as it’s fairly obvious which direction the show is building towards from the very first episode. Angus is left alone as Holly leaves him, but vows to find a new job in order to provide for his unborn child. Luke stops engaging in promiscuous behaviour (sort of, he has seven years of trauma to deal with, after all) and begins a precarious, but genuinely caring relationship. After being hurt and hurting many people, Dylan and Evie decide that, in spite of all the heartbreak, and after a broken engagement, it is still valuable to make ourselves vulnerable to suffering for the sake of loving another person.  

The show ends with Dylan telling Evie that he loves her for the first time, and you can tell it’s the first time in his life that he has really meant it. They are not married yet, but we can guess that’s what will happen next. They have chosen to make an attempt at permanence, not to dismiss adult life as a senseless heap of broken people, but rather to decide to take away some of the brokenness by growing up, making a commitment, and standing firm.  

To marry during a pandemic, in the wake of my parents’ divorce, and uncertain about our future, was at once the maddest, and the best decision we ever made. 

 

Something I have not yet told you is that the first time I watched this show was when I first started dating my husband. Although I could not relate to the endless dating, I could relate to the fear, the uncertainty of whether the other person wants to care for you in the way we want to care for them.  

Not long after, I told my now husband that, if he didn’t think our relationship would lead to marriage, I’d much rather we break up and move on. I did not want Dylan and Evie’s seven years of suffering. I wanted marriage, I wanted commitment, I wanted a family. We did get married, around a year later, and after a year of marriage I watched Lovesick again. Now as a married woman, and having gone through the hardships of moving country twice, having a child after a difficult delivery, and facing problems in our extended family, I appreciated more deeply what a sacred and courageous thing it is to commit to sticking by one person, no matter what.  

To marry and have children, knowing how ruthless and un-beauteous the world can be, is exactly the act of bravery our society so desperately needs. I watched Lovesick for the third time just recently, leading up to our second wedding anniversary. It was my husband’s first time watching, and we could not help but reminisce about our courtship, and how, to marry during a pandemic, in the wake of my parents’ divorce, and uncertain about our future, was at once the maddest, and the best decision we ever made 

So, yes, watch Lovesick, even though it’s technically just a comedy about chlamydia. It may spur you to reflect on the real meaning of love: the fearless and unconditional caring for the other, regardless of their brokenness, but rather because of it. After all, that is how God loves us

Snippet
Culture
Fun & play
Romanticism
2 min read

Cosy season: creating meaning amid the mundane

We’re romanticising our way through the year.
A set of be-socked feat rest on a leaf strewn step beside a book and a cup of coffee.
Alex Geerts on Unsplash.

Have you heard? It’s cosy season.  

And such a season comes with instructions: light your candles, put on your thick socks, order the pumpkin-spiced latte, and dig out the Nora Ephron movies. Wade through piles of crunchy leaves. Cook a roast dinner. Wear your woolie sweaters, re-read Jane Austen, ruminate on the sheer romance of Tom Hanks offering to send Meg Ryan ‘a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils’ to celebrate the arrival of Autumn (if you don’t know that reference, you haven’t dug out the Nora Ephron movies yet. Chop chop.) 

Do it all. And document it, too. Create montages accompanied by the Gilmore Girls theme-tune and share them with the world. 

Why?  

Well, because that’s what we do in cosy season (Or ‘cozy’, as Nora would spell it in America.) You see, we’ve acquired this new way of being. It’s a social-media phenomenon: we make our mundane feel like a movie, we romanticise our way through the year.  

And I don’t think that’s as trivial of a craze as it sounds. I actually think the contrary, I think it reveals something true and profound about us. If anything, my only critique is that the imperative to ‘romanticise your life’ doesn’t actually go far enough.  

The social media trend, which took off in the dark depths of the pandemic and has stuck around ever since, is a kind of relinquishing of control and a rebellion against a disenchanted life. For example, ‘cosy season’ encourages us to think about Autumn as something that is happening to us, personally. We can’t control the arrival of this seasonal shift, our only choice is how we respond to it: we can greet it, we can notice it, we can celebrate it. We can, if we so wish, imbue it with meaning.  

And we should.  

Because to do such - to permeate the mundane with joy, beauty and meaning - is to defy distraction and disenchantment. It is to be in the present without wishing it were somehow otherwise. It’s a good thing.  

I just wonder if it’s enough.  

Because, the thing is, I don’t think it’s a romantic life we crave. Not really. I think we’re seeking something deeper. I think it’s a holy life we’re in search of – holy, as in, a life that has a dusting of the divine. A life that is soaked in seen and unseen goodness, permeated with the essence of eternity. A life that has heavenly fingerprints all over it.  

Ultimately, a life that means something. Not just on the obviously catalytic days – but on the days that fly right under the radar. We want to be sure that those days matter, too.  

What if ‘romanticising our life’ is a secular way in which we’re trying to hallow the ordinary? What if it is an acknowledgement of the sacrality of the monotonous? Just, without the God bit. If we were more in-tune with spiritual realities, more able to identify our soul’s deepest cravings and wonderings – would we be sacralising our lives, as opposed to romanticising them?  

I reckon so.  

 

Snippets are a new Seen & Unseen format. Short takes on the current moment.