Faith, in anyone, or anything, never really factored into “Fleabag,” neither the eponymous self-destructive character nor the tremendous BBC Three/Amazon show written by its star and creator Phoebe Waller-Bridge, about a damaged, trainwreck 20-something woman living in London wracked with guilt and grief, but emotionally unequipped to do anything about it. Something of an excruciating, self-immolating condemnation and minor celebration of our 20-something era—when our monstrously narcissistic and self-absorbed years of irresponsible boozing, prodigious sex, and cigarettes mowed down anyone in our path, but also yielded a few entertaining stories—”Fleabag” was always a wickedly clever, razor-sharp, inventive, and even brutalizing portrait of adultolescence; the lost, often rock-bottom years, most people generally go through as they stumble towards true adulthood and finding themselves in this mad, mad world.
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But in its tragic, biting, devastatingly funny, heartbreaking (and seemingly final) Season 2, “Fleabag” goes for broke and leaves it all out on the table in a scorchingly witty and clever mix of emotional destruction and hilarity that is both scathingly funny as it is bracingly brutal. The series, of all unlikely things, also has some things to say about faith, belief, the man upstairs, and love— perhaps tentatively and somewhat tenuously mixing the ideas. At first, the connection seems somewhat ambiguous, but when pondering Fleabag’s troubled existence as a constant living hell, and grappling with her very Catholic ideas of guilt and regret, it quickly becomes clear, up and towards the light, is the only path forward.
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Season 1 introduced Fleabag (Waller-Bridge, the character doesn’t really go by that and or any name, but that’s what she’s referred in the credits) and her dysfunctional, resentful family; her tensely-wound, uptight, insecure sister, Claire (an astoundingly brilliant Sian Clifford, who should receive a supporting Emmy like, immediately), her meek, ineffectual father (Bill Patterson), and her passive-aggressive, overbearing godmother, an artist now dating her father (Olivia Colman, also outstanding).
The ironic, gut-bustingly funny, and searing Season 1 ended, naturally, in disaster; Fleabag estranging herself from everyone in her family, the result of lots of pain, guilt, and grief (Fleabag’s best friend killed herself when she discovered the woman her boyfriend had cheated on her with was Fleabag…yes, she’s weak for the flesh).
Season 2 picks up almost a year later with Fleabag breaking the fourth wall to smile and tell the audience, “This is a love story,” as said through a gnashed, broken bloody, nose and face; the uncomfortable violence and twisted humor of such a moment, classic “Fleabag.” She’s still hated by all (loathed even?), essentially, but tolerated in the name of family— though everyone sees her as a dangerous ticking time bomb just waiting to ruin the evening and everything, even though she’s spent a year of penance trying to be good.
The momentous occasion of reunion is an uncomfortable family dinner to celebrate Godmother and Dad’s engagement. Everyone is there, even Claire’s scummy, alcoholic, cockroach-like husband Martin (a skin-crawlingly detestable Brett Gelman, so good at skeeving you out like you will contract something)—the man that accused Fleabag of kissing him (even though it was he that tried to hook up with his wife’s sister). A typically tempestuous and unbearable evening, Fleabag nevertheless finds herself intrigued by Godmother’s new priest (a charismatic Andrew Scott, in a big breakout performance that’s going to land him a lot of acclaim), a charming, boozer, and seemingly unorthodox man of the cloth.
When things go south in the evening, and they inevitably do, an accidental attack, makes for yet another disastrous evening that brings dormant-for-now tensions boiling to the surface again. Fleabag finds herself pretending that the miscarriage her sister has suffered—during dinner, no less—was her own.
But this seemingly spoiler-y plot detail, is mostly meaningless; just a mere launching pad to spin the season off into its brief story about an impending wedding (Dad and Godmother) and the inching-ever-so-dangerously-close relationship between Fleabag and the Priest (oh, and the dissolution of her sister’s oh-so-shitty marriage).
And “Fleabag” is dazzling, dizzying stuff, written and presented with laceratingly vicious wit that leaves you doing double takes and your own—”oh my god, did she just say that/do that”—the fourth wall breaking moments at whoever might be watching you watch it.
As fucked up as all the “Fleabag” characters are—as are so many of its agonizingly painful/funny situational moments of discomfort and anguish—Waller-Bridge’s show always manages to find its humanity and sense of empathy at the core.
“Fleabag” is excruciatingly specific too, like it must know all your dark, embarrassing secrets, because the characters are so perfectly written, like an omniscient god, it just sees all. You feel like you’ve known all of these creepy, unbearable, difficult, and troubled people because “Fleabag” cuts to the bone emotionally, sometimes amusingly, sometimes grotesquely, sometimes just all too real.
It’s difficult to articulate other than its pinpoint accuracy in hitting all the hyper-specific marks of worst human tendencies, but “Fleabag” often just shockingly takes your breath away with its ruthless sardonic efficiency, it’s clarity, and its precision.
A raw, bracing, and thrilling tightrope walk to experience all that’s joyful, riotous, and incredibly sad in its final moments—now, I’m actually trying to avoid spoilers as best I can—”Fleabag” Season 2 is something of a miracle. It neither asks for redemption nor gives salvation, and if you’ve come for happy endings, you’ve forgotten about the cost of all your sins, but forgiveness is arguably found in what is likely one of the most picture-perfect seasons of television that’s ever graced us on the small screen. Hallelujah and long live, the masterpiece that is “Fleabag.” [A+]