Dissatisfaction, Deviations & Desires: "Daisy Jones & The Six" Works Despite It All

The adaptation of Daisy Jones & The Six has plenty of charm going for it. There was a comprehensive press tour, a plethora of photoshoots and classic talk show interviews broadcasting the attractive cast. An entire album and musical world was built to accompany the earnest acting of said cast. On all account, as a casual viewer who abandoned any sort of critical thought to unhinge my jaw and simply consume media, there isn't much to complain about. With leads as strong as Sam Claflin and Riley Keough at the helm, their chemistry patches up whatever gaps left in the adaptational process.  

Maybe if I were more entrenched in the community of fandom, the accusations of watering the source material, the alleged destruction of the central relationships, uninspired music, and general dissatisfaction might have changed my viewing experience. It certainly marred the release of the series— I've seen more than enough mutuals on social media denounce as a heap of garbage. My rebuttal: when the hell did we expect Fleetwood Mac fanfiction released commercially to be good? Did I have a concussion when first reading the novel four years ago? It wasn't great, painfully lackluster when it could have been riveting. I was waiting for the drummer to get in the mix for the entire time. If there is one shining light about the series: it made the material fun and bearable.   

 

Much of that can be credited to the leading dynamic, which is about ten times more interesting than it was set up in the original format. If I'm meant to take the producers' word for it, a wholehearted effort to mine the original material for its heart produced this adaptation of the source's core values. Family, artistry, love, commitment are all tenets reuttered constantly throughout. In that case, the compelling magnetism the book's protagonists allegedly had on page is laid and spread on thick. It sometimes overpowers the other lessons on humanity sprinkled throughout. 

 

The writers choose to emphasize the strongest sentiment, to evident mixed results. Daisy and Billy's version of love on screen is a flame that quickly consumes the trajectory of the adaptation. That is the one benefit of a visual adaptation casting super attractive leads, I suppose. Every time the main pair appear onscreen, I am absolutely rooted, eager for the most dramatic content to occur. I found myself actively supporting their admittedly toxic emotional-physical affair. When first reading, I often rolled my eyes far back to head. When watching, my feet were kicking to-and-fro in the air behind me. I do mourn the loss of the enemies portion of their enemies-to-romantic-spiritual-mirrors journey. Their attractiveness immediately launches their interactions in to the realm of seduction, where I think the one place the book weirdly landed well was their commitment to the music and their craft. The loss of Daisy's solo career prior to her joining the band probably caused their attraction to be heavily emphasized. Personally, I'm not complaining. 

 

Keough is simply magical as Daisy— if Colin Farrell acts with the most expressive eyebrows in the entire industry, I think Keough deserves more than a little credit for the visible gears she turns with her eyes. Desperation, ire, adoration are all telegraphed in devastatingly small shifts. Samuel Claflin, know that I love you and I forgive you for replicating the exact brand of grumpiness you did in Me Before You. It marginally worked there; I'll pretend it works here. I did the hard work of convincing myself that Billy Dunne isn't just a plainly insufferable character. On page, Billy is beleaguered, a man exercising restraint after virtually destroying his life, his family values becoming his safety blanket. As interesting as those vague notions may be for a character outline, it is much more enthralling to see the challenge of maintaining such righteousness. But even Claflin's natural charisma can't save the character or his bob. Lob? Something about it was off and it somehow brought his on-screen presence further down. I understood why some doubted his previous credit as The Hunger Games' resident tortured hearthrob. I did, however, find myself affected by his personal journey with sobriety, despite the lack of dynamism. Chalk it up to Claflin's watery eyes, or that I'm easy to please, but it added a bit of needed complexity to a real asshole. His supposed musical talent, on the other hand? I'm admittedly in the minority in this discourse: I enjoy Claflin's crooning when I play the series' album back. It's similar to the persona-infused rock that I've come to associate with the era. It's a clear projection of character. It works for me— if only because Keough's voice becomes divine and angelic in comparison. Bottom line: I'm going to support him because Claflin plays him and I know he can act. He sells the heavier scenes well-enough, and especially, any scenes where he has to communicate sudden flare-ups of lust. Frankly, an entire generation of people loved him as Finnick Odair. He'll get residuals from me just from that alone. 

 

The series fails one particular character, for all the levity and positivity I'm glad they added to a wooden text. Karen Sirko on the page and Karen Sirko onscreen are very different characters. By the finale, Suki Waterhouse's character reaches her eventual arc, but certainly not in a neat nor satisfying way. It's all vague, hoping it lands on its feet through the natural glamour Waterhouse exudes. The tragedy from her breakup with Graham still hits, for all the obvious reasons. If I'm actually mourning something, it's the loss of Karen's bitter resolve. There was something that Reid Jenkins depicted well, at least. In novel, Karen hid this great love of hers from the world, partly because of period-typical sexism, but more because she purposefully detaches from vulnerability. That is simply not her shit. It's a great character detail. In the series, they have Waterhouse swoop in and kiss Graham to save his masculinity in a truly inconsequential moment. There is no backlash as the text's Sirko anticipates, so all nuance is lost. It is characteristic of the type of softening that many have decried. In the end, Waterhouse does tremendous work with the ready-made emotions that come from ending a relationship nonetheless. What could have been done with perhaps was left in in the edit room. 

 

The pacing of the finale… left a lot to be desired. Funnily enough, just like the book! It was faithful there, at least. Any hopes of the adaptation elevating it died when there was only 10 minutes left and they were just hitting the first notes of "Look At Us Now." I geniunely got vertigo from the entire 20 years shoehorned into the final minutes. To be fair, I can't actually imagine what else the producers could have done instead. In my vague imaginings, switching my shoddy critic's hat for a shittier writer's hat, I would have liked to see the gap of time in between the 70s and the 90s a little more thoroughly. The great plot twist was fine— just like the book. Admittedly, I did gasp when I first read it. I certainly enjoyed a look into Julia and the band's relationship. She's notably younger, so the veneer of professionalism isn't there. If she's a documentarian, she's fledgling. It changes things only marginally; I enjoyed it nonetheless. It was a great ride. It should not have a season two. I'm not watching any forty-year olds pat themselves in the back for not cheating the last twenty years.