#50 A positive result
03/02/21 11:12
Twenty years ago, I was sitting in the Pleasance Courtyard, during the Edinburgh festival, wedged between my mates at one of the pub tables, shouting at each other to be heard. Can you imagine that? I miss the glorious cacophony of that place, the anticipation of seeing a show you were excited about, a long night of drinking and carousing ahead, in the days when I was young enough to have the stamina. But this isn’t a pre-Covid twenty-something fantasy; more of a nightmare really, because it was then, in that moment, that our dear friend told us he was HIV-positive.
I grabbed one of the flyers on the table and pretended to look at it so no one would see my tears. Any child of the eighties grew up in the shadow of that AIDS headstone in the advert, and even though much had changed since then, it still felt like a death sentence. He was so calm and reassuring, as he explained it all to us; the prognosis, the outlook. He would be fine, he said. And off we scattered, to the dimly-lit solace of various theatres, to lick the wounds of the news.
Two decades later, and I wondered if I really wanted to watch It’s a Sin, because I suspected it was going to be a grim Russian Roulette of a show, biting my nails and wondering who would succumb first. And who would be next, and next, because history tells us that’s what it was like. Russell T Davies’ last big drama, Years and Years, was also emotionally traumatic. He has the ability to take a headline, a statistic, and make it powerfully, painfully resonant - I will never get over Viktor and Daniel in the dinghy, trying to cross the channel. But of course, the wonderful thing about It’s a Sin is just how crazily, joyously life-affirming it manages to be.
It IS grim, relentless, and challenging to go back to that time. The mystery, uncertainty and shame of a new disease – the subsequent fear and denial that were the disastrous but understandable consequences. The terrible irony, that as the gay community were starting to find acceptance, joy and pride in their lives, they should be hit by something that appeared to target them, and them alone. One of the many things this series does so well is set up the (initially) unconfined glee and glamour of the group – Roscoe’s defiant flamboyance, Ritchie’s rakish charm, Ash’s charisma – cocooned in a faintly cartoonish heightened reality. You’re entranced by their unrestrained hedonism, running at life full tilt, just the way they want. And Colin, the quiet, adorable Welshman, in his anorak, keeping his cards closer to his chest. All of these actors give astonishingly committed and beguiling performances, reeling you in – I wanted to be round that kitchen table with them, having a cup of tea, being given a nickname, and yelling ‘La!’ as I leave. It’s the cool club you’d love to be in, until it goes cold.
And oh, to have the infinite dedication, patience and selflessness of Jill, the gang’s stalwart defender, researcher and, ultimately, nurse. She is a saint, and I must admit it kind of annoyed me, that we don’t really see her unless it’s through the prism of her role as chorus girl and consoler-in-chief. What’s she getting the pill for? We never see her have sex! But this is a minor reservation in what is one of the most heart-rending dramas I have seen in years (and years). I ended episode 4 in the grip of choked sobs, repeating the line ‘and Leanne’ to myself, over and over again. Russell T Davies understands that the real sucker-punch is to underpin tragedy with humour; the scene in the police van left me absolutely breathless and ravaged.
The series is full of love and laughter, righteously focused on its purpose. It is not Jill’s story, but the story of countless men who perished in austere, locked hospital rooms before anyone understood what was going on; the story of men who headed for the bright lights to be their true selves, but ended up ‘going home’; the story of passionate activists pushed back by policemen in rubber gloves, bewildered parents, banished lovers, tender hands holding dying ones. Everyone in It’s a Sin is defined by this disease, because that’s what it did, back then. Dazzling careers cut short, budding relationships severed, families torn apart, and the people who died weren’t remembered for the things they deserved to be remembered for. AIDS cast a terrifyingly long shadow, but by showing you how it was then, we can appreciate how it is today.
I don’t think of my friend as HIV-positive anymore. I think of him as a renowned expert in his field, a man of impeccable taste and refinement who once wore Prada shoes for our date, despite the fact they were too uncomfortable to walk in. I think of him as a devoted husband, merciless piss-taker, cocktail-drinker, card-sender, international traveller, property magnate. I am allowed to think of him as all these things because his HIV status has faded into the background. Thanks to science, and funding, and the tireless work of campaigners, this illness is no longer the spectre that overshadows everything. It’s something we’ve learned to live with - to live well with - which is a particularly timely message right now.
That is the gift we’ve been given, and what a blessing it is. La!
I grabbed one of the flyers on the table and pretended to look at it so no one would see my tears. Any child of the eighties grew up in the shadow of that AIDS headstone in the advert, and even though much had changed since then, it still felt like a death sentence. He was so calm and reassuring, as he explained it all to us; the prognosis, the outlook. He would be fine, he said. And off we scattered, to the dimly-lit solace of various theatres, to lick the wounds of the news.
Two decades later, and I wondered if I really wanted to watch It’s a Sin, because I suspected it was going to be a grim Russian Roulette of a show, biting my nails and wondering who would succumb first. And who would be next, and next, because history tells us that’s what it was like. Russell T Davies’ last big drama, Years and Years, was also emotionally traumatic. He has the ability to take a headline, a statistic, and make it powerfully, painfully resonant - I will never get over Viktor and Daniel in the dinghy, trying to cross the channel. But of course, the wonderful thing about It’s a Sin is just how crazily, joyously life-affirming it manages to be.
It IS grim, relentless, and challenging to go back to that time. The mystery, uncertainty and shame of a new disease – the subsequent fear and denial that were the disastrous but understandable consequences. The terrible irony, that as the gay community were starting to find acceptance, joy and pride in their lives, they should be hit by something that appeared to target them, and them alone. One of the many things this series does so well is set up the (initially) unconfined glee and glamour of the group – Roscoe’s defiant flamboyance, Ritchie’s rakish charm, Ash’s charisma – cocooned in a faintly cartoonish heightened reality. You’re entranced by their unrestrained hedonism, running at life full tilt, just the way they want. And Colin, the quiet, adorable Welshman, in his anorak, keeping his cards closer to his chest. All of these actors give astonishingly committed and beguiling performances, reeling you in – I wanted to be round that kitchen table with them, having a cup of tea, being given a nickname, and yelling ‘La!’ as I leave. It’s the cool club you’d love to be in, until it goes cold.
And oh, to have the infinite dedication, patience and selflessness of Jill, the gang’s stalwart defender, researcher and, ultimately, nurse. She is a saint, and I must admit it kind of annoyed me, that we don’t really see her unless it’s through the prism of her role as chorus girl and consoler-in-chief. What’s she getting the pill for? We never see her have sex! But this is a minor reservation in what is one of the most heart-rending dramas I have seen in years (and years). I ended episode 4 in the grip of choked sobs, repeating the line ‘and Leanne’ to myself, over and over again. Russell T Davies understands that the real sucker-punch is to underpin tragedy with humour; the scene in the police van left me absolutely breathless and ravaged.
The series is full of love and laughter, righteously focused on its purpose. It is not Jill’s story, but the story of countless men who perished in austere, locked hospital rooms before anyone understood what was going on; the story of men who headed for the bright lights to be their true selves, but ended up ‘going home’; the story of passionate activists pushed back by policemen in rubber gloves, bewildered parents, banished lovers, tender hands holding dying ones. Everyone in It’s a Sin is defined by this disease, because that’s what it did, back then. Dazzling careers cut short, budding relationships severed, families torn apart, and the people who died weren’t remembered for the things they deserved to be remembered for. AIDS cast a terrifyingly long shadow, but by showing you how it was then, we can appreciate how it is today.
I don’t think of my friend as HIV-positive anymore. I think of him as a renowned expert in his field, a man of impeccable taste and refinement who once wore Prada shoes for our date, despite the fact they were too uncomfortable to walk in. I think of him as a devoted husband, merciless piss-taker, cocktail-drinker, card-sender, international traveller, property magnate. I am allowed to think of him as all these things because his HIV status has faded into the background. Thanks to science, and funding, and the tireless work of campaigners, this illness is no longer the spectre that overshadows everything. It’s something we’ve learned to live with - to live well with - which is a particularly timely message right now.
That is the gift we’ve been given, and what a blessing it is. La!
- It’s a Sin, 5 episodes, Channel 4
- Years and Years, 6 episodes, BBC iPlayer
