Euphoria and the Rise of the Character Story

By now, waves of engrossment in the second season of Euphoria have reached even the most remote isles of the online sphere. It’s a sight to see: teenagers and adults alike gathered around their respective screens at 9 PM on a Sunday, anxiously awaiting the next episode of the hit HBO show. The scene is evocative of the former glory of primetime television; families harbored close to the television and each other discussing the characters’ triumphs and missteps. Weekly releases allot time for online discourse; Twitter dialogues begin even before an episode has finished airing. TikTok users prefer to post more detailed analyses after the fact. Why does Euphoria captivate such a deliberative audience?

However odd it may seem, Euphoria’s fanatical popularity represents an ongoing cultural shift towards stories about people. What makes Euphoria’s discourse so invigorating is not the plot points, regardless of how entertaining — its discussion value lies in its characters. All deeply flawed and most carefully developed, the characters' moral ugliness directly contrasts the beauty of the cinematography. In a world of vivid purple and effortlessly stunning wide shots, inhabitants choose selfishness and self-destruction. And yet, viewers are sympathetic towards the characters. In every episode, the audience is fed detailed backstories that serve as explanations — not excuses for their behavior. We get to know each character as a person and come to understand who they are. Euphoria humanizes a cast that would be villains in any other teen drama and gives spectators a safe space to reflect on shared negative traits. 

That is not to say Euphoria is perfect. At its best, Euphoria is introspective and revealing, forcing watchers to confront their vices through those of the characters. But at its worst, it is reckless and self-indulgent, writhing in countless directions simply because it can.  It is a show so dependent on stories, but there is only one storyteller: Sam Levinson, the writer, and director. While talented, he only holds one perspective, that of a cisgender, heterosexual, White man. Many of the characters deal with nuanced identity issues that he simply lacks experience with: Jules grapples with love and her identity as a trans girl; Cassie struggles with a need for male validation in a body oversexualized under the male gaze; Kat begins to understand desire and fetishization as a plus-size woman; Nate violently resists his sexuality. Behind the scenes, actors spat with Levinson over shortcomings in his writing, sometimes resulting in cutting scenes or even characters from the show. Euphoria also becomes a character study into Levinson himself. How he presents the central themes of his show gives the audience an insight into his psyche. 

Authors projecting themselves onto their fictional narratives is not new, but these stories have only gained popularity in recent years. On TikTok, teenage girls can be seen recreationally analyzing Sylvia Plath’s 1963 semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar, with #thebelljar garnering over 14.9 million views. The Bell Jar has always been a subtle pop culture influence. Readers of today study Esther Greenwood and find themselves relating to her decades-old existential dread. They aren’t picking apart literary devices or symbolism for English class; they actually see themselves under her fig tree, helplessly watching the fruit wither away. Plath’s account of spiraling into an intense depression was deeply personal, and yet so many readers chorus its relatability. Being human is complicated, but there is a devastating comfort in knowing another person went through something similar. Fundamental human truths, like the desire to be understood and loved, are also being explored more heavily in modern stories. Sally Rooney’s bestselling novel, Normal People, now adapted into a Hulu miniseries, follows two Irish teenagers as they come of age and fall in love with each other. Like Euphoria, the allure of Normal People is found in its characters, not the plot. The audience studies the desires of the characters and gushes over the love between them. The romance is so realistic because the characters are so real, unlike the sappy romantic comedies that young readers are accustomed to. There is an ongoing struggle between palatable personalities and characters’ humanities, and humanity is slowly gaining an edge. 

Human nature is also being explored in movies. A24, the production company behind Euphoria is rapidly becoming a staple in teenage cinephile culture. Although they produce a wide variety of movies, the ones that are characterized as A24 are character stories, from Moonlight to Lady Bird to The Florida Project. In these movies, the film lingers, capturing slowness and steadiness to contrast it with the instability of growing older. It’s not coincidental that the aforementioned films dissect coming of age — and what it looks like for different groups of people. Teenagers find in these character studies what they’ve been searching for: truly honest portrayals of what it feels like to let your roots expand in unfamiliar soil. 

Euphoria is divisive, but it is also definitive. Mass viewership of the show tells a story beyond the hour-long confines of each episode; it exposes how younger generations are changing the way media is consumed. Entertainment is evolving into something other than escapism, and the kids will be alright.